he might paint as many more as he pleased at | the same price. But the artist knew that time would never come, and that he should never be strong and well again! Could it be that uncle Pierre, led away by his own love of music, had counselled unwisely? Had not his old father said at parting, "God's will be done!" It was done, and His will is not our will, or His ways our ways; but He knoweth what is best-we, only what seemeth best. Carl Malanotti might have lived to become a great artist; he might have painted angels, and yet never dreamed of heaven; or he might have rivalled the Signor L-, and won nightly plaudits from an admiring crowd; but God gave him instead a little golden harp!

When a child, Carl's mother had given him a small, clasped bible, which was found in his bosom on the morning that he fainted. But was it treasured thus for God's love or hers? Were its holy precepts also hidden in his heart? Ay, amid all its wanderings, all its aspirings, although he knew it not until sickness and sorrow fanned the divine spark into a flame. Therefore it is that sickness and sorrow are oftentimes sent in love, and the earth-wearied turn lingeringly to heaven. And yet there were hours when the young heart of Carl Malanotti still clung to life.

"Mother," he would say, "I will go back with you to Switzerland. I will paint pictures all the week, and play the organ on the Sabbathday in our dear old village-church. We shall be so happy!"

"So happy!" repeated his mother, while she turned away and wept.

A few weeks afterwards they left Paris, travelling by easy stages. The angel on the panel smiled upon Carl as he went forth, as if she had known that she had brought him wealth and honour, and that he would soon be at rest. And now his mother also noticed the strange resemblance to her who was no more. His living brothers and sisters welcomed back the wanderer to his home. Grete had grown more beautiful than ever; but the clear red and white of her dazzling complexion, and the bright, starry eyes had less of earth in them. Uncle Pierre wept aloud: he blamed himself, and above all, the hard-hearted manager. Carl blamed no one.

"It was not good for me," said he meekly. "God, who alone knoweth what is in the heart of man, did not see fit to trust me with

success.

"His will be done!" added the old father. Sorrow, the purifier, had completed its work. The Count de M--, accompanied by some of his friends, came to superintend the removal of Carl's picture to his own residence. It is wonderful!" said they. "And the artist selftaught; and so young-he must not die !" The gifted are not immortal!" replied the Count de M--, while the angel smiled on as they hammered away at the panel.

Carl played the organ in the old village church. Never was such music heard there

either before or since. It was the solemn and yet joyous requiem of a departing spirit. In the evening he composed and sang a little hymn, just as he had done years ago when a child. "Come up hither," was the burden of each verse. "Come unto me," said the Saviour, with his loving voice, "Come unto me, all ye that sorrow and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest! I am the way! Come up hither!" Before the next Sabbath-day the weary spirit of the young poet had passed away.

Many a time, on a still summer evening, or at midnight, when others slept, did Grete hear in imagination her brother's voice floating down, as it were, clearly and distinctly from heaven, and saying to her, in its well remembered tones of love, Come up hither!" And his aged parents have heard it also, when they sat alone thinking of their lost and gifted one.

A twelvemonth after Carl's death the beautiful Grete died also. Isabel married and went to Paris with her husband, where she frequently saw the angel on the panel, which then stood in the magnificent gallery of the Count de Mand heard how every one praised it. The brothers were separated hither and thither over the world. The dear mother, and the old, greyheaded father, sleep tranquilly in the village churchyard. Uncle Pierre too has passed away from earth, and there is a new organist. In the cottage where Carl was born, and where he wrote poetry, painted his first picture, played on his wonderful violin, lived, dreamt, and died, dwell a poor but honest couple, who are glad to let their best room in the summer months to some wandering artist or chance traveller, whom a love of the picturesque may bring to that quiet place. And when inquiries are made concerning the faded picture, they tell you the simple history of Carl Malanotti, even as we have related it.

LORD HENRY.

The wind, like a wild dove, descends from the sky,
And coos to the ocean a soft lullaby.
The billows are rolling-are rolling to shore,
All sleepy and crestless, in purple and or:
As if the pale Autumn had lent them its tone.
They break on the sand with a die-away moan,
The tall cankered rocks, that like giants around,
Stand dripping with sea-weed, re-echo the sound,
With a strange hollow wail from their inmost recess,
Like the sleepless lament of a spirit's distress.
The Day-God sinks slow in the amethyst west,
Disrobing, like king for his chamber of rest;
Still sparkling in gems, as a monarch beseems,
While round him the fleecy clouds hover like dreams-
Now purple, now saffron, now wrapt in a blaze
Of pure molten gold, as they dip in his rays,
Absorbed in his kiss, with excess of delight.
Then blend with his glory, and melt from the sight,
And Evening looks out, from her pale rising star,
And leads out her four sable steeds to her car;
Then mounts her dun chariot, all misty and dim,
And seizes the reins-but not yet, for the rim

Of magnificent Day sends a long lane of light
O'er Ocean's domain, and still dazzles her sight:
It flashes, it quivers, 'tis gone with the sun,
And the earth is all gray, and the heavens all dun;
And the breeze, like a lark that has warbled all day,
Sinks at once on the billow, worn out with its lay.

Lord Henry looked up, and Lord Henry looked round,

His young heart impressed by the calmness profound
That brooded o'er earth and that brooded o'er sea;
And his dark eye lit up with a wild fantasy.
All is still! all is still! save his pulses that beat
With a yearning unrest, and the waves at his feet,
That well up and die with a murmuring wail.
Not a soul is in sight, not a lingering sail :
He's alone on the rock, he's alone with his thought-
His young dreaming fancy. What is it has brought
Lord Henry to sit on that wild, lonely rock,
That far out in ocean receives the first shock
Of the inrolling tide?—and anon it will be
A small lonely isle, all surrounded by sea.
He heeds not the tide, for his thought is away,
Far out in the sea, with the dolphins at play.
He wanders with sea-nymphs, beneath the green

waves,

Through fairy-built mansions, and coralline caves.

Lord Henry's the last of a race of renown; Bred up in the country, he knows not the town. A creature of fancy, of field, and of flood, Oh! little cares he for the gift of high blood; The wild bird and bee his companions have been, And rather he'd rove through the shady wood green Than mix with his compeers. All lonely and shy, From the dance and the banquet Lord Henry will fly, To roam by the forest, to roam by the tideYet not by the last, for the last is denied ; For Lord Henry's mother, she dreamt a strange dream,

When her son saw the daylight, and thrice it did

seem

The same vision arose in her dreams of the night,
And filled her thought waking with awe and affright.
And this was her dream: that she gazed on the sea,
That flow'd, she thought, tranquil as e'er it could be;
When rang on her ears a low funeral wail,

Like a sea-dirge; and floating, all lifeless and pale,
A beautiful youth on the billows was borne,
His dark locks all dripping with sea-weed, and worn
The light of his beauty, the light of his eye;
She knew 'twas her son, and she woke with a cry,
And gaz'd around startled; again it return'd;
And the third time she wept, for she thought she
discern'd

The warning of Providence. Fervently prayed
For Heaven's protection the mother, and made
A vow in her heart, that her son should be bred
With a terrible fear of the ocean, and fed
With marvellous legends-of sea-serpents vast,
That arise o'er a vessel as high as the mast,
With mane like the war-horse, and eyes like the

moon,

And stare men to madness; of rocks, that as soon
As a vessel approaches, with magnetic power
Attract it, and keep it spell-bound from that hour,
Till it rots away piecemeal, with sun and with dew,
And death and starvation alight on the crew.
She told him of shipwrecks; of whirlpools that suck
Tall ships in their bosoms; of lightnings that struck
The masts of tall vessels, and set them on fire:
Each-all-she imparted of fearful and dire,
Lord Henry with dread of the sea to inspire.

She made him vow never to bathe there, or float On its treacherous billows, in vessel or boat.

She but kindled his fancy; alas! she forgot
That ever, in this world of dreams, 'tis the lot
Of wild youth to follow forbidden pursuit-
That ever the dearest the sweet stolen fruit!
Lord Henry would gaze from his turret on high,
For long dreaming hours, on the waves rolling by;
He follow'd each white sail that glided in sight,
And wonder'd and wonder'd by day and by night,
Why he was forbidden to skim o'er the waves,
In light bounding shallop; and often he craves,
With tears and entreaties, but craves still in vain :
"If thou wilt not for mine, for thine oath's sake
refrain !"

His mother replies; and the oath he still kept.
But oft, when his mother thought Lord Henry slept,
Lord Henry would secretly leave his soft pillow,
And steal out and wander beside the lone billow,
When up was the moon, and the waves dancing
bright,

One after the other, in silvery light.

The wild hollow dirges that rang on his ear-
Mysterious murmurs that fill'd with a fear,
Yet a thrilling delight his young heart-seem'd to
him

The mermaid's lament, or the sea-maiden's hymn;
And he listen'd, he listen'd, in spell-bound delight,
Till the rays of the sun turn'd the clouds of the
night

To purple and topaz; and this lonely grot
For ever at eve was the favourite spot
Where Henry would sit, and gaze up and around,
In mystical dreaming and silence profound.

All is still-all is still! not a cloud in the sky;
Not a breath on the wave, that creeps sleepily by;
Not a sail in the sight, not a bird on the wing.
He gazes-he gazes: what is it-that thing
That like a white swan, with a soft swelling motion,
Comes floating towards him, borne up by the ocean?
Now nearer it moves, full of motion and light,
The light of a beauty that dazzles his sight.
"Ave Maria!" he cried, "what is this-can it be?
'Tis a woman! a woman!" But what does he see,
As softly she rises and falls on the billow,
As pliant and graceful in form as the willow,
With skin like the lily, and pale amber hair,
Half revealing, concealing her white bosom bare,
But pure as the pearl in the depth of the ocean?
Behind he beholds, with a sickening emotion,
Two long slimy tails, like an eel's, that are roll'd
And twisted, and shining in silver and gold.
"'Tis a mermaid! a mermaid!" he breathes in
affright;

Yet through him thrills quick a mysterious delight.
He gazes as spell-bound-his eyes open wide,
And now she is floating by Lord Henry's side.
There are pearls round her white arins, as polish'd

and rare

As the arms of a Venus; and pearls in her hair;
And she drew the long curls from her brow, and her

eyes

Gaze into Lord Henry's. Lord Henry replies, With a look full of wonder, and terror, and shame: "What art thou?" he falters, "and what is thy

name,

Thou wonderful creature!" His heart it beat thick,
And over her soft, swelling form, with a quick
And a delicate sense of its beauty, his eye
Stole softly, and thrilling, and wondering, and shy,
Till it rested at last on her long silver tail.

Lord Henry turn'd red, and Lord Henry turn'd pale,
And again his young eye to the mermaid's was rais'd.
She gaz'd, and she gaz'd, and still ever she gaz'd
In the dark wond'ring eyes of the beautiful boy :
He thrill'd with a feeling, half fear and half joy,
Beneath her strange orbs, so unearthly and wild,
Their beauty oppress'd him. She smil'd, and he
smil'd-

Unconsciously smil'd; for his own caught each trace,
Each meaning, each look, of her beautiful face.

"I come from my home, from my lone coral cave, Where the pearl-shells are gleaming beneath the green

wave;

Where the pure amber glows, and the red coral trees
Are stirr'd by the breath of the lower sea-breeze
That sings through our grottoes of crystal, as lone
And as wild as the wind-harp's mysterious tone.
I have swept out my cell, I have deck'd out my bower
With the rarest of shells and each lovely sea-flower;
I have gather'd sea-fruits the most ripe and most rare,
And I come for Lord Henry my banquet to share."

"Thou beautiful mermaid, thou fill'st me with dread!
I dwell with the living, thou liv'st with the dead!
Thy face is all beauty, thine eye is all love,
And thy voice is as soft as the voice of the dove;
But thy limbs, that behind thee are curving in sight,
Are the tails of a fish, and they fill me with fright."

"Oh! hush thee, Lord Henry! what use were to me
The limbs of the land on the never still sea?
With knowledge unearthly, well stor'd is my mind ;
And my heart is as true, and as soft, and as kind,
As any that beats in the bosom of maid
Of earth; and know more, while their beauty must
fade,

My beauty will fade not; Time passes me by;
Oh! why then so fearful my tail in thine eye?"

Are innocent, pure as the fruits that suffice
For our nourishment simple. And if I entice
Lord Henry to come, 'tis because I would show
The all-lovely gardens where ripen below
The large luscious branches of grapes, white and blue,
That cluster the crystalline walls, where stream
through

The sunbeams, refined from their harsh earthly glare;
And nectarines and peaches-all fruits ripen there,
And all lovely flowers; and there the sun glows
Through translucent waves in a thousand rainbows;
And grottoes of amber and crystal are there,
Incrusted with pearls, and all gems rich and rare-
There sea-violets blush and anemones bloom,
And the amber-tree breathes out its deathless perfume.
Overhead arch the waves, clear as crystal and bright,
Where the sea glow-worms cluster and spangle the
night;

There rages no storm-wind-pure as zephyr the air-
Then come to this heart, dear! and happiness share."

"Oh! silence, young mermaid! it makes my heart beat

With a thrilling delight but to hear thee repeat
The wonderful things that I've read of, and knew
By heart, but till now I had never thought true.
My mother awaits me; my supper is spread;
Yet sing me a song ere I go to my bed.
For fain would I hear if indeed it be true,
As I've read of in books, that you sing as you do-
The tide is not out, and the light is yet strong,
I will sit on this rock while thou sing'st me a song."

Then laugh'd the sly mermaid at Henry's desire;
She held in her hand a small tortoise-shell lyre.
As slowly she tun'd it, still coyly she smil'd;
Her beauty grew wondrous. The poor boy beguil'd-
Like a bird by the gaze of a serpent-grew pale
And then red, with strange feeling; he thought now
her tail

Grew ever less fearful, as each graceful fold
Arose to his sight, deck'd in silver and gold.
The while, like a pearl just releas'd from the shell,
That rises and falls on the ocean's soft swell,

Her pure
bosom heav'd with its inward emotion,
And her pliant form answer'd each wave of the ocean
That lapp'd round a shape such as artist in vain
Might seek for his canvass or stone to attain.

All is still! all is still!-save the young hearts that beat,

And the eyes that gaze on, or are cast down, to meet
The eyes of the thrill'd youth for ever revealing
Again in a gaze of a yet deeper feeling;
A world of rous'd feeling-strange, new, undefin'd,
For he sees to the life the wild dream of his mind.
Does he wake?-does he dream?
But hark! hark!

in the air There trembles a tone like the sigh of despair; Like a lover's lament, it breathes trembling around; Oh! never did mortal voice utter such soundSuch an aching complaint of love, grief, hope, desire, As the sea-girl pour'd forth o'er her tortoise-shell lyre:

Now rising in air, with unearthly wild tone-
Now sunk on the wave, like the sea-dirge's moan.
She breath'd out no words: like the nightingale's

Still sweeter, still sweeter it thrills on his ear,
And down his young pale face fast tear follows tear.
And still, as she sings, her wild beautiful eye
Is fix'd on Lord Henry's, as seeking reply-
A thrilling demand for his own to take part
In the passionate measure of eye and of heart.
Still softer, still softer, voluptuous and slow-

Like the breath of the sweet south, that wafts to and fro

The passionate odours of blossoms that leave
Their souls in a sigh, and their sighs interweave.

And he wept, and he wept as his young heart would break.

He gaz'd through his tears, as her magic song ended,
And sees her beside him, with white arms extended,
And eyes that entice him with answering tears;
And all was forgotten-his home and his fears,

And the mother who watch'd and whose fond love had guided,

And into the mermaiden's white arms he glided!
Mute, spell-bound, entranc'd; like a soft-dying tone
That expires on the lute that awoke it, his own
Young spirit dissolv'd in the passionate sense
That chain'd heart and soul with a spell all intense.

With a strange cry of pleasure, of pride, and of joy, Her white arms encircle the beautiful boy;

She has won him, she has him, she holds him now tight,

And her bright eyes are flashing in fairy delight.

There's a change in the sky, there's a curl on the wave,

There's a warning cry rings, as when wild tempests

rave;

The sea-bird gives out, with a free, swan-like motion,
The mermaid is breasting the fast swelling ocean.
She is there she is gone: and the high dashing spray,
And the two flashing fins that a moment there play,
Glancing high o'er the waves with a silvery light,
Tell the spot where she dived with her prize, out of
sight.

All is still-all is still; night descends on the world,
And the land and the sea in her mantle are furl'd.
But hark! on the dark strand arises a cry-
"Lord Henry! Lord Henry!" The lone rocks reply,
Lord Henry Lord Henry! in faint mocking tone.
Lord Henry comes not. All is lone-all is lone!
His mother stands weeping beside the dark shore;
But the lost young Lord Henry was never seen more!
ALBERT TAYLOR.

Woodlands.

THE WOODBINE.

Light, and dew, and sun, and shower,
Fondly nurs'd a woodbine flower;
To it so much grace was given,
Fancy deem'd it brought from heaven.

Large its honey-blossoms grew,
Charg'd with fragrance and with dew;
Lovingly did its tendrils twine,
As though it were a passion-bine!

In a verdant wood 'twas growing, Where all lovely things were blowing; Where the eve the breeze did bring, Like a bee with loaded wing.

Was it not a happy flower,
To be born in such a bower,
And not on the common wide,
Or the dusty roadway-side?

Happy? Yes, if round some thing,
It warmly, tenderly might cling;
For nothing yet was happy found,
With nought to fling its arms around.

Ah! but list! the woodbine flower Had its choice within the bowerThe ash, the oak, the eglantine, Paid their court unto the bine;

And the aspen in alarms
Sought the pressure of its arms—
And the ivy strove to find it,
And the birch, and larch to bind it;

But it heeded neither's charms,
For ah! it sought the bramble's arms-
And clasp'd till death, with loving power,
The thorns that wounded it each hour!
CHARLOTTE CAYME.

LOVE'S LIFE IS ITS DEVOTION. (Song.)

BY GEORGE HALSE.

Love is a balm, yet 'tis a bane;
It is a pleasure-yet a pain ;
Once cherished, it must be again.
Oh! 'tis a bitter potion:

Its food is sorrow and despair,
Its drink is mingled tears and care;
Its thoughts-of things that only were:
Love's life is its devotion!

Yet, truly echoed, what can mete
Its height and depth of bliss-its sweet
Unbounded boundings? What so fleet
As note its course, its motion?
What force can bind it? what o'erthrow
Love's peaceful union? Can a blow

From pain or poverty? Oh no

Love's life is its devotion!

This treasure's neither sold nor bought,

Nor won, like baubles, at a thought;
But 'tis a simple, mild, untaught,

Spontaneous emotion.

Once nobly won 'tis never lost-
A true heart is its only cost;
By absence only is it crost:
Love's life is its devotion!

PRINGLE.

I don't know, Mr. Editor, that I can be called a saint-in fact, if anybody were to say that I was, I think that body would be a little out of the way. Nor am I an intolerable sinner, but what most people would call about "so so." Now you comprehend pretty accurately my standing in the community, and this settled in the beginning, I will proceed to tell my story.

My wife, you must know, is a religious woman; and to accommodate her, as well as to appear respectable, I hired a pew in St. Philemon's church, and attended service at least once on every Sabbath. Our minister, Mr. Dearsoul, was a great favourite, especially with the ladies, and was allowed to do pretty much as he pleased. I liked him well enough, though I must own that his notions of morality and mine did not always just tally. Perhaps I am a little obtuse; but if so, it's my misfortune more than my fault.

When I first took a pew in Mr. Dearsoul's church, I was a very humble individual who had just commenced business, and lived in a style that was by no means imposing. I went regularly every Sunday with my wife, and maintained as devout an exterior as most persons, even going so far as to join in the responses. But I remained a stranger in St. Philemon's for several years. The leading and influential members did not know me; and as for Mr. Dearsoul, he did not so much as call upon my wife to offer her spiritual comfort. Fortunately for us, we are independent sort of folks-that is, my wife and myself-and were not much annoyed by this indifference and neglect. We attended to our own concerns during the week, and went to church on Sunday for our own reasons. My wife's, as I have before intimated, were something better than mine.

Well, it so happened that this thinking about and attending to our own concerns made our external condition prosperous. In a few years I built myself a house, and furnished it with some expense and taste. It is wonderful how quickly this was known. Long before my house was done, I was nodded to across the church on Sunday by influential vestrymen, stopped by them in the street, and honoured with invitations to visit them at their houses. Mr. Dearsoul, too, about this time, made the discovery that we were members of his church, and made us a pastoral visit, for which we were duly grateful.

"We're getting of consequence, Esther," I said to my wife, as these indications assumed a more decided aspect. "What can be the rea

son?"

"We are getting better known, I suppose," she replied, very innocently.

"So I should think. But isn't it a little surprising that Mr. Dearsoul, who is such a good man, and so watchful over his flock, never found us out before?"

"His congregation is large."

"Yes-but he looks over it every Sunday. We sit directly in front of him. I'm sure I've seen him looking at us a hundred times. I wonder, Esther, if it can be possible that he has heard of our new house that is building?"

66

For shame, Mr. Pringle!" said my wife, a slight glow of indignation warming her cheek. Maybe I am wrong to think that," I replied, in a way to soothe my wife's feelings. Dear, good soul, she never thinks harm of any one. And how should she? She has no standard of evil in her own heart by which to judge others. As for myself, I frankly confess that I am not so charitable. I have a wonderful propensity for looking below the surface, and sometimes, I must own, am apt to see a little more than is to be seen.

After a while we got into our new house, which I am vain enough to think looks very handsome. There is no reason why it should not, for it cost me over seven thousand dollars, independent of the ground, and in moving into it I expended nearly two thousand dollars in extra furniture. Little over a week had passed, after we took possession, before my wife had calls from Mrs. Dearsoul and daughter, and from the wives of sundry influential members of the church. Within a month, Dr. Dearsoul invited himself and family to take tea and spend the evening with us.

"Bless us, Esther," I said, "what does all this mean? Mr. Dearsoul is getting to feel quite at home with us. I am sure I never dreamed of this honour. I cannot help thinking our new house has something to do with it."

"Now why will you talk so? It is downright scandalous! I don't believe Mr. Dearsoul would visit us any quicker in this house than he would in the old one."

"But did it never strike you as a little strange that he didn't happen to find us out there?" "I'm sure he did visit us in the old house." "Oh, so he did, once-but that was after this one was nearly finished."

"Now don't talk so, dear; you really make me feel unhappy," said my wife, with a look of distress. "I know you wrong Mr. Dearsoul, who is far above being governed by mere appearances,"