He, with placid mien and thoughtful;-she, with strained lips, cold and white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur-" Curfew must not ring to-night.”

66

Sexton," said the maiden, faltering, pointing to the prison old,

With its walls so dark and gloomy-barriers stern, and damp, and cold; "In that prison is my lover, doomed this very night to die, When the curfew bell has sounded, and no earthly help is nigh:The escort will not come till sunset"-and her face grew strangely white,

As she caught his arm and whispered, "Curfew must not ring to-night!" “Maiden,” spoke the Sexton, calmly, while each word ran through her heart

With a sickening sense of numbness, as from deadly poisoned dart,—
"Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that hoary prison tower;
Every sunset, without failing, I have tolled the twilight hour:
I must do my duty, maiden, now as ever, just and right;
Cease your pleading-words are useless;-girl, the Curfew rings to-
night!"

Wild her eyes, and pale her features, as she started from his side,
Bounded out of sight, in shadow-breathless to the prison hied:
Desperation lent her courage, as, with cheek and brow aglow,

She staggered up the turret staircase, ere the bell swung to and fro;
Quick she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light;
Groped to grasp the bell-and caught it! "Curfew shall not ring to-
night!"

Soon the bell begins its motion; it swings dumbly to and fro,
While she hangs with bleeding fingers in an agony of woe;
And the deaf old Sexton pulling-years he had not heard the bell-
Thought the Curfew now was sounding that young lover's funeral knell.
Still she clings with fainting effort, murmuring ever, left and right-
To subdue her heart's wild beating—"Curfew does not ring to-night!"
When the escort came, in wonder that the signal was not heard,
There they found the bleeding maiden, and her tale their pity stirred;
She was carried to head-quarters, where her hands, all bruised and torn,
And her sweet young face all haggard, streaming eyes and aspect worn,
Gained her lover's pardon! Bless her! Sires and Dames with heads
of white

Still with pride recount the story-why "Curfew did not ring that night!"

XXIX. THE POOR FISHERFOLK.- Translation from Victor Hugo.➡ Dr. Alexander.-(Condensation.)

'Tis night within the close-shut cabin door

The room is wrapped in shade, save where there fall

Some twilight-rays that creep along the floor,

And show the fisher's nets upon the wall.

Five children on a low long mattress lie

A nest of little souls !-it heaves with dreams:

In the high chimney the last embers die,

And redden the dark roof with crimson gleams.

The Mother kneels and thinks; and, pale with fear,
She prays alone, hearing the billows shout;
While, to wild winds, to rocks, to midnight drear,
The ominous old Ocean sobs without!-

Poor wives of fishers! Ah! 'tis sad to say,

Our sons, our husbands, all that we love best, Our hearts, our souls, are on those waves awayThose ravening wolves, that know nor ruth nor rest. Janet is sad: her husband's out alone,

Wrapped in the black shroud of this bitter night; His children are so little, there is none

To give him aid. "Were they but old, they might." -Ah, mother! when they too are on the main, How wilt thou weep, "Would they were young again!" She takes her lantern,-'tis his hour at last;

She will go forth, and see if the day breaks, And if his signal-fire be at the mast;

Ah, no-not yet! no breath of morning wakes! But now, her anxious eyes that peer and watch Through the deep shade, a neighbour's dwelling find: No light within!-the thin door shakes-the thatch O'er the green walls is twisted by the wind;

Yellow and dirty as a swollen rill.

"Ah me!" she saith, "here doth that Widow dwell; Few days ago, my good man left her ill;

I will go in, and see if all be well.”

She strikes the door-she listens; none replies,
And Janet shudders. 66
Husbandless, alone,
And with two children! They have scant supplies.
Good neighbour !-She sleeps heavy as a stone."
She calls again, she knocks; 'tis silence still-
No sound, no answer! Now she opes the door;
She enters; and her lantern's gleam lights ill

The house, so mute but for the wild waves' roar.
Half-clothed, dark featured, motionless lies she-
The once strong mother, now devoid of life;
Dishevelled spectre of dead misery!

All that the poor leave after their long strife! The cold and livid arm, already stiff,

Hung o'er the soak'd straw of her wretched bed;

The mouth lay open horribly, as if

The parting soul with a great cry had fled—

That cry of Death which startles the dim ear
Of vast Eternity! and, all the while,

Two little children, in one cradle near,
Slept face to face-on each sweet face a smile.

The dying mother, o'er them, as they lay,

Had cast her gown, and wrapp'd her mantle's fold: Feeling chill death creep up, she will'd that they Should yet be warm, while she was lying cold!

Still howls the wind, and ever a drop slides
Through the old rafters where the thatch is weak;
On the dead woman's face it falls, and glides,
Like living tears, along her hollow cheek.
-Ah! why does Janet pass so fast away?
What hath she stolen from the awful dead?
What foldeth she beneath her mantle gray?

And hurries home, and hides it in her bed?
"Ah! my poor husband! we had five before:
Already so much care-so much to find—
For he must work for all...I give him more!
What was that noise? His step? Ah no, the wind!
"That I should be afraid of him I love!

I have done ill. If he should beat me now,

I would not blame him.

Did not the door move?

Not yet! Poor man!". -She sits, with careful brow,
Wrapped in her inward grief, nor hears the roar
Of winds and waves that dash against his prow,
Nor the black cormorant shrieking on the shore!
Sudden the door flies open wide, and lets
Noisily in the daylight, scarcely clear;
And the good Fisher, dragging his damp nets,
Stands on the threshold with a joyous cheer.

How gay their hearts that wedded love made light!
"What weather was it?" " Hard!" "Your fishing ?" "Bad!"
"The sea was like a nest of thieves to-night:

But I embrace thee, and my heart is glad! "There was a devil in the wind that blew :

I tore my net--caught nothing,-broke my line,-
And once I thought the bark was broken too:
What did you all the night long, Janet mine ?"
She, trembling in the darkness, answered, "I?
Oh, nought! I sewed, I watch'd, I was afraid;
The waves were loud as thunders from the sky:
But it is over." -Shyly then she said :—

"Our neighbour died last night; it must have been
When you were gone. She left two little ones,
So small, so frail-William and Madeline:
The one just lisps-the other scarcely runs."
The man look'd grave, and in the corner cast
His old fur bonnet, wet with rain and sea;
Mutter'd awhile-and scratch'd his head; at last,

We have five children-this makes seven," said he. "Already, in bad weather, we must sleep

Sometimes without our supper. Now-ah, well, 'Tis not my fault. These accidents are deepIt was the Good God's will-I cannot tell.

Why did He take the Mother from these scraps No bigger than my fist? 'Tis hard to read!A learned man might understand, perhaps

So little, they can neither work nor need.

"Go, fetch them, wife: they will be frightened sore,
If, with the dead alone, they waken thus:
The storm was God's hand knocking at our door,
And we must take the children home to us:
"Brother and sister shall they be to ours,

And they shall learn to climb my knee at even.
When He shall see those strangers in our bowers,
More fish, more food, will give the God of Heaven.
"I will work harder: I will drink no wine-

Go, fetch them...Wherefore dost thou linger, dear?
Not thus were wont to move those feet of thine!"

She drew the curtain, saying, "They are here!"

XXX.-THE DREAM OF THE REVELLER.-Dr. Charles Mackay.
AROUND the board the Guests were met, the lights above them beaming,
And in their cups, replenished oft, the ruddy wine was streaming;
Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes were bright, their hearts with
pleasure bounded,

The song was sung, the toast was given, and loud the revel sounded!—
I drained a goblet with the rest, and cried, " Away with sorrow!
Let us be happy for to-day; what care we for to-morrow ?"...
But as I spoke, my sight grew dim, and slumber deep came o'er me,
And, ’mid the whirl of mingling tongues, this vision pass'd before me:—
Methought I saw a Demon rise: he held a mighty bicker,
Whose burnished sides ran brimming o'er with floods of burning liquor:
Around him pressed a clamorous crowd, to taste this liquor greedy,
But chiefly came the poor and sad, the suffering and the needy;
All those oppressed by grief or debt,-the dissolute, the lazy,—
Blear-eyed old men, and reckless youths, and palsied women, crazy;
"Give, give!" they cried, "give, give us drink, to drown all thought of

sorrow!

If we are happy for to-day, what care we for to-morrow ?"

The first drop warmed their shivering skins, and drove away their sad

ness;

The second lit their sunken eyes, and filled their souls with gladness; The third drop made them shout and roar, and play each curious antic; The fourth drop boiled their very blood: and the fifth drop drove them frantic.

"Drink!" said the Demon, "Drink your fill! drink of these waters inellow;

They'll make your eye-balls sear and dull, and turn your white skins yellow;

They'll fill your homes with care and grief, and clothe your backs with

tatters;

They'll fill your hearts with evil thoughts; but never mind!-what matters?

"Though virtue sink, and reason fail, and social ties dissever,

I'll be your friend in hour of need, and find you homes for ever;
For I have built three mansions high, three strong and goodly houses,
To lodge, at last, each jolly soul who all his life carouses.--

The first, it is a spacious house, to all but sots appalling,
Where, by the parish-bounty fed, vile, in the sunshine crawling,
The worn-out drunkard ends his days, and eats the dole of others,—
A plague and burder to himself, an eye-sore to his brothers.

The second is a lazar-house, rank, fetid, and unholy;
Where, smitten by diseases foul and hopeless melancholy,
The victims of potations deep pine on the couch of sadness,-
Some calling Death to end their pain, and some imploring Madness.
The third and last is black and high, the abode of guilt and anguish,
And full of dungeons deep and fast, where death-doomed felons languish.
So drain the cup, and drain again! One of my goodly houses
Shall lodge, at last, each jolly soul who to the dregs carouses!"

But well he knew-that Demon old-how vain was all his preaching,
The ragged crew that round him flock'd were heedless of his teaching:
Even as they heard his fearful words, they cried, with shouts of
laughter,-

"Out on the fool who mars To-day, with thoughts of an Here-after! We care not for thy houses three; we live but for the present; And merry will we make it yet, and quaff our bumpers pleasant."... Loud laughed the fiend to hear them speak, and, lifting high his bicker, Body and Soul are mine!" said he; "I'll have them hoth—for liquor!" (Additional Stanza.)

This Demon in a dream I saw, his victims, and their madness!
But in the world how oft we find such sights of real sadness!
Love, health, and riches, self-esteem, yea, all the heart holds holy,
To hate, and penury, and shame, debased 'mong high and lowly!
Oh, has not Heaven for every ill an antidote supplied us?
And 'gainst the Demon of the Cup its help is not denied us!
Withstand the Demon manfully, with effort strong and steady,
And, to assist the earnest soul, good angels will be ready!

XXXI.-SHAKESPEARE'S WOOING.-ANNE HATHAWAY.

Edmund Falconer.

No beard on thy chin, but a fire in thine eye,
With lustiest manhood in passion to vie

A stripling in form, with a tongue that can make
The oldest folks listen,-maids sweethearts forsake;-

Hie over the fields at the first blush of May,

And give thy boy's heart unto Anne Hathaway.
She's a stout Yeoman's daughter, and prizes herself;
She'll marry an Esquire, or lie on the shelf:

'Tis just ten years gone, since, in maidenhood's prime,
To a Farmer she said,-"Nay!-I'll bide my own time."
Now-out and alas!—all the kind neighbours say,
"She has married a stripling, has Anne Hathaway."
That day ten years past (it was then autumn time,
And the Shottery orchards were in their full prime)-
Young Shakespeare came over from Stratford to see
If any windfalls in Anne's pockets might be.