When he turned, and, slowly leaving,
His poor heart with torment wrung,
In his hopeless sorrow grieving,

He escaped a sharper pang;
For he knew she long had waited,
Loth even with his name to part-
He had never yet been hated,

She had not been false at heart.

Only those feel all of sorrow

Who have known their love betrayed,
And for strength to bear the morrow
In each lonely night-watch prayed.
Man may be wronged, and still be cheerful,
Face storms with undaunted breast,
But the injury is fearful

From a hand he still has pressed.

When the loved by death bereft us,
We can soothe the tender pain;
For this hope is surely left us—

We shall meet them there again.
We can go where they are sleeping,
Keeping grave and memory green :—
When for their folly we are weeping,
They have fixed a gulf between.

Oh! what folly, what great madness,
Can possess a mother's breast,

Who would change her children's gladness
For a life of shaded unrest;

Who would throw away the pleasures

That a husband's love inspires;

Who would sacrifice home's treasures

To unhallowed, low desires!

Ah! there's many an Enoch Arden
In this hollow, weary life,

Who has left his home's sweet garden
Eden-like,-a faithful wife.

Many a great heart thus in keeping

She has doomed to hapless fate,-And repents with life-long weeping, But too late, alas! too late!

38*

Waverly Magarine.

MODULATION.-LLOYD.

'Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear,
"Tis modulation that must charm the ear.
When desperate heroes grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone,
The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.
That voice all modes of passion can express,
Which marks the proper words with proper stress:
But none emphatic can that speaker cail,
Who lays an equal emphasis on all.

Some, o'er the tongue the labored measures roll,
Slow and deliberate as the parting toll;

Point every stop, mark every pause so strong,
Their words like stage processions stalk along.

All affectation but creates disgust;

And e'en in speaking, we may seem too just.
In vain for them the pleasing measure flows,
Whose recitation runs it all to prose;
Repeating what the poet sets not down,
The verb disjointing from its favorite noun,
While pause, and break, and repitition join
To make a discord in each tuneful line.

Some placid natures fill the allotted scene
With lifeless drawls, insipid and serene;
While others thunder every couplet o'er,
And almost crack your ears with rant and roar.
More nature oft, and finer strokes are shown
In the low whisper, than tempestuous tone;
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixed amaze,
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he, who, swollen with impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom of the stage.

He who, in earnest, studies o'er his part,
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all
In the white handkerchief and mourned drawl;
A single look more marks the internal woe,
Than all the windings of the lengthened Oh!
Up to the face the quick sensation flies,
And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes:
Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair,
And all the passions, all the soul is there.

MOUSE-HUNTING.-B. P. SHILLABER.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF MRS. PARTINGTON.

IT was midnight, deep and still, in the mansion of Mrs. Partington, as it was, very generally, about town, --on a cold night in March. So profound was the silence that it awakened Mrs. P., and she raised herself upon her elbow to listen. No sound greeted her ears, save the tick of the old wooden clock in the next room, which stood there in the dark, like an old crone, whispering and gibbering to itself. Mrs. Partington relapsed beneath the folds of the blankets, and had one eye again well-coexed towards the realm of dreams, while the other was holding by a very frail tenure upon the world of reality, when her ear was saluted by the nibble of a mouse, directly beneath her chamber window, and the mouse was evidently gnawing her chamber carpet.

Now, if there is an animal in the catalogue of creation that she dreads and detests, it is a mouse; and she has a vague and indefinite idea that rats and mice were made with especial regard to her individual torment. As she heard the sound of the nibble by the window, she arose again upon her elbow, and cried "Shoo! Shoo!" energetically, several times. The sound ceased, and she fondly fancied that her trouble was over. Again she laid herself away as carefully as she would have lain eggs at forty-five cents a dozen, when-nibble, nibble, nibble! she once more heard the odious sound by the window. "Shoo!" cried the old lady again, at the same time hurling her shoe at the spot from whence the sound proceeded, where the little midnight marauder was carrying on his depradations.

A light burned upon the hearth-she couldn't sleep without a light,-and she strained her eyes in vain to catch a glimpse of her tormenter playing about amid the shadows of the room. All again was silent, and the clock, giving an admonitory tremble, struck twelve. Midnight! and Mrs. Partington counted the tintinabulous knots as they ran off the reel of Time, with a saddened heart.

Nibble, nibble, nibble!-again that sound. The old lady sighed as she hurled the other shoe at her invisible annoyance. It was all without avail, and "shooing" was bootless, for the sound came again to her wakeful ear. At this point her patience gave out, and, conquering her dread of the cold, she arose and opened the door of her room that led to a corridor, when, taking the light in one hand, and a shoe in the other, she made the cirenit of the room, and explored every nook and cranny in which a mouse could ensconse himself. She looked under the bed, and under the old chest of drawers, and under the wash stand, and "shooed" until she could "shoo" no more.

The reader's own imagination, if he has an imagination. skilled in limning, must draw the picture of the old lady while upon this exploring expedition, "accoutred as she was," in search of the ridiculous mouse. We have our own opinion upon the subject, and must say, with all due deference to the years and virtues of Mrs. P., and with all regard for personal attractions very striking in one of her years,—we should judge that she cut a very queer figure, indeed.

Satisfying herself that the mouse must have left the room, she closed the door, deposited the light upon the hearth, and again sought repose. How gratefully a warm bed feels, when exposure to the night air has chilled us, as we crawl to its enfolding covert! How we nestle down, like an infant by its mother's breast, and own no joy superior to that we feel,-coveting no regal luxury while revelling in the elysium of feathers! So felt Mrs. P., as she again ensconsed herself in bed. The clock in the next room struck one.

She was again near the attainment of the state when dreams are rife, when, close by her chamber-door, outside she heard that hateful nibble renewed which had marred her peace before. With a groan she arose, and, seizing her lamp, she opened the door, and had the satisfaction to hear the mouse drop, step by step, until he reached the floor below. Convinced that she was now rid of him for the night, she returned to bed, and addressed herself to sleep. The room grew dim; in the weariness of her spirit, the chest of drawers in the corner was fast losing its identity and becoming something else; in a moment

more- -nibble, nibble, nibble! again outside of the chamber-door, as the clock in the next room struck two. Anger, disappointment, desperation, fired her mind with a new determination. Once more she arose, but this time she put on a shoe!-her dexter shoe. Ominous movement! It is said that when a woman wets her finger, fleas had better flee. The star of that mouse's destiny was setting, and was now near the horizon. She opened the door quickly, and, as she listened a moment, she heard him drop again from stair to stair, on a speedy passage down.

The entry below was closely secured, and no door was open to admit of his escape. This she knew, and a triumphant gleam shot athwart her features, revealed by the rays of the lamp. She went slowly down the stairs, until she arrived at the floor below, where, snugly in a corner, with his little bead-like black eyes looking up at. her roguishly, was the gnawer of her carpet, and the annoyer of her comfort. She moved towards him, and he, not coveting the closer acquaintance, darted by her. She pursued him to the other end of the entry, and again he passed by her. Again and again she pursued him, with no better success. At last, when in most doubt as to which side would conquer, Fortune, perched upon the banister, turned the scale in favor of Mrs. P. The mouse, in an attempt to run by her, presumed too much upon former success. He came too near her upraised foot. It fell upon his musipilar beauties, like an avalanche of snow upon a new tile, and he was dead forever! Mrs. Partington gazed upon him as he lay before her. Though she was glad at the result, she could but sigh at the necessity which impelled the violence; but for which the mouse might have long continued a blessing to the society in which he moved.

Slowly and sadly she marched up stairs,

With her shoe all sullied and gory;

And the watch, who saw't through the front door squares,
Told us this part of the story.

That mouse did not trouble Mrs. Partington again that night, and the old clock in the next room struck three before sleep again visited the eyelids of the relict of Corporal Paul.