Thy creatures, legions, day by day,
And then proclaim Thee just;
Deal desolation through the world,
Spread ruin at their nod,

And then by lightning have it hurl'd
"King William thanks his God?”

If these are Thine annointed, Lord,
And thus they do thy will,
The lowly ones can ill afford
To work each other ill;

And would prefer, though little worth,
Obscurely on to plod,

Than telegraph, throughout the earth,
Offensice thanks to God.

46

DEATH OF LITTLE PAUL.

FLOY," said Paul, "what is that?" "Where, dearest?" "There! at the bottom of the bed." "There's nothing there except Papa!" The figure lifted up its head and rose, and, coming to the bedside, said, "My own boy, don't you know me?" Paul looked it in the face, and thought, Was this his father? But the face, so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in pain; and, before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them and draw it toward him, the figure turned away quickly from the little bed, and went out at the door. Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart; but he knew what she was going to say, and stopped her with his face against her lips. The next time he observed the figure sitting at the bottom of the bed, he called to it, "Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa; indeed, I am quite happy!" His father coming, and bending down to him-which he did quickly, and without first pausing by the bedside-Paul held him round the neck, and repeated these words to him several times, and very earnestly; and Paul never saw him again in his room at any time, whether it were day or night, but he called out, "Don't be so sorry for me; indeed, I am quite happy." This was the beginning of his always

saying in the morning that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.

How many times the golden water danced upon the wall-how many nights the dark, dark river rolled toward the sea in spite of him-Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness, or his sense of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he more grateful, every day; but whether they were many days or few, appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy. One night he had been thinking of his mother and her picture in the drawing-room down stairs, and had thought she must have loved sweet Florence better than his father did, to have held her in her arms when she felt that she was dying; for even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggested to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother; for he could not remember whether they had told him yes or no-the river running very fast, and confusing his mind. "No, darling: why?" "Did I ever see any kind face, "Floy, did I ever see mamma?" like mamma's, looking at me when I was a baby, Floy?" he asked, incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face before him. "Oh, yes, dear." "Whose, Floy?" "Your old nurse's, often." "And where is my old nurse?" said Paul. "Is she dead, too? Floy, are we all dead, except you?"

There was a hurry in the room for an instant-longer, perhaps, but it seemed no more-then all was still again; and Florence, with her face quite colorless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm. much. Her arm trembled very "Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please." "She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow "Thank you, Floy." *

*

*

*

*

"And who is this? Is this my old nurse?" said the child, regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in. Yes, yes! No other stranger would have shed those tears at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have stooped down by his bed, and taken up his wasted hand and put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to fondle it. have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and No other woman would been so full of tenderness and pity. "Floy, this is

27*

"I am glad to see it again. kind, good face!" said Paul. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay here!"

"Now lay me down," he said; "and, Floy, come close to me and let me see you!" Sister and brother wound "How their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in and fell upon them, locked together. fast the river runs between its green banks and the rushes, I hear the waves! Floy! But it's very near the sea. They always said so." Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him te rest. How green the banks were now! how bright the flowers growing on them! and how tall the rushes! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on; and now there was a shore before them. Who stood on the bank? He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it; but they saw him fold them so, behind her neck. "Mamma is like you, Floy: I know her by the face! But tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I go!"

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and The old, the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. old fashion-Death! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, of Immortality! And look upon us, angels of young children, with regards not quite estranged when the swift river bears us to the ocean! Charles Dickens.

IN MEMORY OF CHARLES DICKENS.

As sunset's glow illumed the sea
One balmy day of June,

And golden stars shone o'er the lea
To greet the rising moon,

One light of wond'rous brilliancy

Great England's son! His noble name
She'll proudly call her own,
Exalted on her roll of fame;

Yet not her pride alone;

All nations shall his worth proclaim,
The world his genius own.

E'en while his genial heart beat high,
'Mid friendly smile and cheer,
An unseen guest was hov'ring nigh,—
Death's shadow drawing near,
To bear him to his rest on high,
From love and labor here.

O'ershadowed by the angel's wing,
Unconsciously he lay,

Saw not the shaft, felt not the sting,
But gently passed away,-

And while the bells their vespers ring
He gains eternal day.

"Out with the tide," his life of love

On to the sea shall flow,

The boundless sea of God's pure love,-
Nor waves of sorrow know;

But share with ransomed souls above
Bliss earth could ne'er bestow.

His name indeed a "household word”

Through ages now shall be,

The cheerful sound of "Chimes" be heard
Like notes of melody;

And "Christmas Carol,” word for word,

"Keep green his memory."

Oh! could he, with his parting breath,
Have whispered what he felt;
Revealed his earnest thoughts of death
To those who near him knelt ;-
As once he spake, through "little Paul,"
His dying words might be-

"How fast the river runs," (for all),
"It's very near the sea;"

"Im green the banks-and rushes tall;"

66

My mother's face I see;"

And then- thank God !"-above it all

"For Immortality!"

Mrs. Gustavus Rem ik.

MONSIEUR TONSON.

THERE lived, as Fame reports, in days of yore,
At least some fifty years ago, or more,

A pleasant wight on town, yclept Tom King,—
A fellow that was clever at a joke,

Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke;

In short, for strokes of humor quite the thing.

To many a jovial club this King was known,
With whom his active wit unrivalled shone;
Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood,
Would crowd, his stories and bon-mots to hear,
And none a disappointment e'er could fear,

His humor flowed in such a copious flood.

To him a frolic was a high delight:
A frolic he would hunt for, day and night,
Careless how prudence on the sport might frown.
If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew,
Nor left the game till he had run it down.

One night, our hero, rambling with a friend,
Near famed St. Giles's chanced his course to bend,
Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight.
"T was silence all around, and clear the coast,
The watch, as usual, dozing on his post,

And scarce a lamp displayed a twinkling light.

Around this place there lived the numerous clans
Of honest, plodding, foreign artisans,

Known at that time by name of refugees.
The rod of persecution from their home

Compelled the inoffensive race to roam,

And here they lighted, like a swarm of bees.

Well! our two friends were sauntering through the street,
In hopes some food for humor soon to meet,
When, in a window near, a light they view;
And, though a dim and melancholy ray,
It seemed the prologue to some merry play,
So towards the gloomy dome our hero drew.

Straight at the door he gave a thundering knock
(The time we may suppose near two o'clock).

"I'll ask," says King. "if Thompson lodges here."