after the scene we have described, there was one voice, which, in the height of delirium, could still his frenzy; one hand whose gentlest pressure could instantly work obedience; one form of beauty, that gave grace and comfort to his sick-room,-that, however indistinctly seen, was recognized by his heart's perception, long before he had power to give that form a name. But, when he awoke to perfect consciousness of all that had passed,-when he found, from Mary's conversation, that she did not even guess that he had meant her wrong, but had attributed to temporary derangement the fearful scene which she had witnessed, after his fervent embrace had awakened her from her lethargic slumber,—when he recalled the mistake which he must have made, giving her medicine instead of doom,—then sorrow, the sorrow of humiliation and repentance, yet sorrow mixed with thankfulness and gratitude, was the indulged feeling of his heart.

When his wife deemed him strong enough to bear the glad tidings, she shewed him a letter from his neglected friend, Hugh Mortimer, containing the account of a wealthy nobleman's death, to whom Frederick was immediate heir; and Stafford, with an internal shudder, remembered that he had seen that very letter lying by his wife's bed-side, when he had so nearly given her the sleep of death!

ΜΟΝΑ.

THE SOLDIER AND HIS DOG.

A POETICAL SKETCH.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

THE warrior youth and his dog are come
Where the banner of war is unfurled,-

It had eat from his hand, in his mother's home,
And had followed him through the world.—
The friends of his heart, in its morning pride,
Have fled from the gloom of his morrow;
And his dog is all that stands by his side,
Since he has but his sabre and sorrow!

He had doted too well on those perishing things,

And wept over them long, as they past,

Till, one by one, they had made themselves wings,

Save woman-and she went, last!

So, he wiped from his father's sword the stain,

And the weakness from his heart,

And hied him away to the battle-plain,
-But, his dog would not depart !

He has slumbered beneath a moonless sky,
While his friend has watched around,
And soothed, with its tongue, the agony

Of each-save the spirit's-wound.
And its faith has been as a gentle dew,

Shed sweetly and silently,

Oh! were the maid of his soul as true,

How fair a thing were she!

And now, amid the battle's strife,

He flings his sword away,

And, as he marks its ebbing life,

Weeps as a soldier may !

-Tears that become the warrior, more

Than all the weak ones given

To her the darker, that she wore

The livery of heaven!