now you are no longer what you have been. My only brother has been appointed to a command in the preventive service on this coast!”

Frank started, and turned pale.

“I expect him every instant,” she continued—“Oh, I know you will like him! He is so open, and manly, and loyal—so beautiful, and brave !” At the instant, a tumultuous noise was heard in the hall, as of numerous persons carrying some weighty object; and soon after, a female servant entered the room, and exclaimed—“A man murdered at the Cove!”

Jane did not shrink, nor start, nor move ; but calmly fixed her eyes upon her lover, who sank, pale, faint and soul-stricken, into a chair. “My heart foretold it !” said she, sitting down beside him, and taking his cold clammy hand within hers; “ you would not promise not to do it! you could not-for all was ordained !” By the pressure of the crowd in the hall, the room-door was burst open, and Jane suddenly started up, and ran towards the fearful object in the midst. There appeared to be a disposition, on the part of the bystanders, to prevent her approach ; and cries of “shut the door!” echoed on all sides ; but, with almost preternatural strength, she forced her way through the crowd, and obtained a full view of the body. She then turned round, without uttering a word, and beckoned to her lover, who still sate oppressed with horror and expectation upon the chair. He rushed towards her through

the vista of spectators ; clasped her in his trembling arms ; and fixed upon her closing eyes a look of love, pity, and despair. He then laid her gently down by the lifeless body of her brother— the dead by the dead! In another moment Francis Hardy had left the house, and was never seen or heard of more.

SONNET.

ON LEAVING —

, IN DEVONSHIRE.

Fair fields, rich hedgerows; the eternal sea,
And its great bounds ; broad hills of green increase ;
White hamlets lone ; and, nestling among these,
A happy bower, where true-born courtesy
Clasps with its graceful wreaths the goodly tree
Of Home Affection ; — through such scenes of peace,
Borne by his wayward fortune's hurrying breeze,
A stranger passed ; and when the potency
Of that all-mastering blast still swept him on,
As traveller, harboured on some unknown strand,
On mossy trunk or rude memorial-stone
Inscribes his homely record; in like guise
Wove he these uncouth rhymes, to memorize
The welcome which he met in that fair land.

THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

LINES, SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.*

BY T. K. HERVEY.

They may not weep who gaze on thee!-

It dries the source of tears,
Like some remembered melody,

Unheard for many years ;
That—as a ghost--steals out again,
From some dim chamber in the brain,
And waves the weary-hearted back,-
O’er many a dark and wasted track,--
Back to the half-forgotten bowers,
Where hope, in boyhood, gathered flowers !

Young mother !-oh! how long they haunt

The after-paths of time,
The mother's low, yet happy chaunt,

Whose memory, like the chime
Of church-bells — consecrates the air,
And calls the spirit home to prayer ;-

The smile that, then when all things smiled,

Was, ever, like none other ;-
The kiss -oh! kisses warm and wild,

But not like thine, young mother!
May burn the brain and waste the breast,
Thine only lullabied to rest!-
And give the lip a poison-hue,
Where thine fell down, like dew!

And oh! how beautifully bright,

Upon thy glad, young brow,
The matron-coronal,— whose light

Lies hallowing all things, now!
Till all that was too much of earth

Is winnowed from thy sighs,
And love, that had a mortal birth,

Is tending to the skies !—
Though fair thy virgin-years might be,

How far more fair thou art!
A mother's hopes have twined, for thee,

A cestus of the heart,
That Alings a glow more rich and warm
O’er every consecrated charm !
Sweet thoughts, beneath thy baby's spells, i

Across thy fancy throng,-
As nightingales, where echo dwells,

Breathe out their sweetest song!

And thou—whose resting-place is, still,

A gentle mother's breast,-
Take out, by love's untainted rill,

Thy sweet and pleasant rest ;
Or look for visions like the sky's,
Within her fond and sanguine eyes,
Those telescopes, where sun and star
Seem nearer than, in truth, they are !
The world has no such future bed,

Nor any dream so sweet,-
When, with its storms above thy head,

Its graves beneath thy feet, Thine early home shall seem, to thee, Some scene of vanished faëry ;When thou, perchance, shalt sit apart, To sorrow o'er thy silent heart, A dial, with its sunlight gone, That only speaks when shone upon !

A mother's love !—that gushing spring,

That sends a sweet and silver stream (Beneath whose low, dim murmuring

The soul lies down, to dream
Of vanished good, from present ill,
When all its other harps are still !)
Along life's dull and narrow vale,
To haunt us, like an ancient tale,