Threaded the mystic mazes of the dance;

This heart has throbbed at tales of love and woe; These shreds of raven hair once set the fashion; This withered form inspired the tender passion. In vain ; the skilful hand and feelings warm,

The foot that tigured in the bright quadrille, The palm of genius and the manly form,

All bowed at once to Death's mysterious will, Who sealed me up where mummies sound are sleeping, In cerecloth and in tolerable keeping ;Where cows and monkeys squat in rich brocade,

And well-dressed crocodiles in painted cases, Rats, bats, and owls, and cats in masquerade,

With scarlet flounces, and with varnished faces; Then birds, brutes, reptiles, fish, all crammed together, With ladies that might pass for well-tanned leather; Where Rameses and Sabacon lie down,

And splendid Psammis in his hide of crust, Princes and heroes,—men of high renown,

Who in their day kicked up a mighty dust; Their swarthy mummies kicked up dust in number, When huge Belzoni came to scare their slumber. Who'd think these rusty hams of mine were seated

At Dido's table, when ne wondrous tale Of“Juno's hatred” was so well repeated ?

And ever and anon the Queen turned pale ; Meanwhile the brilliant gaslights, hung above her, Threw a wild glare upon her shipwrecked lover. Ay, gaslights! Mock me not, -we men of yore

Were versed in all the knowledge you can mention; Who hath not heard of Egypt's peerless lore,

Her patient toil, acuteness of invention ?
Survey the proofs ;—the pyramids are thriving,
Old Memnon still looks young, and I'm surviving.
A land in arts and sciences prolific,

On block gigantic, building up her fame,
Crowded with signs and letters hieroglyphic,

Temples and obelisks her skill proclaim! Yet though her art and toil unearthly seem, Those blocks were brought on railroads and by steam! How, when, and why our people came to rear

The pyramid of Cheops,-mighty pile !
This, and the other secrets, thou shalt hear;

I will unfold, if thou wilt stay awhile,
The history of the sphinx, and who began it,
Our mystic works, and monsters made of granite.
Well, then, in grievous times, when King Cephrenes,

But ah !-what's this! the shades of bards and kings
Press on my lips their fingers! What they mean is,

I am not to reveal these hidden things.
Mortal, farewell! Till Science' self unbind them,
Men must e'en take these secrets as they find them.


DOUGLAS JERROLD. I'm not going to contradict you, Caudle; you may say what

you like, but I think I ought to know my own feelings better than you. I don't wish to upbraid you, neither; I'm too ill for that; but it's not getting wet in thin shoes; oh, no! it's my mind, Caudle, my mind that's killing me. Oh, yes! gruel, indeed; you think gruel will e a woman of anything; and you know, too, how I hate it. Gruel can't reach what I suffer ; but, of course, nobody is ever ill but yourself. Well, I–I didn't mean to say that; but when you talk in that way about thin shoes, a woman says, of course, what she doesn't mean; she can't help it. You've always gone on about my shoes, when I think I'm the fittest judge of what becomes me best. I dare say 'twould be all the same to you if I put on ploughman's boots ; but I'm not going to make a figure of my feet, I can tell you. I've never got cold with the shoes I've worn yet, and it isn't likely I should begin now.

No, Caudle; I wouldn't wish to say anything to accuse you ; no, goodness knows, I wouldn't make you uncomfortable for the world—but the cold I've got, I got ten years ago. I have never said anything about itbut it has never left me. Yes; ten years ago the day before yesterday. How can I recollect it! Oh, very well; women remember things you never think of; poor souls ! They've good cause to do so. Ten years ago, I was sitting up for you—there now, I'm not going to say anything to vex you, only do let me speak; ten years ago, I was waiting for you, and I fell asleep, and the fire went out, and when I woke I found I was sitting right in the draught of the key-hole. That was my death, Caudle, though don't let that make you uneasy, love; for I don't think that you meant to do it.

Ha! it's all very well for you to call it nonsense, and to lay your ill-conduct upon my shoes. That's like a man, exactly! There never was a man yet that killed his wife, who couldn't give a good reason for it. No, I don't mean to say that you've killed me, quite the reverse, still, there's never been a day that I haven't felt that keyhole. What? Why don't I have a doctor? What's the use of a doctor? Why should I put you to the expense ? Besides, I dare say you'll do very well without me, Caudle; yes, after a very little time you won't miss me much—no man ever does.

Peggy tells me Miss Prettyman called to-day. What of it? Nothing, of course. Yes, I know she heard I was ill, and that's why she came. A little indecent, I think, Mr. Caudle; she might wait; I sha'n't be in her way long; she may soon have the key of the caddy now.

Ha! Mr. Caudle, what's the use of your calling me your dearest soul now? Well, I do,—I believe you. I dare say you do mean it; that is, I hope you do. Nevertheless, you can't expect I can be quiet in this bed, and think of that young woman—not, indeed, that she's near 80 young as she gives herself out. I bear no malice towards her, Caudle, not the least. Still I don't think I could lie at peace in my grave if-well, I won't say anything more about her, but you know what I mean.

I think dear mother would keep house beautifully for you when I'm gone. Well, love, I won't talk in that way, if you desire it. Still, I know I've a dreadful cold; though I won't allow it for a minute to be the shoes, certainly not. I never would wear 'em thick, and you know it, and they never gave me a cold yet. No, dearest Caudle, it's ten years ago that did it; not that I'll say a syllable of the matter to hurt you. I'd die first. Mother, you see, knows all

ways ;


you wouldn't get another wife to study you and pet you up as I've done,-a second wife never does; it isn't likely she should. And after all, we've been very happy. It hasn't been my fault, if we've ever had a word or two, for you couldn't help now and then being aggravating; nobody can help their tempers always, especially men. Still, we've been very happy, haven't we, Caudle?

Good-night. Yes, this cold does tear me to pieces; but for all that, it isn't the shoes. God bless you, Caudle; no, it's not the shoes. I won't say it's the keyhole; but again I say, it's not the shoes. God bless you once more ;—but never say it's the shoes.


When we hear the music ringing

In the bright celestial dome,
When sweet angel voices, singing,

Gladly bid us welcome home
To the land of ancient story,

Where the spirit knows no care,
In that land of light and glory,

Shall we know each other there?
When the holy angels meet us,

As we go to join their band,
Shall we know the friends that greet us

In that glorious spirit land?
Shall we see the same eyes shining

On us as in days of yore?
Shall we feel the dear arms twining

Fondly round us as before ?

Yes, my earth-worn soul rejoices,

And my weary heart grows light,
For the thrilling angel voices

And the angel faces bright,
That shall welcome us in heaven,

Are the loved of long ago;
And to them 'tis kindly given

Thus their mortal friends to know.
Oh ye weary, sad, and tossed ones,

Droop not, faint not by the way!
Ye shall join the loved and just ones

In that land of perfect day.
Harp-strings, touched by angel fingers,

Murmured in my raptured ear;
Evermore their sweet song lingers-

We shall know each other there."

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LIFE FROM DEATH.-HORATIUS BONAR. The star is not extinguished when it sets

Upon the dull horizon; it but goes To shine in other skies, then reappear

In ours, as fresh as when it first arose.
The river is not lost when o'er the rock,

It pours its flood into the abyss below;
Its scattered force re-gathering from the shock,

It hastens onward with yet fuller flow.
The bright sun dies not when the shading orb

Of the eclipsing moon obscures its ray;
It still is shining on; and soon to us

Will burst undimmed into the joy of day. The lily dies not when both flower and leaf

Fade, and are strewed upon the chill, sad ground; Gone down for shelter to its mother-earth,

'Twill rise, re-bloom, and shed its fragrance round. The dew-drop dies not when it leaves the flower

And passes upward on the beam of morn;
It does but hide itself in light on high,

To its loved flower, at twilight, to return.
The fine gold has not perished when the flame

Seizes upon it with consuming glow;

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