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knee. Oh! how blest that mother, that she , anxiety, and her frequent journeyings to visit never lived to witness such a fearful change. Horace-for he never would come to her

Mrs. Grainger felt that her days were nearly proved too much for her aged frame. Mrs. run, and yet her task was not accomplished. Grainger was laid on a sick bed, from which she Feeble as she was, she seldom went beyond the knew she would never rise. farm, and never met Horace Leigh. Once only When she felt her strength failing her, the he had passed her, turned, and given a slight widow sent a message to Horace Leigh. recognition; she saw that every muscle in his “ Tell him," she said, “ that he will see me face was quivering with emotion, as he spurred no more unless he comes, and quickly too ; and his horse quickly forward, and disappeared. that Ruth's mother cannot die in peace without

It was in the winter-time-ten years from speaking to him again." Ruth's death-that Mrs. Grainger heard that There was a long struggle between Horace's Horace was ill. She resolved to go to him, pride and anger, and his long-smothered but fearless of his anger; he could not be violent to still sincere love for one who had been as a moRuth's mother, she thought; she might do him ther to him. At last his better angel conquered, good; and perhaps sickness would soften his and Horace came. heart, and dispose him to forget the past, and be He had feared to see his brother, but Stephen reconciled to Stephen. The widow entered was not there; Mrs. Grainger had sent him with a trembling heart the threshold which she away, lest his presence might even then rouse had not crossed for years. Bitter memories rose the evil spirit in Horace's heart. He saw noup; and from every dark nook and corner thing but the place where he had been once so three happy children's faces seemed to gleam happy, and the dying mother of Ruth. out, smiling at her. Where were they all " Thank you, Horace,” she said feebly, now?

stretching out her hand ; " this is good of Horace Leigh was lying asleep on an old-you." fashioned couch, in a room that had once been Horace clasped that withered hand-he was his mother's. Repose, and the calming influ. too deeply moved to speak. ence of illness, had given to his now harsh and “I wanted to say something to you," she strongly-marked features somewhat of their continued; “ will you not do one kindness olden look; at least the aged widow thought so, towards me?--I shall never ask more." as she stood beside him, and her tears fell fast Anything-anything—but one,” cried Houpon his once abundant and glossy hair, now so race. “Do not ask me to speak to Stephen." thin, and marked with grey. She waited until The widow half raised herself from her pilhe awoke, and seeing her, started up, crying low, and looked full at him. out

“ Horace Leigh,” she said slowly and so“Who are you—why have you come hither?" | lemnly, “ I took you and your brother from the

" It is only 1, Horace-I heard you were ill, arms of your dead mother-the mother of both. and thought you would not be angry if I came I filled her place as far as another could do to see you.”

toward you. It was my child you both loved“ I have been ill--but that does not signify; which caused such deadly enmity between you. I wanted no one-you least of all."

Do you think that my gentle Ruth would wel“ But why should I not come? You know I come her mother in heaven, if I have to tell her always loved you, Horace.” And the widow that the two she loved best here, one as a be. gently took his hand, and looked at him as she trothed husband, and one as a brother-for as had done in his boyhood, until the iron heart such she did indeed love you, Horace-that they was melted. Horace sank back, and covered were living in hatred towards one another on his face with his hands.

her account?" By what means Mrs. Grainger succeeded in The widow stopped from exhaustion ; Horace lulling his anger, and charming away even the had fallen on his knees before her; his head agony that her presence must naturally have was bowed upon his clasped hands, but he made brought, it is needless to say. She was one of no answer. Mrs. Grainger laid her hand gently those ministering angels who work by unseen but on his shoulder. all-powerful means; only living to do good. At “ Horace, my dear Horace, listen to the molast Horace bore her visits with calmness, ther of the girl you loved; let me tell Ruth, that almost with pleasure; he suffered her to do with for her sake you gave up your anger.”.. him as she chose ; and by degrees even endured “ But he hates me too; and I will not ask to hear her speak of Stephen; but no argu- forgiveness, I will not be the first to yield,” ments, no entreaties, could soften his inexorable muttered Horace. hatred, or induce him to see or pardon his There was a movement of the half-open door, brother.

and Stephen entered; but II orace did not see “ You never injured me," he would say ; “I him until he felt his hand taken softly, and was wrong to feel anger against you. I am heard his brother say in low tones, with eyes sorry if I have caused you pain; but no power full of tearson earth shall ever make me forgive him." "I do not hate you, Horace; I will be the

The widow dared not say that if forgiveness first to say, “ Brother, forgive me--let us be were needed, it was equally on Stephen's side. friends! " Oftentimes her heart failed her; and at last her "My children, my children forgive one The Disconsolate Husband.

71

another," said the dying woman faintly. They Now I think that a church-yard wakes each solemn were her last words.

thought Hand-in-hand, the reconciled brothers knelt Which dwells in the heart, or at least that it ought ; beside the couch of Ruth's mother, and watched But if gravely disposed, and with sentiment fraught, her during the long hours of night, which she Can we help ourselves if for a moment we're caught

By a frolicsome sprite, passed in unconscious lethargy, until the spirit

Who most doth delight fled on the wings of sunrise.

In his motley to deck, Horace and Stephen Leigh followed the re- And show us the speck mains of the aged widow to the grave, and saw Where absurdity lurks, her laid beside Ruth in the church-yard on the With its smiles and its smirks; hill-side. Then they returned home—to a home Enwreathing its thread which was henceforth to be the same for both With things mournful and dread, brothers. They never spoke of the past, but

Till so fast are they wed lived together as though it had never been.

That perforce we are led They were not rivals now, for they knew

To yield up our heart that « death sanctifieth all things," and that This just was the case that soft summer night,

To the merrier part. in heaven “ there is neither marrying nor giving When the stars broke through the pale twilight, in marriage."

And the young moon shone serenely bright, Under the willow-tree was placed a stone, As if she never looked below with Ruth's name and age, and that of her mo- On strife or sorrow, sin or woe, ther. Below the latter was engraved this line I sat down to rest on an old tomb-stone, from the Holy Book

By grass and wild flowers all o'ergrown;

But through wild flowers and grass I was able to scan “ Blessed are the peace-makers, for they shall be The legend it bore, which thus began :called the children of God."

" In memory of a darling wife,
The joy and solace of my life,
This stone is raised by him who now,
Longing, himself awaits the blow,

When death shall kindly lay him low ;
THE DISCONSOLATE HUSBAND,

For Death, 80 cruel to divide,

Alone can place us side by side.
BY CAMILLA TOULMIN.

Also in memory of'- was underneath ;

But here the weeds had formed a sort of wreath, SCENE.-Slumberwell Church-yard. The time,

So that I could not see close of day.

The village poesy, Though not quite en règle, allow me this way

Though I supposed it then
To open-although I'm not writing a play:

Turned to that “ best of men"
Yet it would be perhaps better,

Himself, who doubtless followed to the grave
And more to the letter

The lost and loved his anguish could not save!
Of orthodox law

I should have said
A picture to draw

That at the head,
Of the village itself, our fair Slumberwell ;

Where was recounted this sad tale,
And I only can plead,

A stooping figure seemed to wail,
That I'd do so indeed

And with one wing was clearly trying
Did my limits exceed

(A stony wing, not meant for flying) The pages I want for the text: but I'll tell

To wipe away the stony tears That it boasted a pond, and a grove, and a green,

That after five-and-thirty years “* Rose Cottage," “ Belle Vue," and a tall house (So from the battered date appears), between.

Still cours'd adown the stony cheeks, One shop, whose bow window revealed to the view Whose many weather-beaten streaks, Loaves of bread on one side (neither tempting nor Neighboured too by a broken nose, new);

And loss of fingers, and of toes, But it also was hinted that bacon, or pin,

Proclaimed that either rude old Time, Or paper, or tea, might be purchased within,

Or Slumberwell's ungenial clime
And needles, and tape, and sugar and cheese ;

Had shown but small respect to one
So doubtless each customer's taste they could please, Who through all trials still wept on.
And please themselves also, with profit and ease ;
As no opposition had they to dread,

Mine was a kind of waking dream,
So peaceful and happy the life that was led

And while I pondered there did seem
By the Slumberwellites, or the Slumberwellilions A sort of radiance to gleam,
(I know not which term may best suit the millions). Which I could plainly trace,
No doubt, they were excellent folks in their way, As if to quickly chase
And in candour and justice, this much I will say, From the stone angel's face
If in church or in church-yard you wander awhile, All signs of woe;
Through the tall dark grass, or the echoing aisle,

That there might grow,
As on wood or on stone

Curling the lip the while,
The inscriptions are shown

A most indubitable smile;
Though to answer's a task,

And but a minute after,
You'd be tempted to ask,

With smothered laughter, "Since only the good people here seem to lie,

The bruised and broken thing, Pray what do you do with the bad when they die ?" Still resting on one wing,

A LOVER'S PERVERSITY.

BY MRS. ABDY.

Bade me, in voice though low yet clear,
To tear away the weeds that grew so near ;
Murmuring the while, “ Ah! when she first lay here
He used to come and water with a tear
The earth that covered her-e'en me he'd grasp,
And wreaths of flowers around me clasp ;
He said he envied me, that I should ever be
Near the sad home of his dear Emily :
Yet somehow, after a few weeks were gone,
He used to leave me very much alone ;
The flowers he twined around my urn,
Were faded quite before his next return;
And soon be made his visits 'few and far between,'
Till for three months at once he was not seen.

But when at last he came, no tear was shed,
Upon his Emily's low narrow bed ;
And, oh! the next time that he came,
I did not know him for the same.
Sables were doffed ; he smiled and looked so gay-
I should observe, he only passed this way
To church upon his second bridal day!”
I started as I tore away
The grass and wild flowers that had grown
Cloud-like around the lettered stone,
And thus I read-

In memory of dear Jane,
The second wife of Walter Blane."
Go on,” the stony figure said,
And, half indignant, half in dread,
I turned to the same work once more,
And grass and wild flowers quickly tore,
Till there appeared another name,
And to the third-third-wife I came!

Why dost thou blame her? why deplore

My sad and blighted youth?
Why dost thou number o'er and o'er

Her broken vows of truth?
No force can bind, no spell restrain

The wild and wayward will ;
I know her false, I know her vain,

And yet I love her still !
Why name her errors ? none to me

Are hidden or unknown;
Thy memory, faithful though it be,

Surpasses not my own :
The icy scorn by which she tried

My young true heart to chill,
Her wounding words, her mocking pride,

I own-yet love her still! Trust me, I seek not to defend

The false one from thy blame; Yet could a thousand tongues, my friend,

Hourly her faults proclaim, And Echo, ere the accents die,

Spread them from hill to hillMy truant heart would yet reply,

Alas! I love her still!

TO THE LAURESTINUS.

(Impromptu Lines.)

BY GEORGE J. 0. ALLMAN.

Now, though no doubt it would be wittier,
And look on paper far the prettier,
To rail against false fickle man
(Who only has been “fickle" since the world

Pride of the garden! when the Winter's snow

The earth embosoms in its fleecy thrall — When never sun doth shed its genial glow

To free each leaflet from its frozen pallWhen, one by one, have slowly disappear'd

The varied flowers, whose blossoms shed a joy O’er Autumn's rugged brow, by Summer rear'd,

But for his chill, rude graspings to destroyPale, blooming Evergreen ! thy virgin white

Uprears, in sweetest loveliness its crown: It hails stern Hyems with its radiance bright,

To court his smile, to deprecate his frown. Thou, too, who, when the Spring doth don her robe,

And fills the air with balmy sweets again, To ope each bright-eyed flower, and swell each lobe,

Till, budding, it doth burst its prison'd chainDost dwindle, like the song of wood-birds wild,

To emptiness, and in the living green
In vain we search for Winter's favorite child,

And wonderment doth guess where it hath beenYet, when the snows, returning, fill the air

With icy whisperings, and crisp the plain With snowy garment, still, sweet Laurel, there

Thou blossomest in beauty once again ! Thou art the truest emblem of that Thing,

The Genius of Man, whose wondrous birth, Though the shoots fade, with happier times doth

bring Fresh forms of beauteousness to gladden Earth!

began ?), It seems to me a happy thought, A ray of Heaven's mercy caught, That Time-abuse him as we willHas power to soothe our sorrows still ; And though the living may not fill Quite up the void, the aching heart Feels when the loved one doth depart, It is a happy dispensation That they should make some compensation !

THE HUMAN VOICE.

(From the German of Körner.)

BY MRS. W. P. O'NEILL.

Boldly the warrior quits his hall
For battle, at the trumpet's call ;
And gaily with the bugle horn
The hunter greets the dawn of morn;
The organ in the holy choir
Doth high and solemn thoughts inspire ;
But what still deeper thrills the heart,
And makes its trembling pulses start,
Confers the power on a word
To touch the soul's divinest chord ?
What makes the human heart rejoice?
The music of a human voice!

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“ All hail to the new-born year!

To the child of hope and fear!
He comes on his car of state,

And weaves our web of fate;
And he opens his robe to receive us all,
And we live or die, and we rise or fall,

In the arms of the new-born year!
“Hope! spread thy soaring wings !

Look forth on the boundless sea,
And trace thy bright and beautiful things

On the veil of the great to be.
“Build palaces broad as the sky,

And store them with treasures of light;
Let exquisite visions bewilder the eye,

And illumine the darkness of night
*We are gliding fast from the buried year,

And the present is no more ;
But Hope, we will borrow thy sparkling gear,
And shroud the future o'er."

MARGARET M. Davidson.
“ Tharewith I saw bleake Januarie comme,
Ye first-borne of ye months, thare daunce to shew,
Cladde yn a snowie garbe y’sprentte with blak;
And as he steptt, stronge windes did rounde him blow,
And rain and haile felle fast."

OLD POEM.

will soon

“ We

The gate of the year !--the birth-morn of them again. They sleep; our eyes another round of months has dawned, and glad- grow heavy likewise ! ness reigns around us far and wide-music, and How much there is to make us pause in heart mirth, and jubilation. From how many lips examination in this same first day of January ! will pass those gentle words, “A happy New How much, while the heedless are wrapped up Year!” Some in accustomed careless courtesy, in glee, to bid us wonder and weep at the world's and some in hollow mockery; but more, far deeds and our own, meditating sorrowfully till more, we trust, in all true brotherly human we make resolutions, bravely thinking to keep kindness.

them, and saying softly to ourselves, Never do twelve months pass by without truly have this hour numbered another year of strange mutations chancing in the district where mortal life, and Time yet goes on, without voice we reside, and in the circle of our acquaintance. or sound, a silent but imperious ruler. We may There is no rest in our present stage-no pause. not stay his pinions by our prayers, nor impede Nothing is certain to the earthly, save death. his progress by our tears : on, on he hurries us So the world moves on, generation succeeding into the illimitable Future. We look back upon generation; all toiling, some despairing, some the Past, and it is a span's breadth ; and forhoping, yet all departing into the veiled Future ! wards, and we are overwhelmed by immensity-A year has gone, and during it many have left the immensity of Eternity, without beginning us, to return no more, bequeathing, never- or end, where years cannot be counted, nor centheless, memories, and a warning of our own turies, nor cycles. The human mind, burthened departure. Let us, whilst we cherish the first, by its earthly companion, shrinks back, unable never forget the second; but, according a na- to contemplate stedfastly a vastness-an intural sorrow to the dead, prepare shortly to meet finity-in which, nevertheless, itself must

inevitably partake: then are many appalled* These pleasant papers reached us too late by voices of deinons whispering, “Put these things many days for us to insert the first in its proper away from your hearts, for verily they are yet place. Our only expedient scems to be to print two afar off!” So angels weep because men will together.---ED. N. M. B. A,

not be wise,

Dark is thy birth-time, Onew-born year! heavy the dark brown hills and half green valleys, in are the clouds that curtain thy wintry cradle! ever-changing light and shade; while the sun And yet in these our northern regions, cold glints on them through wreathing mists that though they be, when we hear from age-stained curl around the higher summits in fantastic church-towers the old bells ring out in the still shapesma never-resting sea of cloud; now midnight to welcome thee, as they did thy pre- swelling up like ocean's troubled billows; anon decessors centuries ago, at first low and sweet, spreading out as calm, and we might also fancy with silvery tones like the fairy bells of a sum- as lucid, as a waveless lake! mer's eve, when “the moon sleeps with En- Oh, there is ever splendour perceptible in this dymion,” then all at once swelling into a loud visible creation-an harmonious loveliness, born triumphant peal, as for a nation's highest of all things Deity has made. The proudest and jubilee-sorrow after a season imperceptibly the meanest unite together-the rugged and the melts away, and January's first murky morn be delicate combine in forming the magnificent comes as blithe as the dewy repose of June's whole; whilst man, its Lord, too often disretwilight. Perchance the clouds roll gently gards the mind-treasures it offers to his grasp; away at intervals, until they rest only on the so their precious influences ascend in vain, and distant horizon, leaving our neighbour moun- he, foolishly ungrateful, goes on his way, tains depicted in stern majesty against the in- troubled at heart, yet not knowing why he is tensely blue arch of heaven, whence the stars, dispirited. But not so all. Some gentler ones twinkling like spiritual eyes that may not show there are, who seek to gather to themselves forth all their lustre, look down in lovely, yet riches worldlings never comprehend, and readawe-inspiring splendour. Can we behold those ing with attentive eyes the book of Nature, obperpetual watchers, whose circuit has not inter- tain an inward, an imperishable joy, owning in mitted since Creation was called from Chaos, His munificent gifts their great Creator. In this shining with the same surpassing brilliancy that happy band, kind reader ours, we trust that you rivetted the gaze of patriarchs, when earth was are numbered; then will you find gladness young, without feeling a sense-subduing emo- alike when Winter reigns, and when the Springtion come over us, and kneeling entranced in birds sing, and, patiently awaiting May's inerty spirit, hearing as it were their mysterious music as hours, endure with cheerfulness the dark skies they move in unvarying courses? Nor is night and cutting blasts of JANUARY, only fair. Often by day how beautiful appear

No, II.-FEBRUARY

“The night was Winter in his roughest mood;
The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon,
Upon the southern side of the slant hills,
And where the woods fence off the northern blast,
The season smiles, resigning all its rage,
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue
Without a cloud, and white without a speck
The dazzling splendour of the scene below."

Cowper. The Task, book vi.
A song in the early month!

Sing ye it merrily!
A song for the young and fair,

And all kind souls that be!
A cheerful lay for the long-wish'd day

When love may his tale disclose;
Oh, many a cheek, ere morning break,

Will glow with a richer rose ;
And many a maiden's heart will bound

As she reads each pencill'd line,
Blessing the light of the sunshine bright

That shows her true Valentine !

Although February is a cold, bleak, and often cheerful songs, warbling as if their happiness stormy month, symptoms of approaching spring might never keep silence, and delighted to bask begin to develop themselves --faint foreshadow- in a brief mid-day sunshine-even when the ings of the beauty about to descend on earth. white frost-rime has hardly melted from imAlready the sleeping Titan moves, not yet fully mense tree-boughs and long ghost-like windleawakened, but needing only the first touch of straws. Blessings on the sweet melody that revernal messengers to arise in renovated majesty minds us of Summer's enthusiastic musical -already a few glad-hearted birds resume their loveliness, inducing dreams of blue skies and

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