"I will not fail."

“Adieu, my worthy Martin Natter, adieu !” "Farewell, Monsieur!"

The stranger seemed to depart, but stopped in an instant.

"I had forgot-you do not know for whom to inquire."

"Oh yes! for Monsieur de Tourville." "For M. le Marquis de Tourville," replied the stranger, with a marked accent on the title. Martin was taken by surprise; and when his astonishment had a little subsided, he looked up, and found that his late companion had in the meantime vanished, though he could still catch the sound of his retreating footsteps.

(To be continued.)

FLOWER-WREATHS.

BY A. T -*.

Twine me the daisies and king-cup flowers,
Cull the wild rose from the woodland bowers,
Gather each bud which in antique song
Hath been dear to our fancies and hearts so long;
Range the dark copses, the wild forest-dells,
Bring thence the primrose, the hyacinth bells;
The woodbine, the May-bloom, the violets dim;
Narcissi, which love the streamlet's brim,
And all freshly gleaming with dew-drops as now;
Twine of them a wreath for childhood's brow.

Twine me the blush-rose, the jessamine fair,
The anemone shrinking from the air;
The tiger-lily, whose garnet-gemmed eye
Resembles the stars of a southern sky;
The passion-flower, with its thorny crest,
Carnation of veined and glowing breast,
Diffusing an odour sweetly intense,
Which steals like a charm upon the sense;
Far brighter than gold, far purer than pearls,
Twine them to bloom amidst beauty's curls.

Twine me the flowers bowed by the blast,
The blossoms o'er which a blight hath passed;
Frail blossoms, which even in early Spring
Bore the signs betokening withering:
Take the crushed lily, which bows its head,
The rose on whose heart the worm hath fed;
The violet the bright sun forgot to kiss,
The exotic which pines in a clime like this;
They're disdained in scenes of light and mirth,
Twine them for fading and sad ones of Earth.

Twine me the flowers of marble-like hue,
Blend them with cypress and gloomy yew;
Bind the white rose in its stainless pride
By the mournful, drooping lily's side;
Pluck the tender pale-bell of the heath,
Quivering the mourner's sigh beneath;
Strew their pure leaves on the early bier,
But sully them not with one dark tear,
As ye press the lips where life hath fled,
And twine a wreath for the brow of the dead.

Do burning thoughts, as ye place it there, Recall the wreaths which once bound that hair,

To tell the tale of departed loveliness?
Was that shrouded clay a form of light,
Whose curls ye've encircled with roses bright?
Have the orange blossoms decked the brow
Alas! for the soul's deep fervent trust,
So strangely chill and blushless now?
Which surrenders its idol with "dust to dust."

They must come, the cold, dark winter hours,
Entombing the gentle race of flowers;
Yet we shall not mourn when their colours pale,
Though they perish in garden, glen, and vale;
For the golden sunshine and freshening rain
Will bring back their fairy forms again;
But when will the insatiate grave
Yield us those flowers we had died to save?
When shall the hearts we thoughtless fling
On the cold world prove a second Spring?

Ye who have twined the funereal wreath,
Have kissed the pulseless brow beneath,
Have clasped the cold and passive hand,
Have striven to bless the stroke which bann'd-
Say, doth not the flower-time's return
Fan flames which like Etna's fire burn?
And are there not blossoms whispering ye
Of things which on Earth no more may be,
Awakening yearnings deep, though vain,
And thoughts which may not sleep again?

Yes! the white rose-bud breathes of decay;
The lilies, of bright hopes passed away;
The heath's pale waxen shadowy bell,
Of beauties which in the sealed tomb dwell;
Ye close your eyes and see them all,
The long, dark coffin-the gloomy pall;
The black-robed train, the yawning grave,
Round which the displaced grass-blades wave;
And too deeply pine for the shining hair,
The changeful cheek and forehead fair.

Twine a pale wreath for the marble bed,
Where your eyes so many tears have shed;
Recall, if ye will, the last faint tone
Of the silvery accents from ye gone ;
But deem that that voice, too sweet to die,
Is swelling the angels' strain on high;
Deem the enfranchised, exalted mind
Doth immortal sister-spirits find;
Trust that the loved one, Earth's sins forgiven,
May be first to welcome ye in Heaven.
Ramsgate, Jan. 18, 1849.

THE BROKEN HEART.

Oh, where is there peace for the broken heart-
A haven of rest for the weary soul-

A power to bid the sadness depart,

That hangs like a blight to the mind, when the

whole

Of the young love it cherished for ever is fled, And its blossoms of promise lie withered and dead?

"Go, fly to the sunshine of Pleasure's bowers,

And mix in the mirth of the dance and songTo the sparkling feast, where the blissful hours Glide soft as a silvery stream along: Oh, Pleasure 's a thousand joys refined, To drive dull care from the weary mind.”

in Pleasure! Oh, Pleasure brings no relief To the heart that is deadened to all but its woe! t falls like a discord on lonely grief

Like the song of a bride on a funeral show; And Pleasure, I ween, bears its own dull smart: Oh! where is there peace for the broken heart?

In the smile of Beauty there dwells a charm That melts like the sun on the snow of Spring; And Love has a magic will soon disarm

Thy wasting grief of its poisonous sting: Thy sorrows at Beauty's feet go lay,

And see how her kisses will chase them away!"

Oh, Beauty's a syren, that loves the glare
Of worldly splendour, that aids her spell,
Casting her smiles on the young and fair.
Oh, Beauty can never with sorrow dwell!
A Beauty's a flower that will soon depart,
And where is there peace for the broken heart?

In riches-for gold is the master key
That opens the gates of a thousand joys:
Go, fly to the palace of Wealth, and see

If grief fade not 'midst his gilded toys.
The world and its pleasures for ever stand
Open and free at this god's command."

In riches! Can riches buy back the peace
That sunned my heart in its spring of life?
Can riches the mind from its weight release,
Or free the heart from its inward strife?
Oh, happiness is not in riches' mart;

And where is there peace for the broken heart?

'Go, follow where Fame and Glory lead;
Arise, and the sword of valour wield:
Go, gild thy name with some glorious deed,
Or bury thy woes in the battle field.
For Glory's a sun that will even shed

A beam that will brighten a heart that's dead.”

Glory! Oh, Glory's a meteor light, That dazzles a moment, then is not seen: Can the blood of a thousand shed in fight From the memory wash what once hath been? Oh, Glory may joy to the brave impart; But where is there peace for the broken heart?

"Then turn to thy God, who in gracious love
Has bared to the sinner his heavenly breast;
And trust in the word of His Son above,

Who calleth the weary to give them rest:
His love is a fountain that faileth never!
Who drinks thereof, he shall live for ever!"
In God! in God! Thou hast said indeed
The only word that may life impart ;
For He, who raiseth the bruised seed,
Will surely smile on the broken heart.
I have found the balm for my weary pain,
And my broken heart shall revive again!

Thy mother's fond, deep love, shall be to thee a guiding star;

Still let her voice sound in thine ear wherever thou mayest roam,

And grave it on thy heart, my child, that echo from thy home.

Think of me when the holy stars, which gem the azure skies,

Look brilliantly from Heaven's bright vault like guardian angels' eyes;

Think of thy mother then, mine own; think of her watchful care,

At that lone hour she prays for thee, then bend thy knee in prayer.

Thine orisons, my gentle child, still let them with mine blend,

At the same moment wing their flight, and to the Heavens ascend;

Then, though the land may lie between, and mighty space divide,

Deem at the solemn hour of prayer that I am by thy

side;

Be it to thee a time of hope, a time of peace and joy,
Thy mother's spirit goes with thee! Farewell, my
noble boy!
ELLEN WOOD.

THE TREASURES OF EARTH.

BY ROBERT H. BROWN, ESQ.

Oh! the treasures of Earth, are they dug from the mine,

And brought to the market and sold?

Are they tinsel-wove gems that glitter and shine
In gildings of purple and gold?

Are they brought from afar, from the ship laden strands

Of a country of fortune and worth?

Or are they possessions of houses and lands
That we call the proud treasures of Earth?

Ah, no! though possessions like these we may prize,
They alone would seem empty and poor;
Their wealth and their beauty might gladden our eyes,
But the heart ever asketh for more!

It asketh for gifts never bartered and sold,
For gems of more estimate worth,

Whose cost is not meted by silver and gold-
Those dearer possessions of earth!

Oh! the Treasures of Earth, we need never to roam
To search where their riches abound,

In the mansion of state, and the cottager's home

Alike their endearments are found;

'Tis the heart and the hand in true sympathy joined, 'Tis the voice that responds to our mirth, 'Tis the wreath of affection about us entwined, That combine the fair Treasures of Earth! Wakefield.

EMILY TAYLOR.

We are averse to describing people, because every one has his own ideal of beauty, and almost every one's ideal is different. We shall content ourselves, therefore, with relating the simple fact, that Helen Power was universally acknowledged to be the prettiest girl in D, and leave our readers to draw her portrait from imagination, or memory. And if they set the picture, when finished, in a little frame of gold, it will be found to add wonderfully to its attractions. Helen was an heiress-a village heiress-that is, she owned a small, rose-covered cottage, and had nothing to do but sit in it all day long, if she chose, and work and sing, or wait upon her brother, the only relative she had in the world. Thomas Power was a wild, reckless, and selfish young man; but his sister appeared to be wilfully blind to all his faults, and loved him with an affectionate devotion worthy of a better object.

Helen had many suitors, but they were all dismissed, one after another, and with a gentle firmness-some called it pride-which left no hope. When her brother remonstrated with her, she answered him with a kiss and a smile.

"Why should I marry, Tom, when we are so happy together?"

But we may not be always together; and I confess that I should like to see you settled before-"

"So Helen has refused Edward Baker," said Annie Howard to her mother.

"Did she tell you so, my dear?" "No, we scarcely ever speak to one another. Edward told me of it himself, and appears to take it very much to heart; but I must say che thing for her, that she never gave him the slighest encouragement to hope it would be otherwise."

"Helen is no flirt," observed Mrs. Howard.. "I question whether she will have the chance of refusing any more lovers," continued Annie, with a pretty toss of the head, which made her bright curls glitter like so many rings of gold.

"And why not, Annie?" asked her brother, looking up from his book.

"In the first place there are strange stories in circulation about Thomas Power--"

"Must the innocent suffer with the guilty?" interrupted Luke. "Would my becoming a scoundrel be any excuse for Walter to break his engagement with you?"

"No, certainly not; but I think it might have

Luke rose up from his chair, and began pacing the room with hurried steps.

"Poor thing!" said Mrs. Howard to her daughter. "After all, it may not be true."

"God bless you for those words, mother!" exclaimed Luke, pausing suddenly before her. "And now you must bless me also, for I am going to ask Helen Power to be my wife! Oh, mother dear! were she ten times more beautiful than she is, I would not bring her here to mar the peace of our hitherto happy home, did I not believe her to be as good as she is fair. Think of her kindness to the poor and sick! Remember how she bears with Tom-the only one who can bear with him! Do but look in her sweet faceat her gentle smile--and listen to her low voice, mother!"

Mrs. Howard said little, but they were wise and soothing words. She placed implicit faith in her son, and loved him too much to interfere where his happiness was concerned, further than the loving caution which sought to ensure it. As Luke went out, he passed his hand caressingly over the bowed head of his sister, to show that he had forgiven her; and then she sprang up and kissed him twice, bidding him, in a whisper, to give the last kiss to Helen, with her love. And while she spoke he felt her warm tears upon his cheek.

Truly had he called his a happy and peaceful home. Luke wondered how it would all be a twelvemonth hence, when his bright-haired little sister would have left them for a home of her own, and her place be supplied by his beautiful Helen. As he walked along, day-dreaming, he met Thomas Power, and stopped to shake hands with him for Helen's sake.

"Shall I find your sister at home?" asked he. "Yes, I believe so; but Biddy is with her just now. The fete, you know, is to-morrow." Biddy was a little deformed woman, who managed to earn a scanty livelihood by dressmaking; and scanty enough it often was, for in those primitive times, and in that primitive place, the young girls, for the most part, made their own dresses, unless it might be for any very particular occasion. Thus it was with Helen; she had purchased a piece of velvet for a boddice to wear at the fete, and being half afraid to cut it out herself, had entrusted it to Biddy.

"Won't you step in, Luke?" said she, at length. And he followed her mechanically. "Tom is not at home," continued Helen, sitting down; for her knees trembled under her, and she could no longer stand. But I dare say he will not be very long."

"I did not come to see your brother: I came to see you, Helen."

"To see me," repeated the unhappy_girl. "Yes; laugh at me if you will. I came to ask you to be my wife."

Helen clasped her hands, and looked upwards with a sudden joy, which faded away before the sternness of his gaze.

"I would not believe what they said of you, Helen. Even my mother's gentle warning was disregarded-so much did I love you. But I do not know why I tell you all this now."

Helen did not speak; she did not lift up her face again, but he could see that her whole frame trembled. Was she sorry, and ashamed? Was she angry? Luke knew not, he only knew how his own heart yearned towards her, and how hard it was to give her up. Had he only spoken as his heart dictated, she would have told him all her long struggles, her good resolutions, and prayers, her sorrow and her shame, and her deep love; and he would have pitied and trusted her, and helped her patiently to keep those good resolutions, and prayed with, and loved her, notwithstanding all her faults. Instead of which they parted almost coldly, and neither knew how much the other loved.

"One word, Helen," said Luke, as he lingered on the threshold, "and indeed I mean it kindly. Take care of your brother. He has got among a bad set, and I fear that harm will come of it." "Thank you. I am not afraid of Tom-but thank you all the same, Luke.”

Her low, sad voice touched him, and he lingered a moment in the hope that she would speak again, or look up; but her face remained buried in her hands, and he left her thus.

When young Power came home, he found his sister still weeping.

"What is the matter now?" asked he impatiently. "Surely you have not been fool enough to refuse Luke Howard? I met him coming here this morning."

Helen dared not say, "Luke Howard has refused me," so she laughed hysterically, and answered:

"No, it is not that; but Biddy spoiled my velvet boddice-and I was very angry with her. You know how passionate I am sometimes—and

"Luke heard all-was it not so?" Helen hid her face on his shoulder. "My poor Helen and he was your last chance,"

"Oh, Tom, I wish you would not speak in that manner. You know I might have married long ago, if I had pleased. But I don't want to be married. I would rather live with youindeed I would. I shall never find any one to love me as you do!"

"Helen," said her brother, "if you knew all you would curse me!"

Helen remembered the warning which she had received, and trembled; but she did not remove her arms from about his neck, or lift up her weary head from his bosom.

"Tell me all," answered she. "I can bear anything now-and you know I am never angry with you, Tom.”

Her brother obeyed her. It was a terrible confession! When it was over, she put her pale lips to his, and kissed him.

"God bless you, my poor brother!" said she, "and forgive you as freely as I do. And God forgive and pity me, for I am very wretched. All gone!-brother-lover-home-all gone! But am not angry with you, Tom."

The following morning, when Biddy came to bring back the unfortunate boddice, she found Helen in a burning fever; and gathering partly from her ravings, and partly from questioning young Power, how matters stood, had her immediately removed to her own humble dwelling, where she lay for many weeks on the borders of the grave. And meanwhile the pretty, rosecovered cottage was dismantled and sold to pay her brother's debts. She should not have minded it half so much, Helen told Biddy, if that dear brother could only have stayed with her; but Tom, naturally enough, was ashamed to shew his face in his native village, and had accepted an advantageous offer in America. As soon as he was rich he promised to send for her and Biddy-and O, how often, and even with tears, did he promise to be steady, and industrious, and upright for her sake! But he would not take her with him.

"No, no," said he;" as it is, I have very nearly been your death. And something tells me, Helen, that you will be happy yet, when I am far away."

Never again," replied his sister, despairingly 66 never again on earth! But it is not your fault, Tom."

Poor

But

A few days after this conversation, young Power quitted his native land for ever. Helen was the only person who regretted him. Helen! it is sad to feel alone in the world! she was not one to sit down with her hands before her and weep, while the burden fell upon others. Had there been work enough for two, she would gladly have remained with Biddy; but there was not: and while Helen was thinking and praying over the future she received two proposals. One from her rejected admirer, Edward Baker, renewing the offer of his hand and home; and the other from an aged and infirm Aunt of Luke Howard's, who wanted a young person, a little above a common servant, to wait upon and be with her, as she was very

"Yes, I know dear Biddy, that I am very cross myself sometimes. I was cross to you once. But I have had my lesson, and I do not think that I can ever forget it."

"Forgive me for what I am about to say," observed Biddy, gently, with the tears in her large, dark eyes," but is it right to run wilfully into temptation ?"

Helen did not answer her then, and all that day she was silent and sad. Such a day makes us wiser than many a merrier one. It is good sometimes to be thoughtful, even though it make us sad; and to commune with our own hearts, and be still.

The following morning Helen wrote a gentle refusal to Edward Baker, and began her simple preparations for going to Miss Avenley, who resided in a lonely dwelling about five miles out of the village. Here she remained eight months. They were long, weary months, full of little daily trials and struggles, and self-sacrifices, but not without their bright, sunny hours nevertheless. Luke was away from home, but Annie frequently came to see, and stay with her Aunt, and the two girls were soon the best friends in the world. At the end of the eight months, Miss Avenley was taken suddenly ill. Mrs. Howard came to her in haste, accompanied by her daughter; and then Luke, who was a great favourite with the old lady, was sent for, and Helen knew by their tears, and by the change that had come over her wayward charge, that all would soon be ended. But she had little time for thought. Miss Avenley would not suffer her to be out of her sight for a moment, or allow any one else to do a single thing for her. Even when her nephew arrived, and Helen tried to steal quietly away, Miss Avenley's voice arrested her flight.

"Can't you stay where you are, child?" exclaimed she, peevishly. "Luke won't eat you!" Luke Howard smiled; and taking Helen's trembling hand in his, thanked her for all her care and kindness to his dear Aunt.

66

Yes, she is a good girl," continued the invalid, in a gentler tone, "good and patientO, how patient to me!"

Helen coloured deeply, almost painfully, and drawing away the hand which Luke still retained in his, sat down and wept silently. Presently Miss Avenley put aside the bed curtain, and told her, still in the same gentle voice, that she should not want her for the next hour or two; and that she had better go and walk a little in the fresh air, for Luke thought her looking pale. "And