THE FAREWELL. BY L. E. L. I DARE not look upon that face, Too much already its soft grace A few short hours, and I must gaze A dream will seem the pleasant days Past on this lonely shore. I love thee not-my heart has cast The many memories of the past Thou art to me a thing apart From passion, hope, or fear; Yet 't is a pleasure to my heart To know thou art so dear. It shows me I have something left I know there is another hour, When I have left this isle, When other eyes may fling their gleams Above my purple wine, But little shall I heed the dreams I once could read in thine. Thy heart it is untouched and pure— I wish it not for mine; Too feverish and insecure Would be such world-worn shrine, For thou dost need such quiet home As might befit the dove Where green leaves droop, and soft winds come, Where peace attends on love. I doubt if I shall gaze again Spread o'er life's troubled sea: Then where will be the calm delight When other names that are as sweet, Thy pensive influence only brought The dreams of early years, What childhood felt-what thought Its tenderness—its tears! childhood Farewell! the wind sets from the shore, The white foam lights the sea, If heaven one blessing have in store, That blessing light on thee! 23* THE WIDOW'S DAUGHTER. BY ELIZA WALKER. Time, faith, and energy, are the three friends God has given the poor." BULWER'S Night and Morning. It was towards the close of the busying month of April; but, though early in the spring, the weather was bright and bracing—one of those days which, from their clear, delicious freshness, give added buoyancy to the step, strength and elasticity to the spirit-when the boon of mere existence is felt as a joy and blessing, and the heart, forgetting the shadows which past grief or impending calamity fling over it, breathes unmixed aspirations of praise and thanksgiving to the Author of all good! How appropriate, then, was a day like this for the long-projected fête at Morton Grange! What was it commemorative of? Were the nuptials of the young and lovely the event celebrated? The birth or majority of an heir recorded thus by joy and festivity? It was neither of these occasions which collected all the élite of shire into one focus. It was to mark the recovery from long and dangerous illness of Eva, the only child of the proud and pompous owner of Morton Grange-a young, still feeble, ailing girl of fifteen. The successive deaths of five other children, the long period which intervened between the demise of the last of these and the birth of little Eva, had made her to her parents an object, it might be said, almost of idolatry. Such affluence of love was scattered over her path, so fenced in was she by the eager, watchful care of parental affection from the common casualties of peril and danger, that when, despite the vigilance exercised, disease struck her down, and the glad laugh was exchanged for the low wail of anguish, the bright glance dimmed by the films of sickness, the appalled parents started as from a dream. What, then, was she, the only and beloved, whom they had so cherished and caressed, hurrying, like their other little ones, to the dreary grave? There was agony almost to madness in the thought. All that consummate medical skill could effect was rendered; all that ceaseless, unremitting attention accomplish, offered. Heaven was besought with earnest, supplicating importunity, to spare their treasure; and Heaven listened to their prayers! The fever of delirium faded away, and the thin hand pressed once more in recognition the mother s fervent clasp; the pale lip wreathed into a faint smile on the fond father, who bent breathlessly watching each varying turn of the ashy |