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his opinion on the subject; but all were prepared. No such friendly warning was given to the Mitchelsons, who, overcome with the heat, were, from the eldest to the youngest, lying on couches, too languid to lift up their heads or think of what might be passing out of doors. Cassius, meanwhile, was leaning over the gate of his provision ground watching the moon as she rose, crimson as blood, behind his little plantain grove. Every star looked crimson too, and had its halo like the moon. It was as if a bloody steam had gone up from the earth, Not a breath of air could yet be felt; yet here and there a cedar, taller than the rest, stooped and shivered on the summits of the hills: and the clouds, now rushing, now poised motionless, indicated a capricious commotion in the upper air. Cassius was watching with much interest these signs of an approaching tempest, when he felt himself pulled by the jacket. "May 1 stay with you?" asked poor Hester. "My master and mistress dare not keep at home because our roof is almost off already, and they think the wind will carry it quite away to-night."—" Where are they gone ?"—" To find somebody to take them in; but they say there will be no room for me."— "Stay with me then; but nobody will be safe under a roof to-night, I think."—" Where shall we stay then?"—" Here, unless God calls us away. Many may be called before morning."

The little girl stood trembling, afraid of she scarcely knew what, till a tremendous clap of thunder burst near, and then she clung to Cassius, and hid her face. In a few moments the gong was heard, sounding in the hurried irregular manner which betokens an alarm. "Aha!" cried Cassius. "The white man's house shakes and he is afraid." "What does he call us for?" said the terrified child. "We can do him no good."—" No; but his house is stronger than ours; and if his shakes, ours may tumble down, and then he would lose his slaves and their houses too. So let us go into the field where we are called, and then we shall see how pale white men can look."

All the way as they went, Hester held one hand before her eyes, for the lightning flashes came thick and fast. Still there was neither wind nor rain; but the roar of the distant sea rose louder in the intervals of the thunder. Cassius suddenly stopt short, and pulled the little girl's hand from before her face, crying, " Look, look, there is a sight!" Hester shrieked when she saw a whole field-of sugarcanes whirled in the air. Before they had time to fall, the loftiest trees of the forest were carried up in like manner. The mill disappeared, a hundred huts were levelled; there was a stunning roar, a rumbling beneath, a rushing above. The hurricane was upon them in all its fury.

Cassius clasped the child round the waist, and carried rather than led her at his utmost speed beyond the verge of the groves, lest they also should be borne down and crush all beneath them. When he had arrived with his charge in the field whither the gong had summoned him, slaves were arriving from all parts of the plantation to seek safety in an open place. Their black forms flitting in the mixed light,—now in the glare of the lightning, and now in the rapid gleams which the full moon cast as the clouds were swept away for a moment, might have seemed to a stranger like imps of the storm collecting to give tidings of its ravages. Like such imps they spoke and acted. "The mill is down!" cried one. "No crop next year, for the canes are blown away!" shouted another. "The hills are bare as a rock,—no coffee, no spice, no cotton! Hurra!"—" But our huts are gone: our plantation grounds are buried," cried the wailing voice of a woman. "Hurra! for the white man's are gone too !" answered many mingled tones. Just then a burst of moonlight showed to each the exulting countenances of the rest, and there went up a shout, louder than the thunder, "Hurra! hurra! how ugly is the land!"

The sound was hushed, and the warring lights were quenched for a time by the deluge which poured down from the clouds. The slaves crouched together in the middle of the field, supporting one another as well as they could against the fury of the gusts which still blew, and of the tropical rains. An inquiry now went round,— where was Horner? It was his duty to be in the field as soon as the gong had sounded, but no one had seen him. There was a stern hope in every heart that his roof had fallen in and buried him and his whip together. It was not so, however.

After a while, the roaring of water was heard very near, and some of the blacks separated from the rest to see in what direction the irregular torrents which usually attend a hurricane were taking their course. There was a strip of low ground between the sloping field where the negroes were collected and the opposite hill, and through the middle of this ground a river rushed along where a river had never been seen before. A tree was still standing here and there in the midst of the foaming waters, and what had a few minutes ago been a hillock with a few shrubs growing out of it, was now an island. The negroes thought they heard a shout from this island, and then supposed it must be fancy; but when the cloudy rack was swept away and allowed the moon to look down for a moment, they saw that some one was certainly there, clinging to the shrubs, and in imminent peril of being carried away if the stream should continue to rise. It was Horner, who was making his way to the field when the waters overtook him in the low ground, and drove him to the hillock to seek a safety which was likely to be short enough. The waters rose every moment: and though the distance was not above thirty feet from the hillock to the sloping bank on which the negroes had now ranged themselves to watch his fate, the waves dashed through in so furious a current that he did not dare to commit himself to them. He called, he shouted, hescreamed for help, his agony growing more intense, as inch after inch, foot after foot, of his little shore disappeared. The negroes answered his shouts very punctually; but whether the impatience of peril prompted the thought, or an evil conscience, or whether it were really so, the shouts seemed to him to have more of triumph than sympathy in them; and cruel as would have been his situation had all the world been looking on with a desire to help, it was dreadfully aggravated by the belief that the wretches whom he had so utterly despised were watching his struggles, and standing with folded arms to see how he would help himself when there was none to help him. He turned and looked to the other shore; but it was far too distant to be reached. If he was to be saved, it must be by crossing the narrower gulley: and, at last, a means of doing so seemed to offer. Several trees had been carried past by the current; but they were all borne on headlong, and he had no means of arresting their course; but one came at length, a trunk of the largest growth, and therefore making its way more slowly than the rest. It tilted from time to time against the bank, and when it reached the island, fairly stuck at the very point where the stream was narrowest. With intense gratitude, —gratitude which two hours before he would have denied could ever be felt towards slaves,—Horner saw the negroes cluster about the root of the tree to hold it firm in its position. Its branchy head seemed to him to be secure, and the only question now was, whether he could keep his hold on this bridge, while the torrent rose over it, as if in fury at having its course delayed. He could but try, for it was his only chance. The beginning of his adventure would be the most perilous, on account of the boughs over and through which he must make his way. Slowly, fearfully, but firmly he accomplished this, and the next glimpse of moonlight showed him astride on the bare trunk, clinging with knees and arms, and creeping forward as he battled with the spray. The slaves were no less intent. Not a word was spoken, not one let go, and even the women would have a hold. A black cloud hid the moon just when Horner seemed within reach of the bank; and what happened in that dark moment,— whether it was the force of the stream, or the strength of the temptation,—no lips were ever known to utter; but the event was, that the massy trunk heaved once over, the unhappy wretch lost his grasp, and was carried down at the instant he thought himself secure. Horrid yells once more arose, from the perishing man, and from the blacks now dispersed along the bank to see the last of him. "He is not gone yet," was the cry of one; " he climbed yon tree as if he had been a water-rat."—" There let him sit if the wind will let him," cried another. "That he should have been carried straight to a tree after all I"—" Stand fast! here comes the gale again!" shouted a third.

The gale came. The tree in which Horner had found refuge bowed, cracked,—but before it fell, the wretch was blown from it like a flake of foam, and swallowed up finally in the surge beneath. This was clearly seen by a passing gleam. "Hurra! hurra!" was the cry once more, " God sent the wind. It was God that murdered him, not we."

THE HOUR!.

A PERSIAN SONG,

Sweet Spirit! ne'er did I behold
Thy ivory neck, thy locks of gold;
Or gaze into thy full dark eye,
Or on thy snowy bosom lie;
Or take in mine thy small white hand,
Or bask beneath thy smiling bland;
Or walk, enraptured, by the side
Of thee, my own immortal bride.

I see thee not—yet oft I hear
Thy soft voice whispering in my ear;
And when the evening breeze I seek,
I feel thy kiss upon my cheek;
And when the moonbeams softly fall
On mead and tower, and flower-crowned
Me thinks the patriarch's dream I see—
The steps that lead to heaven and thee.

I've heard thee wake, with touch refined,
The viewless harp-strings of the wind;
And on my ear their soft tones fell
Sweet as the voice of Israfel! *
I've seen thee, in the lightning's sheen,
Lift up for me heaven's cloudy screen,
And give one glimpse, one transient glare
Of the full blaze of glory there.

Oft, 'midst my wanderings wild and wide,

I know that thou art by my side;

For flowers breathe sweetlier 'neath thy tread,

And suns burn brighter o'er thy head;

And though thy steps so noiseless steal.

And though thou ne'er thy form reveal,

'Israfol, Ihe angel of music.

Villi,

My throbbing heart and pulses high
Tell me, sweet spirit, thou art nigh.

O for the hour, the happy hour,
When Azrael's * wings shall to thy bower
Bear my enfranchised soul away,
Unfettered with these chains of clay!
For what is he whom men so fear—
Azraell the solemn and severe—
What but the white-robed priest is he,
Who weds my happy soul to thee.

Then shall we rest in bowers that bloom

With more than Araby's perfume,

And list to many a lovelier note

Thau swells th' enamoured bulbul's f throat;

And gaze on scenes so fair and bright,

Thought never soared so proud a height,—

And one melodious ziraleet J

Through heaven's unending year repeat.

Henrv Nefle.

THE CHILD'S WISH IN JUNE.

Mother, mother, the winds are at play,
Prithee, let me be idle to-day.
Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky.
See, how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look, how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.
Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun,
And the flies go about him one by one;
And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace,
Without evei thinking of washing her face.
There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree,
But very lazily flieth he,
And he sits and twitters a gentle note,
That scarcely ruffles his little throat

You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear
How the hum-drum grasshopper soundeth near,
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the spray.

I wish, oh, I wish, I was yonder cloud,
That sails about with its misty shroud;
Books and work I no more should see,
And I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee.

Mr Oilman.

* Aarael, the angel of dcu'h. T Bnlbul, the nightingale. 1 Ziraleot, a srmg of re;oicing

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