admiration, but so full of pity and respect, that it made the jealous pang that thrilled through the husband's frame less bitter-and with a deep sigh he turned to the stage. The play was one that gave him a lesson for the rest of his days. It represented a young girl like his Pauline, forced to wed one, like him, old enongh to be her father. For a while all went smoothly; the giddy wife was dazzled by her jewels and her importance. But time passed, and she was roughly treated, her every wish thwarted, and her very servants taught to disobey her. Her angelic behaviour had no effect upon her brutal husband; her patience exasperated him. Wickedly he exposed her to temptation; and as he watched her mingle with those of her own age, and share their plans and pleasures, suspicion entered his mind. He removed her far from her friends, and intercepted her letters, making himself master of their contents, until by a series of persecutions he drove her to fly from him, and perish in the attempt.

Well for him was it that Monsieur de Vaissiere witnessed this play. How different might have been the effect of his newly awakened emotions, had they risen in the solitude of his apartment. The curtain fell, and Pauline looked up. Tears were standing in her eyes-for the fate of the heroine of the piece had affected her deeply, and her husband's sympathy was with her when he remarked them. He waited until he saw her giver her arm to the vicomte, and walked behind them, another creature. He had determined to win his wife's love or die; to watch her, that he might warn her; to minister forever to her comforts.

The vicomte returned with them, and soon the splendid salon was crowded with guests. Pauline passed from one to the other with graceful, winning smiles; and her husband's heart filled with pride and pleasure as he watched her, the object of admiration, glittering with diamonds, radiant with beauty, and remembered that she was his. Without a pang he saw the noble youth, whose coming had been to him salvation, lead her to supper, and seat himself at her side. He knew that she was pleased; he felt that she might have loved; but he knew, too, that she was as pure as an angel. How was it that suddenly her many virtues rose in array before him, and spoke to his heart?

One evening Pauline stood at the window overlooking the garden that was behind the Hotel de Vaissiere. The moonlight was glancing over the tops of the orange trees, and the perfume of their white blossoms came floating up like an incense of thanks to the Great Author of all, while fountains played beneath their shade, falling musically on the heart of the lonely watcher.

A shade was upon her brow-a shade of discontent; and busy were the thoughts that came creeping into her soul. She was judging her own heart--and bitterly did she reproach it as the image of another filled its space. Alas! she had feared this; and again she was roused into indignation as her mother's stern will was recalled to her-and she was carried

back to the day whereon she had reproached her with hazarding the eternal welfare of her child. Throwing herself upon her knees, she prayed for strength-and her prayer was heard. Suddenly, as if struck with some impulse, she hurried from the window, through the hall, passed the long suite of apartments, and reached her husband's. Entering. she closed the door behind her, and rushed forward to M. de Vaissiere's chair with such passionate rapidity, that one might have thought she feared to fail in her resolution.

Her sobs and tears had nearly deprived her of utterance, but falling at her husband's feet, she confessed the momentary infidelity of her hitherto loveless heart, and besought him to take her from those scenes of gayety and temptation to some distant. quiet region, that she might expiate her fault in solitude.

Trembling she raised her eyes to his face. Instead of the fury, the reproaches she had expected, what was her surprise at seeing the tears coursing down his cheeks, to feel herself raised and clasped to his breast.

"My poor child!" said he, tenderly-and it was the first time he had ever so addressed her—“my poor child! I should have foreseen this; I should have warned you ere now. It was your mother's fault to marry you to me, and mine to have placed temptation in your way. But how could I tear you from those whose years were suited to yours, to shut you up with an old greybeard! Thus, while I watched over you, my pride in your success made me forgetful of your safety. It is not yet too late. my Pauline-all will be for the best. In time you will learn to love your husband, and to know how devotedly he has loved you since his stupid eyes were opened to your virtues."

With a smothered cry of joy Pauline threw herself upon his bosom. The poor stricken dove had at last found a shelter.

The next day, while the whole world was lamenting and wondering over the determination of the beautiful, brilliant, and courted Pauline de Vaissiere, to leave the gay metropolis in the midst of its pleasure, she sat once more in her boudoir. A holy calm had settled on her brow, peace had entered her heart; and though a deep blush overspread her features as she heard her husband's step approaching. she rose to meet him with a grateful look. Putting his arm around her, he drew her closer to him, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead.

"How many days of packing will you require. Pauline?" said he, smiling. "Poor Marie! she has nearly worn her arms out."

"She will complete her task to-night; and if you like, we can be off in the morning. But have you the carriages ready, mon ami? Are we not beforehand with you?" asked Pauline, in the same cheerful strain.

"We must summon François," said M. de Vaissiere, "and see if my orders have been executed."

François had been as prompt as usual; and three

days after, we found Pauline gazing out at the windows, mournful and conscience-stricken-she was leaving Paris behind her as fast as four horses and cracking whips could carry her. As they drove on, losing sight of its towers and steeples, a sensation of freedom came over her, and she placed her hand in her husband's, as if to thank him for her safety. The wound upon her heart was not yet closed; but her firm principle, her love of right, and gratitude for her deliverance, and the indulgence of M. de Vaissiere were fast healing what she did not for a moment allow to rest within her mind.

Every thing delighted her; the ploughed fields, divided by green hedges; the farm-houses scattered far and near; the picturesque appearance of the peasantry and their groupings, as they gathered together to watch the travelers' suite; and when they stopped at a family estate of M. de Vassiere, her enthusiasm knew no bounds.

Here they remained until the spring was past and summer came, embellishing still more the beautiful woods around the little domain. But they lingered yet in this pleasant place, loving it for the peace it had given them, and the happiness they had learned to feel in being together.

Leaning on her husband's arm, Pauline wandered amid the bright scenes with a light step, now stopping to admire some variety of foliage, and now pausing by the crystal stream that ran at the foot of the tall trees, murmuring like a hidden sprite, and mirroring the waving boughs, and the blue sky of la belle France. She had forgotten the misery of her bridal-day, or remembered it but to contrast her present quiet enjoyment of life with her then wretchedness. She had forgotten her youth of terror, her husband's years and his coldness, and now, when she looked upon the silver hair that glittered beside her braids of jet, a feeling of gratitude filled her heart, as she recalled the hour when he might have cast her off with some show of justice, and sent her forth upon the wide world to die.

She had learned to love him, not with the heartstirring love of youth for youth, but with the deep, holy affection of a prodigal child. Not all the temptations of the gay world could ever make her swerve from her allegiance to him. Like a good and pious daughter did she cling to him, providing for his comfort, and forseeing his every want.

One day he called her to him as she returned from her visit of charity to the surrounding peasantry. She had wept over their troubles and relieved them, and rejoiced with the happy. Her heart was overflowing, and passing the little church, she entered, and offered up a prayer of thankfulness for her own blessings, and those she was able to confer on others.

Her husband watched her graceful form as she came at his call, and smilingly placed a letter in her hand. It was from her mother, and part of it ran thus:

"I am now very old, monsieur, and very infirm. I have often thought, in my lonely hours, of the unhap

piness of my child on her marriage with you, and have doubted the wisdom of that authority which I exercised so severely over her. The vision of that pale, agonized countenance, comes upon me like a reproach; and although she has never hinted in one of her letters of unkindness from you, I have often thought that there was a mournful spirit pervading them. Pray God she may not be unhappy through my fault! I rely upon you, monsieur; be kind to my poor Pauline.

MARIE THERESE CLEMENCE DUMESNIL.
(Née de Villeneuve.)

Pauline's tears fell fast over this letter; and as she finished reading it, she cast herself upon her husband's bosom.

"She does not deserve a reply, does she, Pauline?" asked he, with a smile, and pressing her closer to him. "Think you there would be no more marriages de convenance if we were to give the benefit of our experience to the world? Would your mother even be sensible of her error, could she know how your suffering has ended-could she see how happy you make an old man."

"Let her think that we have been always so," cried the noble Pauline. Why disturb her last years with a narrative of what may embitter them? Shall it not be so, my dear, kind husband?"

"It shall, my child," said he, touched by the generosity of her request. "And you, Pauline, shall write the answer-you, my patient, enduring, and admirable wife! Why is it that I alone know what you have suffered, forced thus to appreciate in silence your noble forbearance."

But there was another letter to be read-one from Angela. It contained an account of Madame Dumesnil's failing strength, and her earnest desire to embrace her child once more. Jeannette was long since numbered with the dead; and Angela, whose devotion to her father had made her refuse every offer of marriage, removed with him to the abode of her friend's mother, passing her life in dividing her cares.

But a short time elapsed and Pauline, with her husband, was sailing once more upon the broad bosom of the Atlantic. It was a long and tedious voyage; but she arrived in time to receive her mother's blessing, and close her eyes-the reward her filial piety had merited.

Mr. Percy soon followed his aged companion, and Angela returned with Pauline to France. Here she witnessed, with wonder and delight, the happiness that, through Pauline's virtue, was not incompatible with so great a disparity of age, and rejoiced when a few months after their arrival in Paris, Pauline gave birth to a son and heir. Nothing now was wanting to complete the domestic enjoyment of the circle gathered at the Hotel de Vaissiere; and while the same gay crowds graced its walls, and courted its fair mistress, Pauline never forgot to turn to her husband as the one whose smile was to her the brightest, whose praise the most valued, and whose approbation alone she loved and lived for.

It was the leafy month of June,

And joyous Nature, all in tune,

With wreathing buds was drest,
As toward the mighty cataract's side
A youthful stranger prest;

His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe,
And scarce he seemed his breath to draw,
While bending o'er its brim,
He marked its strong, unfathomed tide,
And heard its thunder-hymn.

His measured week too quickly fled,
Another, and another sped,
And soon the summer-rose decayed,
The moon of autumn sank in shade,
And winter hurled its dart,
Years filled their circle, brief and fair,
Yet still the enthusiast lingered there,
While deeper round his soul was wove
A mystic chain of fearful love,

That would not let him part.

When darkest midnight veiled the sky,
You'd hear his hasting step go by,
To gain the bridge beside the deep,
That where its wildest torrents leap
Hangs thread-like o'er the surge,
Just there, upon its awful verge,
His vigil-hour to keep.

And when the moon, descending low,
Hung on the flood that gleaming bow,
Which it would seem some angel's hand,

With Heaven's own pencil, tinged and spanned,
Pure symbol of a better land,

He, kneeling, poured in utterance free

The eloquence of ecstasy;

Though to his words no answer came,
Save that One, Everlasting Name,
Which since Creation's morning broke
Niagara's lip alone hath spoke.

When wintry tempests shook the sky,
And the rent pine-tree hurtled by,
Unblenching, 'mid the storm he stood,
And marked sublime the wrathful flood,
While wrought the frost-king, fierce and drear,
His palace 'mid those cliffs to rear,
And strike the massy buttress strong,
And pile his sleet the rocks among,
And wasteful deck the branches bare
With icy diamonds, rich and rare.
Nor lacked the hermit's humble shed
Such comforts as our natures ask
To fit them for life's daily task.
The cheering fire, the peaceful bed,
The simple meal in season spread,

While by the lone lamp's trembling light,

As blazed the hearth-stone, clear and bright,
O'er Homer's page he hung,

Or Maro's martial numbers scanned

For classic lore of many a land
Flowed smoothly o'er his tongue.
Oft with rapt eye, and skill profound,
He woke the entrancing viol's sound,
Or touched the sweet guitar.
For heavenly music deigned to dwell
An inmate in his cloistered cell,
As beams the solem star,

All night, with meditative eyes
Where some lone, rock-bound fountain lies.

As through the groves, with quiet tread,
On his accustomed haunts he sped,
The mother-thrush, unstartled, sung
Her descant to her callow young,
And fearless o'er his threshold prest
The wanderer from the sparrow's nest,
The squirrel raised a sparkling eye
Nor from his kernel cared to fly
As passed that gentle hermit by.
No timid creature shrank to meet
His pensive glance, serenely sweet;
From his own kind, alone, he sought
The screen of solitary thought.
Whether the world too harshly prest
Its iron o'er a yielding breast,
Or forced his morbid youth to prove
The pang of unrequited love,
We know not, for he never said
Aught of the life he erst had led.

On Iris isle, a summer-bower

He twined with branch and vine and flower,
And there he mused on rustic seat,
Unconscious of the noonday heat,
Or 'neath the crystal waters lay,
Luxuriant, in the swimmer's play.

Yet once the whelming flood grew strong,
And bore him like a weed along,
Though with convulsive grasp of pain
And heaving breast, he strove in vain,
Then sinking 'neath the infuriate tide,
Lone, as he lived, the hermit died.

On, by the rushing current swept,
The lifeless corse its voyage kept,
To where, in narrow gorge comprest,
The whirlpool-eddies never rest,
But boil with wild tumultuous sway,
The Maelstrom of Niagara.

And there, within that rocky bound,
In swift gyrations round and round,
Mysterious course it held,

Now springing from the torrent hoarse,
Now battling, as with maniac force,
To mortal strife compelled.

Right fearful, 'neath the moonbeam bright,

It was to see that brow so white,

And mark the ghastly dead

Leap upward from his torture-bed,

As if in passion-gust,

And tossing wild with agony

Resist the omnipotent decree

Of dust to dust.

At length, where smoother waters flow,
Emerging from the abyss below,
The hapless youth they gained, and bore
Sad to his own forsaken door.

There watched his dog, with straining eye,
And scarce would let the train pass by,

Save that with instinct's rushing spell, Through the changed cheek's empurpled hue, And stiff and stony form, he knew

The master he had loved so well. The kitten fair, whose graceful wile So oft had won his musing smile, As round his slippered foot she played, Stretched on his vacant pillow laid. While strewed around, on board and chair, The last-plucked flower, the book last read, The ready pen, the page outspread, The water cruse, the unbroken bread

Revealed how sudden was the snare

That swept him to the dead.

And so, he rests in foreign earth,
Who drew 'mid Albion's vales his birth:
Yet let no cynic phrase unkind
Condemn that youth of gentle mind—
Of shrinking nerve, and lonely heart,
And lettered lore, and tuneful art,

Who here his humble worship paid
In that most glorious temple-shrine,
Where to the Majesty Divine

Nature her noblest altar made.

No, blame him not, but praise the Power
Who, in the dear domestic bower,
Hath given you firmer strength to rear
The plants of love-with toil and fear-
The beam to meet, the blast to dare,
And like a faithful soldier bear;
Still with sad heart his requiem pour,
Amid the cataract's ceaseless roar,
And bid one tear of pitying gloom
Bedew that meek enthusiast's tomb.

'Tis eve! one brightly-beaming star
Shines from the eastern heavens afar,
To light the footsteps of the brave,
Slow marching to a comrade's grave.
The Northern wind has sunk to sleep;
The sweet South breathes; as low and deep
The martial clang is heard, the tread
Of those who bear the silent dead.

And whose the form, all stark and cold,
Thus ready for the loosened mould;
Thus stretched upon so rude a bier?
Thine, soldier, thine-the volunteer!
Poor volunteer! the shot, the blow,
Or fell disease hath laid him low-
And few his early loss deplore-
His battle done, his journey o'er.
Alas! no fond wife's arms caressed,
His cheeks no tender mother pressed,
No pitying soul was by his side,
As, lonely in his tent, he died.

He died-the volunteer-at noon;
At evening came the small platoon ;
And soon they'll leave him to his rest,
With sods upon his manly breast.

Hark to their fire! his only knell,
More solemn than the passing bell;
For, ah! it tells a spirit flown
Without a prayer or sigh, alone!

His name and fate shall fade away,
Forgotten since his dying day,
And never on the roll of fame
Shall be inscribed his humble name.

Alas! like him how many more
Lie cold on Rio Grande's shore;
How many green, unnoted graves
Are bordered by those turbid waves!

Sleep, soldier, sleep! from sorrow free
And sin and strife: 't is well with thee!
'Tis well, though not a single tear
Laments the buried volunteer.

MORN of hopes that, quivering, glow
With a light ne'er known before;
Morn of fears, which cannot throw
Shadows its sweet glory o'er !

Gentle thoughts of all the past;
Happy thoughts of all to come;
Loving thoughts, like rose-leaves, cast
Over all around her home.

Oh, the light upon that brow;
Oh, the love within that eye!
Oh, the pleasant dreams that flow
Like fairy music sweetly by!
Morn of Hope! Oh may its light
Melt but into brighter day!
Lady, all that 's blest and bright
Be about thy path alway!