Too well obey'd-too fast! A fatal hold
Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold

That caught and pinn'd her to the river's bed:
While through the reckless water overhead
Her life-breath bubbled up.

FLOY

DEATH OF PAUL DOMBEY.

LOY," 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 wallhow 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. "Floy, did I ever see mamma?" "No, darling: why?" "Did I never see any kind face, 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 Her arm trembled very much. "Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please!” "She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow." "Thank you, Floy."

arm.

"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. No other woman would have so forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness and pity. "Floy, this is a kind, good face!" said Paul. "I am glad to see it again. 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 their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in and fell upon them, locked together. "How fast the river runs between its green banks and the rushes, Floy! But it's very near the sea. I hear the waves! They always said so." Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to 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 wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, 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!

THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.

HE muffled drum rolled on the air,

THE

Warriors with stately step were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turned to the ground:
Solemn the sound of their measured tread,
As silent and slow they followed the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear,
There were white plumes waving over the bier,
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,

For it was a soldier's funeral.

That soldier had stood on the battle-plain,
Where every step was over the slain:

But the brand and the ball had passed him by,

And he came to his native land to die!
'Twas hard to come to that native land,
And not clasp one familiar hand!
'Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead,
Or ere he could hear his welcome said!
But 't was something to see its cliffs once more,
And to lay his bones on his own loved shore;

To think that the friends of his youth might weep
O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep.

The bugles ceased their wailing sound,
As the coffin was lowered into the ground;
A volley was fired, a blessing said,

One moment's pause- - and they left the dead!
I saw a poor and an aged man,

His step was feeble, his lip was wan;

He knelt him down on the new-raised mound,
His face was bowed on the cold, damp ground:
He raised his head, his tears were done-
The father had prayed o'er his only son.

THE WATCHER ON THE TOWER.

'HAT dost thou see, lone watcher on the tower?

Is the day breaking? comes the wish'd-for hour? Tell us the signs, and stretch abroad thy hand, If the bright morning dawns upon the land."

"The stars are clear above me, scarcely one Has dimm'd its rays in reverence to the sun;

But yet I see on the horizon's verge

Some fair, faint streaks, as if the light would surge."

"And is that all, O watcher on the tower?

Look forth again; it must be near the hour.
Dost thou not see the snowy mountain copes,

And the green woods beneath them on the slopes?"

"A mist envelops them; I cannot trace
Their outline; but the day comes on apace.
The clouds roll up in gold and amber flakes,

And all the stars grow dim. The morning breaks."

"We thank thee, lonely watcher on the tower; But look again; and tell us, hour by hour,

All thou beholdest; many of us die
Ere the day comes; oh, give them a reply!"

"I hope, but cannot tell. I hear a song,
Vivid as day itself, and clear and strong,
As of a lark-young prophet of the noon
Pouring in sunlight his seraphic tune."

"What doth he say, O watcher on the tower?
Is he a prophet? Doth the dawning hour
Inspire his music? Is his chant sublime
Fill'd with the glories of the future time?"

"He prophesies; - his heart is full;-his lay
Tells of the brightness of a peaceful day-
A day not cloudless, nor devoid of storm,
But sunny for the most, and clear and warm."

"We thank thee, watcher on the lonely tower,
For all thou tellest. Sings he of an hour
When error shall decay, and truth grow strong,
And right shall rule supreme and vanquish wrong?"

"He sings of brotherhood, and joy and peace,
Of days when jealousies and hate shall cease;
When war shall die, and man's progressive mind
Soar as unfetter'd as its God design'd."

"Well done! thou watcher on the lonely tower.
Is the day breaking? dawns the happy hour?
We pine to see it;-tell us, yet again,
If the broad daylight breaks upon the plain."

"It breaks-it comes- -the misty shadows fly:
A rosy radiance gleams upon the sky;
The mountain-tops reflect it calm and clear;
The plain is yet in shade, but day is near.”