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interested in the success of my instructions not “ You are trimming your shrubs very careto deliver them at once. They are to bring you fully, Rose,” said he, gravely, “ so much so as home to England. My sister your playmate, to make me fear that you have resolved not to Rose, little Lucy-has been recently married, leave them." and to her husband has devolved a church She was busy in her garden, but stopped her living, which he wishes to see worthily occupied. work at his approach, and answered— From my mother's representation of you, my “You are not mistaken in your inference, dear sir, he and Lucy think that no one could Julian." so religiously fulfil its duties, and they urgently “Then I have your decisive answer? I may offer it to your acceptance."

tell our friends that you refuse to make them Mr. Evelyn stretched out his trembling and happy by influencing your father to yield to powerless hands, and with heavy moisture their solicitations ?” standing in his eyes, whispered emphatically- “Tell them I am grateful for their kindness, " It is too late !"

with my whole heart, but that my father, who Rose turned to the window to conceal her is now unfitted for the station they offer him, emotion, and then remarked, in faltering tones, declines to become an unprofitable tax upon

“My father has suffered with much bodily their generosity; and that for myself, I feel my infirmity. For nearly a year he has not been duty to lie even here. I am young and strong, able to engage in any pastoral duty.”

endowed with ability of mind and body to mainThe young man regarded them anxiously for tain us both; and my sister, though not, ina moment, and then wishing to relieve the feel- deed, present with us, is a constant weight upon ings which he had excited, he asked

my thoughts. You must have conjectured, "But where is Maud ?"

Julian, from my manner,

that she is not happy; "Married and gone,” replied Rose, attempt and I could not bear, even though I might not ing faintly to smile, and then looking more sad express it to her in person once in years, that than before ; for a letter from her sister, freshly she should be separated by the broad ocean written, had disclosed all her trials and disap- from those who by nature owe her comfort and pointments.

sympathy. Oh, no!-by preserving to me so "Maud married !” he exclaimed, and his uninterruptedly my vigour, and a real enjoycountenance changed in both expression and ment in my labours, Providence seems to point colour; but resuming, with an effort, his cheer- out to me the path I should pursue.” ful and cordial manner, he repeated——“Maud “Then you will allow me to remain with you, married !—then is my charming romance de- Rose? In my youthful fancies of coming to stroyed for ever! Do you remember, Rose ?-win your sister, I often dwelt upon the idea of but no, you were too young to know it then ; creating a home worthy of her in the New but Maud was the passion of my boyhood. World. My fortune, as you know, is not large, What a bewitching little creature she was !—so yet in this country it might soon be increased beautiful and spirited and clever. I used to to a sufficiency for any moderate desires. The make a confidante of my mother, and assure professions from which I have been expected to her that if ever I got a wife it must be Maud choose my future career-the army—and the sea Evelyn ; and that early dream I never aban- are both uncongenial to my taste. I wish to live doned. Married and gone, without even giving a quiet, domestic life; to erect my family altar me the honourable despair of a refusal, after all in some pleasant spot, and never to depart from my hopes and fears, and plans and resolu- its hallowed influence. Will you help me to tions !

build it, here in this country of your choice? There was a genuine sensibility in his voice Let me relieve you of your toils. My will to and countenance, which he could not disguise serve your father is scarcely less strong than by an affectation of gaiety; and Rose, who your own ; let him rest on me. Will you be stood beside him with her full, serious eyes mine, Rose?” fixed on his, looked as if she was sorry also. “Not for that consideration, Julian.”

' But I forgot to ask,”. he resumed, " to “No, dear Rose, I do not mean for that, but whom she is married, and whither she has for the certainty I know you already feel of the

deep affection I bear you. All that my imagi. 'She lives in

where her worldly nation painted of Maud, the results I expected estate is very different from ours. Her hus- from your father's wise instructions, from your band's name is Simeon Albany:'

mother's lofty and beautiful example, I find "Is it, indeed, so?” said 'the young man, realized in you. In consideration of my love, after a thoughtful pause. "I saw her there, I ask you to listen to me.” and little dreamed that it was Maud Evelyn.” “In my knowledge of your worth, I do,

The first autumn month set in, and Julian Julian,” she answered, raising her eyes in Ormesby had not accomplished his mission. modest confidence to his face; "in the feeling He had made excursions to various parts of the that I can yield to your care my precious burcountry, but the close of almost every fortnight then, and devote my life equally between you.” had found him returning to the cottage of Mr. Ormesby became the purchaser of an extenEvelyn. At length, after having received letters sive and profitable manufactory in a beautiful from home, during one of his visits he sought section of the country, and thither immediately an interview with Rose.

on his marriage conveyed his bride and her

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gone?”

Sweet tones, from kindred voices, seem

To whisper in her ear, Telling, as in a happy dream,

The bliss that draweth near. "Speed thee, good ship! oh, speed thee on,"

Is still her changeless cry,
While swift beneath the vessel's track

The glancing waters fly.
Onward, still onward, night and day,

Till, like a distant star,
The home so pin’d for when away

Gleams faintly from afar.
Then fail'd the strength that bore her up

When now the goal seem'd won-
Faded the colour from her cheek

As clouds before the sun.
The eye doth lose its sunny gleam,

While closer smiles that shore
Whose shadow she was wont to deem

Would bring her health once more.

stay !

father. Maud had been earnestly solicited by the happy Rose to meet her there; and Mr. Albany having, through some business transaction, discovered that his new connection was undoubtedly a man of consequence, thought it prudent to allow her to comply. Wrecked in health, without protection, and half brokenhearted, she came in a public conveyance, and was received in tearful silence by her father and sister.

“Let me stay with you, Rose,” she sobbed, convulsively. “I have come to beg a shelter from the miseries I have endured. Do with me what I deserve ; let me obey you as a child incapable of governing itself, but do not send me from you. Plead with me, father, that I may

To her father she described all her trials and confessed all her errors, and many a long hour she spent in his closet, listening to his admonitions and joining in his prayers. The few days to which she was restricted for her visit expired, and she prepared to return to her cheerless home.

“I am going, dear Rose," said she to her sister before they parted, “to commence,

with God's blessing, the course which would have saved me from all my sorrow had I followed it sooner.”

Years have passed since then; and though Maud has but attained those of mature womanhood, her once bright locks are blanched, and her graceful form bent as with age. Her bonds have neither been loosed nor lightened. A life of jealous exaction has too much hardened her husband to enable him to appreciate her sacrifices, yet she still offers them with the uncomplaining humility of a changed heart; and regarding the self-inflicted evils of her present life as lessons to prepare her for one to come, she awaits patiently and prayerfully the time when her probation shall be ended.

Onward ! still onward ! voices burst

Upon her list’ning ear ; The glance doth light on kindred forms,

With joyous greeting near : And then-aye, then-the slender thread

That stays her trembling breath, Breaks with such rapture, and her head

Bows to the touch of death!

So is it with some earthly thing

For which our spirit yearns, To which our heart through weary years

With changeless fondness turns. Perchance our longing eyes may meet

The joy we prize so muchAnd see the blessing at our feet

To crumble at the touch!

PEACE.

BY ROSE ACTON.

Oh, hidden sojourner amid earth's skade,
So oft a stranger where its gifts are laid-
So wildly worshipp'd in thy distant sphere,
So lightly treasur'd in thy beauty near-
Flying the bosom where ambition reigns,
To thrill the life-blood of a peasant's veins-
To wreathe with flow'rs Toil's oft heart-galling
chains

Whence art thou ?

THE HOMEWARD BOUND.

BY MISS M. H. ACTON, The homeward bound! what anxious hope

Within each bosom sleeps,
While the gallant ship 'mid storm and sun,

Her way still proudly keeps.
O, for the first, long-pray'd-for sight

Of the chalky cliffs, that tell
To the wand'rer's heart with wild delight,

Where the absent lov'd ones dwell. ’Neath an awning on the stately deck

A pallid girl doth lie,
Gazing upon the crested waves

That bear her home to die;
And ever and anon she turns

Her glance across the main,
For a vestige of the home she yearns

To look upon again.
Home! at that thought the faint rose steals

Once more across her cheek ;
And the light within her eyes shows forth

More joy than words could speak :

To the lone captive, in his hour of death,
To the reft watcher of a parting breath-
When the heart's latest blessing is removed-
When we are taught to doubt where we have lor'd-
When we have sown our trust, and reap'd despair-
When we have gather'd weeds from flowers fair-
When we have garner'd, at the last, but care,

Why com'st thou ?
On the pure eyes that seek for thee thou break’st:
To the high hearts that call on thee thou speak'st.
Where thou art stay'd by prayer from passing fast-
Where thou art held the first boon and the last-
Planting the tree of Faith where bad grown Fear –
Bringing Hope's smile to check Affliction's tear-
From that bright land whose skies are ever beat,

Thence art thou.

THE MAN WHO IS WIDE-A WAKE.

BY J. J. REYNOLDS.

“ Little better than the wicked."

Henry IV., part 1.

There is a man sharp in his features, sharp in who thus succeeds in gaining the better of such his looks, sharp in his movements, sharp in his a character. It is but right the biter should be conversation, and particularly sharp in his deal- sometimes bit. ings. On that person John Bull, in his exube- The Man who is Wide-awake never makes rant love of nicknames, has been pleased to the most trifling purchase without bantering on confer the title of “ Wide-awake !" Á more ex- the price. pressive one could scarcely be found; for depend upon it he is never to be caught napping when

“ In the way of bargain, mark ye me, an opportunity offers of advancing his ideal He'll cavil on the ninth-part of a hair." temporal interests.

The Man who Wide-awake steps forth into “What do you ask for this article ?” he ob. this chequered scene of vice and virtue, beauty serves, entering a shop. and deformity, designated the world, with the “Fifteen shillings," says the shopkeeper. maxim in his mouth—“Take care of number “Fifteen shillings ? stuff !” he exclaims; one.” That this is the first and paramount " why you know very well it does not cost you duty of human beings, and that all other duties half the money. Come, you can afford to let should be made subservient to it, mere second- me have it at ten." ary considerations, is his doctrine, and thoroughly Really, Sir," replies the seller, “it would be does he carry it into practice. Selfish to a de- taking away all my profit ; you're very hard.” gree, he is essentially a money getter, though “Usual tale, usual tale! but don't tell me,” not perhaps to such an extent as would earn for says Mr. Wide-awake. “ Here are ten shilhim the name of an avaricious miser, since he lings, and let me have the article.” The shopcan be lavish enough of his cash, when, as he man, with much hesitation, and muttering remarks, "the thing will turn out a good spec.” something about the difficulty of getting a liveTo fill his own pocket at the expense of that of lihood, complies, when the purchaser departs, everybody else, to look always to the main congratulating himself on his victory, for such chance, is his creed—one that naturally admits he deems it. great latitude of conscience of which the wide- “Now, there's my friend B- ” he menawake man is not slow to avail himself.

tally ejaculates," he would have given the man “To turn a penny in the way of trade,” at once all he asked ; addle-pated fellow! Why by any means short of sheer robbery, is with does he not take a leaf out of my book ? posihin allowable, lawful, and honest, and not in the tively the poor wight of a shopkeeper could not least derogatory to reputation. What the rest have made a penny by the bargain;" and so he of mankind call cheating and trickery, he styles chuckles away in the best possible humour with skilful dealing and dexterity. But the charac- himself. Doubtless his note would be changed, teristic on which he most plumes himself is the did he know, as we do, that the shopkeeper, faculty of discerning the crafty designs of others being well aware of the person he had to deal upon himself, or, as he terms it," being up to with, took care to set such a price on his goods trap.” This would be an unobjectionable as would enable him to abate largely, and still quality were it only employed against the dis- reap a fair profit. honest, but it is not so, and the result is, that The Man who is Wide-awake is not one who the really upright suffer indiscriminately with places reliance on what is communicated to him, the evilly-disposed; for whether imposition or what he hears expressed in conversation ; is attempted on him or not, he presumes people who are accustomed so to do are, in his it to be so, and acts accordingly. Notwith- eyes, green-horns, simpletons. And why is standing all his caution and circumspection, he this? Because he considers others talk as he is often outdone in roguery, becoming the dupe does; to deceive, and not to inform. Every where he imagines himself the duper, and one tale of woe, from the lips of a starving almsindeed would feel inclined to pardon the man seeker, he considers nothing more than an in

MEMORIES OF MY CHILDHOOD.

BY GRACE AGUILAR.

I stood within the close, dull square,

Where infancy had pass’d; And naught of poesie was there,

Rich gems of thought to cast. Yet did the thronging visions come

Of Childhood's smiles and tearsOf all that to mine earliest home

Sweet Memory endears.

Yet, not remembrances of glee

That olden house might claimNot the light laugh of revelry

Unto my spirit came;
For I had never been a child

To laugh, or weep, or play;
No ringing joyance, free and wild,

Had marked my infant day.

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vention to impose on the charitable ; his are sweeping accusations. If one tradesman is dishonest, if one beggar is an imposter, all with him are alike. Oh! he is an amazingly sharp fellow, the wide-awake man; so sharp, indeed, that we candidly confess we would rather be as simple, as unacquainted with the subtleties of the world, as the rustic ploughboy, than be like him, a double-faced man, unstable in all his ways, leading a life of hypocrisy and deceit.

He is always full of business, meet him where you will. Catch him at his counting-house, you find him surrounded with papers and books, no time to say a word, unless you come on business, and then he will willingly give ear to your outpourings, particularly so when he has a prospect of “making something out of you”to use one of his own expressions; cross him in the street, the chances are he is racing along in a violent hurry, hailing you with a How d'ye do ? sorry I can't stop, must be at

by two o'clock.” Every where alike! really he seems as though he had not a thought to bestow on aught but self, self, self!

It is strange that, notwithstanding all his boasted foresightedness, the Man who is Wideawake sometimes submits himself wholly to the guidance of one of his own stamp, together to pursue their schemings, prompted, as we suppose, by the old rule, that there is honour among rogues. Things go on prosperously with the pair until the united interests clash, in which case the one diamond cuts the other to a certainty, and thus the wide-awake man suffers by that very conduct of his own which he derides in his fellows, viz., over-confidence in another. He is a speculator well-known on 'Change, in share-markets, and betting-rings; hut speculation of the latter kind, which fairdealing folks make a sport of, he turns into a completely knavish transaction, with the sole design of cheating the unhappy person concerned with him. Thus we find the Man who is Wide-awake, who would perhaps shudder at the commission of those flagrant evil deeds which would subject him to a criminal prosecution, committing, without compunction, those more refined rascalities, under a guise that society at large is pleased to consider not only a mask, but an effacer of the wrongful acts.

He generally dies wealthy, o'er-laden with ill-gotten riches. His golden hoard thereupon falls into the hands of a pack of relations, who, having looked upon it long before as a species of vested expectancy, receive it thanklessly, and pay no more respect to the memory of the departed than a customary suit of solemn black, which is doffed the very earliest opportunity, consistent with decency.

Oh! ye who are thus walking after “the things that do not profit,” remember that a good name is a nobler legacy than any other it is in your power to bequeath. It is this which can alone entitle you to true respect when ye have shuffled off this mortal coil-it is this which can replenish the lamp of revering memory when all other sustenance fails.

I know not wherefore I was bless'd

With all that life could give-
A mother's love, sweet thoughts impressid,

That taught me how to live;
And my fond sire would fold me oft

Unto his loving heart,
And, in a voice so mildly soft,

Tales of sweet lore impart.
And many lov'd me; yet I clung

Unto my parent's breast,
As the first frown upon me flung

Would break my trembling rest,
As if I never dared give vent

To all within enshrin'd;
And like a reed my spirit bent,

Were but a look unkind.

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Parents and sisters, brothers too, farewell !

Oh, oft shall I, when borne toward yonder shore, With fond affection on your mem'ry dwell,

And oft for you Heaven's choicest gifts implore. July, 1815.

BY

CHARLES

My father's deep and silent woe,

My mother's sorrowing mien,
Tears whence I thought they could not flow,

All as it then had been.
And she, amidst those mourners, who

Was next to pass away,
I saw Consumption's fever'd hue

On her mild features play.
Wife, mother, sister, friend, her heart

The loves of all could blend,
As her meek virtues did impart

Love, lingering to the end.
She past : who followed ? A fair boy,

Awhile to mourn her spared,
Who, band in hand, with me each joy

Of our first years had shared.
I had no brother then, and he,

My playmate and my friend,
Oft cheer'd me with the sunny glee

He could with feeling blend.
Childhood was past; Youth's dawn uprose,

Cloth'd in its gladd’ning light,
When round the bud the petals close,

Touch'd with untimely blight.
He pass'd ; young Maphood found him not.

We had so grown together,
'Twas sad and strange to feel our lot

Thus parted, and for ever!
Yes, they are gone, and those in life

Are scatter'd o'er the earth,
Mingling in scenes of peace or strife,

Far from that household hearth : Yet did that dusky mansion stand,

Heedless who might forsake;
No flow’rs sprung up 'neath Time's fond hand,

A ruin'd sbrine to make.
But, like the calyx of the rose,

Its unchang'd halls remain'd,
Surviving long the wreck of those

Fair leaves it once retain'd.
And they are scatter'd on the blast,

Some blighted in their fall,
And others far from that home cast

Which erst enshrin'd them all.

SONNETS.
PATIENCE AND HOPE.

H. HITCHINGS.
Cease we to mourn ; we shall not always be

Heart-weary pilgrims through this vale of tears ;

Wait we in patience for a few brief years,
Bearing our heavy burdens hopefully :

Perchance e'en now, if we could only “look
Into the seeds of time,'' we might behold
A fairer landscape to our eyes unfold ;

Haply not distant paths which we forsook
When first the false world wooed us with her smile-

Paths careless, beautiful, and full of flowers : We know not whether in a little while

We may not call earth's brightest pleasures ours. Cease we to mourn, e'en in life's waste of pain Our feet may find their happy paths again. Oft have I seen, after a stormy day,

Cloudy and dark, and full of gusts and showers,

Such as we well might deem had crush'd the flow'rs, And swept their every beauty all away,

A fair eve follow, clad in sweetest guise, And smiling on the earth her gentlest smile,

Call forth fresh bloom to our desponding eyes, So faithless; and the flowers, that erewhile

Lay cold and shatter'd, at her kiss re-live, Yea, bloom the fresher for the bygone rain. So may our hearts ere long revive again;

And e'en our very sorrows seem to give A strength, a beauty never known before, But now our happy dower for evermore.

THE BURIAL AT SEA.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

"A FAREWELL TO FRIENDS.”

BY T. H. W.

Thoughts sad, yet sadly-pleasing round my mind

A strange contending stream of feelings pour : Thoughts of the friends endear'd I leave behind

Mingle with hopes of happier days in store. Mem’ry, with tyrant's will, though unforbade,

Yet uninvok'd, her ample page displays ; And there, each feature truthfully pourtray'd,

A well-lov'd group attracts my mental gaze. Mem'ry! I cannot chide thee, if I would ;

For many a day, on which thou mak'st me dwell, Spent with those friends in social gladsome mood,

Softens the pain of bidding them farewell. "Tis twilight's dim, yet still and peaceful hour,

Fit time to breathe my long and last adieux ; When gently fades away day's less'ning pow'r,

And night her darksome reign once more renews.

The shadows of night had covered the deep,
And the sea-birds reposed in their first sweet sleep,
And dimly the stars their lustre gave,
Like the topaz gems from a darksome cave.
They carried the corse of the soldier lad,
In the raiment of death all rudely clad ;
No shroud to hide his ghastly face,
Or veil from the eye Death's finger-trace.
No coffin contained his ashes cold,
For his hammock was destined his corpse to hold;
And they bore him in silence-but not one tear
Was shed, to hallow the soldier's bier.
The service was read---and a loud, dull crash,
And a hollow sound 'mid the billows' dash,
Bade welcome wild from the yawning wave,
As his body sank to its dark, deep grave!
That plunge, in the silence which reigned around,
As his form was gulfed in the depth profound-
Say, did it not waken a thrill, and a start,
That spoke the fear-chill at your heart?
And were there no sighs, no tears for him?"
No voice wailed woe, and no eyes were dim:
Yet far, far at home, perchance, there were
Hearts would have broken had they been there.

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