I now am hastening to him.

more, more: and I
Pretty boy!

He was my only child. How fair he looked
In the white garment that encircled him
'Twas like a marble slumber; and when we
Laid him beneath the green earth in his bed,
I thought my heart was breaking - yet I lived:
But I am weary now.

Mar. You must not talk,
Indeed, dear lady; nay-

Ch. Indeed you must not.

Amel. Well, then, I will be silent; yet not so.
For ere we journey, ever should we take

A sweet leave of our friends, and wish them well,
And tell them to take heed, and bear in mind
Our blessings. So, in your breast, dear Charles,
Wear the remembrance of Amelia.

She ever loved you-ever; so as might

Become a mother's tender love

no more.

Charles, I have lived in this too bitter world
Now almost thirty seasons: you have been
A child to me for one-third of that time.

I took you to my bosom, when a boy,

Who scarce had seen eight springs come forth and vanish. You have a warm heart, Charles, and the base crowd

Will feed upon it, if-but you must make

That heart a grave, and in it bury deep

Its young and beautiful feelings.

Ch. I will do

All that

wish you

all; but you cannot die

And leave me?

Amel. You shall see how calmly Death
Will come and press his finger, cold and pale,
On my now smiling lip: these eyes men swore
Were brighter than the stars that fill the sky,
And yet they must grow dim: an hour

Ch. Oh! no.

No, no: oh! say not so. I cannot bear

To hear you talk thus. Will you break my heart?
Amel. No: I would caution it against a change,

That soon must happen. Calmly let us talk.

When I am dead -

Ch. Alas, alas!

Amel. This is

Not as I wish: you had a braver spirit.

Bid it come forth. Why, I have heard you talk
Of war and danger — Ah!

[WENTWORTH enters.]

Mar. She's pale-speak, speak.

Ch. Oh my lost mother. How! You here?
Went. I am come

To pray her pardon. Let me touch her hand.
Amelia! she faints: Amelia! ・

-

Poor faded girl! I was too harsh — unjust.

Ch. Is it then so? My soul is sick and faint.
Oh! mother, mother. I—I cannot weep.
Oh for some blinding tears to dim my eyes,
So I might not gaze on her. And has death
Indeed, indeed struck her so beautiful?
So wronged, and never erring; so beloved
By one who now has nothing left to love.
Oh! thou bright heaven, if thou art calling now
Thy bright angels to thy bosom — rest,
For lo the brightest of thy host is gone
Departed and the earth is dark below.
And now I'll wander far and far away,

Like one that hath no country. I shall find
A sullen pleasure in that life, and when

I say "I have no friend in all the world,"
My heart will swell with pride and make a show

[She dies

Unto itself of happiness; and in truth
There is in that same solitude a taste

Of pleasure which the social never know.
From land to land I'll roam, in all a stranger,
And, as the body gains a braver look,
By staring in the face of all the winds,
So from the sad aspect of different things
My soul shall pluck a courage, and bear up
Against the past. And now-for Hindostan.

Bryan W. Procter.

The Minstrel's Song in Ella.

Oh! sing unto my roundelay;
Oh! drop the briny tear with me;
Dance no more at holiday,

Like a running river be;

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,
White his neck as summer snow,
Ruddy his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,

Quick in dance as thought was he;

Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;

Oh! he lies by the willow-tree.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing,

In the briered dell below:

Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing,

To the nightmares as they go.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high,
Whiter is my true-love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,

Whiter than the evening cloud.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the garish flowers be laid,

Nor one holy saint to save
All the sorrows of a maid.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll bind the briers,
Round his holy corse to gre;

Elfin-fairy, light your fires,

Here my body still shall be.

My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Death of Long Tom Coffin.

Lifting his broad hands high into the air, his voice was heard in the tempest. 'God's will be done with me,' he cried: 'I saw the first timber of the Ariel laid, and shall live just long enough to see it turn out of her bottom; after which I wish to live no longer.' But his shipmates were far beyond the sounds of his voice before these were half uttered. All command of the boat was rendered impossible, by the numbers it contained, as well as the raging of the surf; and as it rose on the white crest of a wave, Tom saw his beloved little craft for the last time. It fell into a trough of the sea, and in a few moments more its fragments were ground into splinters on the adjoining rocks. The cockswain [Tom] still remained where he had cast off the rope, and beheld the numerous heads and arms that appeared rising, at short intervals, on the waves, some making powerful and well-directed efforts to gain the sands, that were becoming visible as the tide fell, and others wildly tossed, in the frantic movements of helpless despair. The honest old seaman gave a cry of joy as he saw Barnstable [the commander whom Tom had forced into the boat] issue from the surf, where one by one several seamen soon appeared also, dripping and exhausted. Many others of the crew were carried in a similar manner to places of safety; though, as Tom returned to his seat on the bowsprit, he could not conceal from his reluctant eyes the lifeless forms that were, in other spots, driven against the rocks with a fury that soon left them but few of the outward vestiges of humanity.

Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants of their dreadful station. The former stood in a kind of stupid despair, a witness of the scene; but as his curdled blood began again to flow more warmly to his heart, he crept close to the side of Tom, with that sort of selfish feeling that makes even hopeless misery more tolerable, when endured in participation with another.

'When the tide falls,' he said in a voice that betrayed the agony of fear, though his words expressed the renewal of hope, 'we shall be able to walk to land.'

'There was one and only One to whose feet the waters were the same as a dry deck,' returned the cockswain; 'and none but such as have His power will ever be able to walk from these rocks to the sands.' The old scaman paused, and turning his eyes, which exhib