"Do with me as you will, but take the child
And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"
And Allan said, "I see it is a trick

Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
I must be taught my duty, and by you!
You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
To slight it. Well-for I will take the boy;
But go you hence, and never see me more.'

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud
And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell
At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands,
And the boy's cry came to her from the field,
More and more distant.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
To God, that helped her in her widowhood.
And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
He says that he will never see me more."
Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be
That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself:
And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
And I will beg of him to take thee back:
But if he will not take thee back again,
Then thou and I will live within one house,
And work for William's child, until he grows
Of age to help us."

So the women kiss'd
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm.
The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw
The boy sat up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,
Like one that lov'd him:

Then they came in but when the boy beheld
His mother, he cried out to come to her:
And Allan sat him down, and Mary said:
"O father!--if you let we call you so-
I never came a-begging for myself,
Or William, or this child; but now I come

For Dora: take her back; she loves you well.
Oh sir, when William died, he died at peace
With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said
He could not ever rue his marrying me—
I had been a patient wife: but, sir, he said
That he was wrong to cross his father thus :
'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know
The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turn'd
His face and pass'd-unhappy that I am!
But now, sir, let me have my boy, for you
Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight
His father's memory; and take Dora back,
And let all this be as it was before."

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face

By Mary. There was silence in the room;
And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-

"I have been to blame-to blame. I have killed my

son.

I have kill'd him-but I loved him-my dear son.
May God forgive me!-I have been to blame.

Kiss me my children."

Then they clung about

The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times.
And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundredfold;

And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,
Thinking of William.

So those four abode

Within one house together; and as years

Went forward, Mary took another mate;

But Dora lived unmarried till her death.-Tennyson.

GUY MANNERING.

MEG MERRILIES and DOMINIE SAMPSON.

Meg. FROM One peril I have preserved young Bertram! His greatest and his last is still to come. From that, too, will I protect him, for I was born to raise the house of Ellangowan from its ruins. I told Hatteraick and his murderous crew, when they forced the child away, e'en when the villain's dagger at his infant throat forced my unwilling secrecy to their fiendish plan, that should the sweet blossom live to

ripen into manhood, and return to his native land, I'd set him in his father's seat again. I'll do it, though I dig my own grave in the attempt.

Enter DOMINIE SAMPSON, looking at his clothes.

Dom. Truly, my outward man doth somewhat embarrass my sensations of identity. My vestments are renovated

miraculously.

Meg. Stop!-I command thee!
Dom. Avoid thee!

She's mad.

Meg. No, I am not mad!-I've been imprisoned for madscourged for mad-banished for mad--but mad I am not !

Dom. 'Tis Meg Merrilies, renowned for her sorceries! I haven't seen her for many a year. My blood curdles to hear her! I am perturbed at thy words-Woman, I conjure thee! Nay, then, will I flee incontinently!

Meg. Halt stand fast, or ye shall rue the day, while a limb of you hangs together!

Dom. Conjuro te, nequissima, et scelestissima!

Meg. What gibberish is that? Go from me to Colonel Mannering.

Dom. I am fugacious.

Meg. Stay!-Thou tremblest! Drink of this!

Dom. I am not a-thirst, most execrable-I mean, excellent

Meg. Drink! and put some heart in you.

Dom. Lo; I obey!

Meg. Can your learning tell what this is?
Dom. Praised be thy bounty-wine.

Meg. Will you remember my errand now?

[Drinks.]

Dom. I will, most pernicious-that is, pertinaciousMeg. Then tell Colonel Mannering, if ever he owed a debt to the House of Ellangowan, and hopes to see it prosper, he must come, instantly, armed, and well attended, to the Glen, below the Tower of Derncleugh, and fail not on his life! you know the spot?

Dom. I do where you once dwelt, most accursed—that is,

most accurate.

Meg. Ay, Abel Sampson, there blazed my hearth for many a day! and there, beneath the willow, that hung its garlands over the brook, I've sat, and sung to Harry Bertram, songs of the olden time. That tree is withered now, never to be green again; and old Meg Merrilies will never sing blythe songs more. But I charge you, Abel Sampson, when the heir shall have his own-as soon he shall

Dom. Woman !-what sayest you!

Meg. That you tell him not to forget Meg Merrilies, but to build up the old walls in the glen, for her sake, and let those that live there be too good to fear the beings of another world; for, if ever the dead come back among the living, I'll be seen in that glen many a night after these crazed bones are whitened in the mouldering grave. I have said it, old man! you shall see him again, and the best lord he shall be that Ellangowan has seen this hundred years. The moment is at hand, when all shall behold

Bertram's right, and Bertram's might,

Meet on Ellangowan's height.

-Sir Walter Scott.

THE DAY IS DONE.

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village.

Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist :

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest

Life's endless toil and endeavour;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.-Longfellow.

AS YOU LIKE IT.

DUKE FREDERICK, ROSALIND, and CELIA.

Duke F. MISTRESS, despatch you with your safest haste, And get you from our court.

Ros. Me, uncle?

Duke F. You, cousin;

Within these ten days if thou be'st found

So near our public court as twenty miles

Thou diest for it.

Ros. I do beseech your grace,

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me,

If with myself I hold intelligence,

Or have acquaintance with mine own desires;

If that I do not dream, or be not frantic,

(As I do trust I am not,) then, dear uncle,