alluded to the past, but it sometimes appeared as if he were trying to atone for it. Edith was quiet, gentle, and obedient. They were said to be the happiest couple in the world.

The Italians have a proverb, "Ciò che luce non è sempre oro”—“That which shines is not always gold;" or, as we English express it, “All is not gold that glitters."

FRIENDSHIP.

The old, the young, the sick, and the infirm—
Want, penury, misfortune, woe, and care,
And thoughtless affluence for a longer term,
All needy pilgrims, of thy bounty share;
And by the death-bed thou art cherish'd, there
When life, low ebbing, verges on decay-
When the world's glory, with its mimic glare,
Fades into dimness, till it dies away,
In the all-cloudless sun of an eternal day!

In affluence worshipped, but a thing unknown;
For well to know, we first must feel thy need :
In the heart's furrows thou art deepest sown;
And the great Nile of Sorrow o'er thy seed
Must inundate to fructify: they breed
But parasites around them, who by wealth
Win seeming zealots of thy gentle creed;
For, fortune gone, ease blasted, ruined health,

How soon these slink away, as doth a thief, by stealth!

With song and merriment and harmless jest,
With joy and laughter, thou art ever dear:
"Tis Friendship gives to each a keener zest,
And life seems one long noon-tide: all is clear,
Joyous, and glad, and fresh, nor doth appear
A care to cloud its plenitude: we sail
Out on a sea of gladness, and we steer
On with the stream, propelling with the gale
Our little barque of hopes-why must they fail?

Sorrow is Knowledge. Yet not they who feel
Bodily anguish, but the few who dare

In the world's combat snatch the glitt'ring steel
Ambition offers, and a way prepare
Into futurity-who strive to wear
The laurel of men's memories, nor bend
To disappointment! O for one to share

Being with being, thought with thought to blend, And in that breast to feel Love-Friendship has no end!

To suffer is to know. Not they who bear
Bodily sickness, but the keener pain
Of the heart's disappointment-they who wear
That blight within their bosoms worse than rain
Of plagues on Egypt. "Tis to know the bane
Of hopes all ruined, truth and trust destroyed—
To tread on the heart's ashes, and to drain
Affection's home into an empty void,
When not a Seraph's love with surfeit could have
cloyed.

To feel the fluttering pulse, the feeble breath
That scarcely stirs a feather; by the bed
To sit and hear almost the approach of Death;
To smooth the pillow, ease the aching head,
Supply the little wants-with gentle tread
Going and coming, and at last to draw

Smiles from those lips-rich payment! And in-
stead

Of sickness, see the wonted hue they woreThis this has friendship done-could Love itself do more?

Without thee, FRIENDSHIP, joy at best were woe,

Sickness were torture, and the heart-ache then Would be hell's torment! Whither should we go, With none to love us, none to guide? Would

men

TO F. M. S.

I love to trace familiar things
In fancy's tinsel dream,

And o'er the horizon of the heart

Throw memory's sunlight gleam,

To wake the sounds which erst have charmed,
Recall each pleasing tone,

But oh! I cannot brook the thought
To mourn the gifted gone.

Then, lady fair, I'll wake my lyre

To pay my tribute strain,

And welcome thee, "the long lost one,"
Back to our home again,

And fondly wish thee health and peace,
With all the world can give,
And by the bright example set
Teach others how to live.

"To be beloved," that is thy lot,
As every line must tell,
Affection's mutual sweets you share
With those you love so well;
And oh! within your breast there glows
The heaven-born hallowed flame,
God's richest guerdon-mighty mind!
To halo thy fair name.

I cannot look on thee as one
Whose home is here below;
Thou hast those pure imaginings
Which Genius' children know:
But oh! be thine a happier lot
Than theirs too sadly seems,
Creatures of light too bright for earth
To realize their dreams.

Then wake thy lyre's familiar tones
To gladden young hearts now,
And they shall twine the laurel wreath
To garland thy fair brow.
Let Feeling's rich expressive tones
Breathe fervour in each line,
While thoughts that breathe and words
that burn

Proclaim thy gifts divine.

And when thine eye perchance may fall
On this attempt to tell

How other hearts have prized the gift.
Which you have used so well,
Oh! may I ask a passing thought,
When passion's pow'rs arise,
And my one prayer shall ever be,
To meet thee in the skies.
Brighton.

W. M. KIRKHOUSE.

"And you would be right. Indeed, Kate," continued Miss Woodford, "we have advised you for the best. Love is not necessary for happiness; and the calm regard and friendship you feel for Mr. Melville (for you have only fancied you dislike him since he has appeared in the character of a suitor, while before you were really attached to him), will prove a far more durable means of happiness, than that passionate affection which girls fancy a necessary feeling towards their future husband. Yes, my dear, dear girl, I am quite sure you will never repent it if you marry him."

"But you know-you know I love another," murmured Kate, in a voice almost inaudible through her tears.

"You believe, you fancy you do; but how do you know he still cares for you? You are throwing away, are wasting your affections on one unworthy of them," said Emily Woodford. "If he loved you, do you suppose he would have allowed so long a time to elapse without seeing you, and seeking some explanation? Instead of which, he appears to have purposely avoided you; does such conduct betoken love?"

Miss Woodford paused, and Kate hid her face for a moment in the cushion of the sofa, and then gasped out, almost writhing with anguish,

66

Oh, Emily, you are too, too cruel!" "I seem so, dearest; but ask yourself seriously if I am not right. Think of your mother, Kate; of your brothers and sisters, poor children! whose fate depends so much on your conductremember-"

"I know all-I think of it all-I remember all," interrupted the unhappy girl; "if I did not, think you I could consent to become the wife of one I detest? Do you think if my mother, my gentle, suffering, idolized mother, had not with tears in her eyes implored me to accept Melville's hand, and had not even owned she believed it would prolong her life were I to do so, think you I ever, ever could have so

degraded myself as to bind myself to one man, when my every pulse is throbbing with wild, passionate love for another? Could I," continued Kate, with increasing vehemence-" could I, when the images of my mother and her little children were conjured up before my eyes, in poverty and dependence-could I refuse to assist them, to render them happy, to give them a home, when it was in my power to do so-could I, Emily? Alas! alas! no. But I deserve it all," she passionately exclaimed; "I deserve it all! Oh, I am rightly punished! I was proud, I was wayward, I wanted to bring him to my feet: I wanted to show it was a favour to be loved by me; and he, too, was proud, and left me, and we have never met since! Oh, Emily, Emily, God help me!" and Kate ceased speaking, exhausted by the violence of her emotion, and began hurriedly to pace the little drawingMiss Woodford was thoroughly perplexed; she knew not what to say to her friend, whose unusual excitement almost terrified her. It was too late, she reflected, to break off her engagement; besides, the thought of Kate's invalid mother flashed across her mind, and she knew such a sudden disappointment would most likely be a death-blow; but yet, surely it was not right that Kate Gower should be allowed to contract a marriage evidently so abhorrent to her feelings. Poor Emily! she was sadly puzzled; and as she thought of her own happy engagement and handsome lover, she sighed deeply. She could not, however, decide on any plan of conduct, and resolved, at last, to let matters take their own course. It was a passiveness she bitterly repented when it was too late.

room.

Mrs. Gower was the widow of a major in the army, who had died, leaving her with four children and heavy debts, two years before the opening of this narrative. It was a hard struggle for five human creatures, of refined tastes and habits, to live upon the scanty pittance allowed them by government; so no wonder that when George Melville, young, rich, and good-looking, fell in love with and proposed to her eldest and favourite daughter, Kate, the widow, unaware of her previous attachment, urged and entreated her to accept his proffered hand. We have seen from the conversation recorded above, that Kate, moved by the tears of a mother she dearly loved, and aware of the immense advantage which would accrue to her family by her marriage (for Mr. Melville had promised to provide them with a home), consented, and a few days only were now wanting to that fixed for the wedding.

Alas for a woman who marries a man she cannot love! and doubly alas for her whose affections are already bestowed on another! Oh, mothers, loving and kind and unselfish and affectionate though ye may be, beware lest for the fancied advantage of your children you sacrifice

their every chance of happiness. The husband may be kind, and generous, and loving, and constant; but if the wife love him not, how, how can she be happy? And it is on her whole life that the deep gloom of despair will be cast; not for days, nor weeks, nor months, nor even years, but for ever-for her whole life, with no hope for relief but in the grave; and her one despairing cry will be ever ascending to heaven-" Let me die, Lord! let me die! I only ask for death!" Poor sad one, God help thee!

Kate Gower's wedding-day had arrived, and never had she looked more beautiful. A strange light burnt in dark brilliant eyes, and a bright flush on her cheek deceived the numerous spectators into a belief that she was marvellously happy. Mrs. Gower's heart dilated with joy as she gazed on her lovely daughter, who, with the bridal wreath on her brow. and the lace veil falling on the ground around her, knelt at the altar and pronounced her marriage wow, to “love, honour, and obey" her husband. What mockery! what hollowness! Poor unhappy Kate! But so well did she sustain the part she had imposed on herself, that not even her bridemaid, Emily Woodford, far less did her happy mother, suspect for one moment the fearful sacrifice she was making. She was so perfectly calm, even smiling, that Emily believed her quite reconciled to her fate; and many would have laughed at the idea of its being otherwise. What! with a handsome, doting, fine-tempered husband, not happy? Why, what would the girl have?-aye, what indeed?

Four months had passed away since Kate Gower had become Kate Melville, and still her husband loved her with almost the passionate ardour of his first devotion. True, the thought sometimes flashed across his mind that the feeling was not reciprocal, that Kate even shrank from his caresses; but he soon persuaded himself, that to a natural quietness of matter must be attributed her apparent coldness; and fortunately he had never known her otherwise, for their acquaintance had commenced but a few months after her father's death, when the irreparable loss of a kind and indulgent parent had subdued, for the time, every trace of her natural gaiety and sparkling spirits; no marvel, as it ripened, and as the prospect of becoming the wife of one she could not love, stood ever before her-no marvel that they did not return, and that to Melville she had even appeared both undemonstrative and reserved. We will not stay to tell how different she had been, when overflowing with the happiness of loving and being beloved; every flower in the field, every star in the sky, every action in the day, had been a source of heartfelt joy, and pure, simple mirth.

Vivian Howick and Kate had met in Malta, while her father's regiment was stationed there, and soon congeniality of tastes and similarity of feelings had taught the young people first friendship, then love. The day before that on which Vivian had decided to ask Major Gower's ap

probation of their engagement, a foolish misunderstanding arose between the lovers, and Kate, indignant at being for once suspected of levity, exclaimed, in answer to some gentle reproach from Vivian: Mr. Howick, you are assuming a husband's authority a little too soon; I have no wish to lose my liberty at sixteen, and if you cannot trust me, if you have no faith in me, let us part-it will be better-let us part!" Before she could retract her words she was alone; Vivian had sprung up, passed through the open French window, and was gone. Poor Kate! she had never seen him since; and yet almost before the words had passed her lips she bitterly repented them. A few days after, she heard that Mr. Howick had left for England, and soon her father's regiment was also summoned there, previous to embarking for India. Major Gower died a fortnight after their arrival in London; and since then Kate had never even heard the name of Vivian Howick mentioned. How often it hung upon her lips, and how often it brought a passionate flood of agonizing tears to her eyes, we care not now to tell; there are some feelings in a woman's heart that should be sacred even to sympathy. Vivian Howick stayed but a few weeks in England, when, having obtained an appointment as secretary to the embassy, he set out for

"Kate, dearest, it is ten o'clock; had better begin to dress?"

you not

"Certainly, if you wish it ;" and Melville was left alone in the large dining-room of his mansion in Grosvenor Square. Half an hour had passed when Kate rejoined her husband. She was looking very lovely, and he could not resist pressing her to his heart, as he murmured some lover-like compliment on her surpassing beauty; and then, for the first time, he marked her expression of shrinking scorn, as even the faint colour that usually tinged her cheek fled from her face, and a feeling of distrust and disappointment, almost of anger, arose in his heart. He hastily withdrew his arm, and, opening the door of the apartment, motioned her forward. In another moment they were in the carriage, on the way to Lady · -'s.

A murmur of admiration arose from the group hanging about the entrance of the ballroom as Kate entered it, leaning on the arm of her husband; and in truth she was looking gloriously beautiful; a smile had rarely dwelt on her lips since her marriage, but her classical beauty had perhaps rather gained than lost by its additional severity; and the pure simplicity of her white dress, and the large lilies in her dark hair, were well chosen to show off to the most remarkable advantage the singular beauty of her face and form. But Melville, usually so proud of the admiration she excited, was this evening gloomy and irritable; and though he authoritatively insisted on her dancing, he watched her throughout with an earnest attention, which too plainly showed how the trust he had felt in her had vanished from his heart.

"What do you think of Miss D'Arcy; it is

D

THE FLOWER-SPIES.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

When Earth takes darkness for its robe,
And Night descends on half the globe-
When doors are locked on easy sleepers,
Whilst Want without wakes many weepers-
When graves give up their shrouded guests
To roam, in long-devoted quests,
Life-oaths now punished by death-acts,
The penalty of sinful facts:

Then, too, the hidden Life, that dwelleth
In every bush and tree that swelleth
In budding green beneath the skies,
Quitteth the bark wherein it lies,
And findeth voice to speak its sense
Of feelings, not the less intense

For that they have no speech more loud
Than perfumed sigh on summer cloud!
It is a night of gentle June;

The nightingale hath sung its tune,
And brightly down the crescent moon
Pour floods of golden glory

On bank and stream, where one might deem
Night was a long and lovely dream

In Life's redundant story-
A dream of love and peace (ah me!
Can Peace and Love together be?)--
A dream of quiet joy, for there
Three Spirits, ever young and fair,

Met, flower-like, 'mid the dews: their voices
The separate odours from them cast-
No human ear that sound rejoices;

But Angels heard them as they pass'd,
And thus the words fell on their ears-
A music swelling through long years,
And full of life's eternal tears:

"Now tell me, tell me, Sister mine,"

Said the spicy breath of the JESSAMINE, "What hast thou seen since last we met, Thy mirth to move or thine eyes to wet ? Liv'st thou still by the cottage wall From which thy blossoms flash and fall, Till air and earth seem all made up Of the hue and scent of the red rose-cup? Where the young May-queen her leisure spendeth Amongst the flowers on which she tendeth, Loving thee the most and best

For his sake who planted thee 'midst the rest?"

"Sister, sweet," the RosE replied,
"Our fair May-queen hath become a bride:

She hath wedded her lover, from France come

over;

And what wouldst thou have me now discover? Oh, a happy thing is true love, I wis!

For at the lattice, as I peep'd in,

I saw the bridegroom kiss the bride
A hundred times, from brow to chin,
And she never once refused a kiss!
Yet the reddest bud my boughs that stud

Are faint to the roses that flush'd her face,
As she laid on his breast her head to rest,
Like a babe that hath found again its place
At its mother's side, whence, gone astray,
It hath wander'd all the day.

I have no other tale to tell,

But of the daily love I see
Between two wedded hearts, where dwell
Truth, fervour, gentle purity;
Both full of joy, as a sparkling well,

Whose waters gush o'er the brim with glee!"

"Alas! sigh'd the starry Jessamine,

I wish I could tell a tale like thine: But there hath pass'd within the week

That which upon my leaves will throw
A fearful stain, a sanguine streak,

Whose memory I can ne'er forego!
O, ever at morn the Baron rides forth
To hunt the hare on the lea;
And then glides out his lady bright,
Her brother dear to see.

Why cometh not that brother dear
To see her in her hall?
Why watcheth she, in doubt and fear,
To list th' whistled call,

That tells her he is lurking near

The garden's southern wall?
And ever at eve, when the Baron, tired
With the sports of field and heath,
Seeketh the sleep, whose fetters keep
Their captive fast as death,

A form steals in to my lady's bower,
Brushing my milky blossoms,

And kneels at her feet with words most meet

To move forsaken bosoms!

No brother's arm is round her waist,
No brother's lips are breathing

The passionate vow, that draws to her brow
A flush like that which thy blossoms throw

O'er the forehead their blooms are wreathing: But other eyes than mine had view'd

The partner of her solitude;

And tongues there were to tell such words
As swiftly broke the silken cords

Of sleep, that bound the Baron where
He ne'er shall rest in peace again!

I saw him spring upon them there

I saw the conflict 'twixt them twain-
I saw the traitor friend, the lover,
(No brother he !) fall by the sword

Of him who never can recover
The death-stroke dealt by that false lord!
My green leaves now are green no more;
Red gouttes now stain each snowy bud,

My twining tendrils, dash'd with gore,
Send forth the sickly smell of blood;
And out my spirit roves to sue,
For freshness from the cleansing dew!"

"There's more of sin and pain on earth,"
The HONEYSUCKLE cried,
"Than innocence, or health, or worth,
Or love, or aught beside
That giveth joy! Life's dire alloy

Are falsehood, hate, and pride!
Thou knowest the arbour by the hall,
Round which, when the shadows of even fall,
The laten'd hind, by fear misled,

Sees shapes that belong to the ghostly dead.
My twining limbs, that long were taught
To cling about that tranquil bower,
Neglected now, unpruned, unsought,
Are rich with Nature's choicest dower
Of leaves and blossoms, that o'er all
Fling out a sweet and sunny pall,

To cover the crumbling bench below;
Where oft in by-gone days would come
Lovers, with smiles on lip and brow,
To talk and sit 'neath the starry dome.
Oh, nearly a year hath sped since there
A hunter bold, and a damsel fair,
Minding nor ghost nor goblin grey,
When the nightingales sang in their leafy
home,