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Waited the final summons. While she sat,
Pale as the alabaster of a tomb,
Scarcely less still—her poor shrunk fingers wrought
The Garland which I spake of; it was made
Slowly, with many a pausing interval,
When even the scissors were a weight her strength
Could scarce uphold. She lingered on and on,
Through all the summer, and when autumn came
And shed the jasmine flowers above her head
As if with funeral strewings, gently forth
She breathed the imprisoned soul. Time had been given
To shape the emblematic trifle. She had heard—
Although the ancient usage in these parts
Was somewhat obsolete—that maids, who died
Untimely deaths, were erewhile wont to have
This slight memorial; and the fancy pleased.
One, who at Lucy's nuptials, six months since,
Had been joint bridesmaid with her, Esther named
To bear it; and when earth was given to earth,
And nought remained to tell of what was once
Beauty and kindliness and innocence,
Save recollections in a few fond hearts,
And a green, unmarked mound,—then this frail thing-
Was hung above the pew, wherein she knelt
And worshipped from her youth. The robin oft,
Unchecked intruder through some broken pane,
Makes it his solitary perch, and sings
As 'twere a requiem for the buried maid.

Dust, damp, and mouldiness have somewhat dimmed

Its pristine purity, and fragments fall

Unnoted; so, not long the villagers

Will point to Esther's Garland, and enforce

The moral of our life's uncertainty,

And of the Crown which goodness gains in death.

B.

THE SECRET.

A DIALOGUE.

"I have a counsel for thy gentle ear,

A secret deep, I fain would whisper in it!" "Of love, I guess: come closer, then, my dear,

And if 'tis worth a farthing pray begin it." "Well, then. He (you know who !) was here this minute;

And—no, I can't go on—indeed I can't;

I thought him all devotion to my aunt; And now—such love—and, oh! that I should win it! Nay, do not smile, his is no soul of iron;

He sits for ever with an upturned eye,

Doing ' the Poet' most enchantingly; And cuts his hair, too, by the prints of Byron: With collar spread, the vulgar neckcloth scorning, He looks,— what now!" '' I married him this morning."

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SOME PASSAGES IN THE HISTORY OF SARAH CURRAN.

It is a comparatively easy task to recount the adventures of those whose celebrity renders the most trifling incident that concerns them, of interest, and even importance, to the world; but the mere records of the heart and its affections, refined and exquisite as they may be, can only be gratifying to the few by whom it was intimately known and appreciated; and were it not that some circumstances had given to the unfortunate subject of this sketch, a degree of celebrity which she as little contemplated as desired, I should scarcely have been tempted to pay this simple, but sincere tribute to her memory.

Sarah Curran has already been the theme of story and of song; and so long as "The Broken Heart" of Washington Irving be read; and the exquisite melody of "She is far from the Land," of our national poet, Moore, shall preserve its popularity,—so long must the

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