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[John Crawford Wilson, born at Mallow, Cork, Ireland. Poet, dramatist, and miscellaneous writer. His chief poetical works are: The Village Pearl: Elsie; Flights to Fairyland; and Lost and Found, a pastoral. Jonathan Oldaker, or Leaves from the Diary of a Commercial Traveller, is a series of sketches and tales which has passed through several editions. His most important dramas are Gitanilla and a stage version of his poem Lost and Found. He has on several occasions appeared with much success as a public reader of selections from his own works and those of other authors. "Mr. Wilson's style is animated and rapid: we have seldom read verses which breathe more earnestly the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, the love of love. To the moral qualities which distinguish poets, Mr. Wilson may lay an undoubted claim. Genuine feeling is so infectious, that such a writer can hardly tell a plain and pathetic story to unsympathizing hearers."Athenæum.]

"I must go Home to-day!"

A golden beam
Of dazzling sunlight streamed from heaven to earth;
Through clouds that seemed like polished silver domes
Of temples angel-built, or fairy towers
Spotless and white, with sparkling minarets,
Drifting like icebergs in a calm blue sea,

The fiery shaft ran down-down to a bed
On which lay prone a little wasted form

Of faded earth, from which the struggling soul
Yet panted to be free.

It was a girl

A little sickly girl lay on that bed

To whom God's sunbeam came. She saw the beamBut to her eye of faith 'twas not a beam

"Twas a bright golden stair with myriad steps,

All small-all suited to her tiny feet

And leading straight to Heaven.

"I must go HomeNot a short holiday, my mother dear, Like those I've had from school-from school to Home, And then from Home to school; the Home so short, And, oh, the school so long! but always Home; And it will be to-day-must be to-day."

"My darling is at Home!" the mother sobbed, As with a moistened feather she essayed

To damp the parched lips, round which the dews
Shook from the wings of death thronged cold and clear.
But in the eyes through which that spirit looked

A soft denial shone; and the small voice
Pleaded in whispers to that mother's heart,-
"Oh! do not keep me here-let me go Home;
I'm very tired of earth--I long for Home;

I'm weak and ill, and only fit for Home

And such a Home, sweet mother!-there-'tis there!"

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They called her "Lily"-Lilian was her nameBut from her birth she seemed so waxen whiteSo fairy slight-so gentle and so pure, That to her father's mind she ever brought The image of that pale and fragile flower: And so he called her "Lily." "Twas a term In which endearment, tenderness, and hope Were all wreathed up; the hope too often crossed By jealous fears, when some untoward breath Too roughly bent to earth the sickly flower, Leaving it drooping on its yielding stem.

And there she lay at last,-almost in HeavenOf Time and of Eternity a part

A dying, living link, uniting those
Who live to die-and die to ever live!

Her eyes were closed. Her mother thought she slept
The sleep that wakes no more: but 'twas not so.
A step was on the stair-the fading eyes
Opened again on earth-the wasted cheeks-
Dimpled once more, as round the lips a smile
Played like the shadow of a silver cloud
Upon a sunlit stream. "Mother! 'tis be-
'Tis father's footstep-and so very kind-
So thoughtful of his Lily, he has left
His heavy boots below; he pauses now-
Clings to the rail, and sobs. I hear it all!
He fears I am gone Home. Go, mother dear!
Tell him I could not go till he returned.

I want to feel his kiss upon my lips;
And take it up to Heaven."

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Weeping big tears that would not be controlled.
Oh! how he loved that child-how she loved him!
Yet both so opposite; her little soul
Clinging round his-a tendril round an oak-
A lily cleaving to a rugged rock.

He sat beside her bed, and in his hands
Buried his streaming eyes.
His soul rebelled:
"She had no right to die-to rive his heart;
Rob him and it, of all life's tenderest ties."
He felt as he could say, "Lily, lie there
For ever dying; but, oh! never die

'Til I die too." He thought not of his wife-
She was his other self. She was himself;
But Lily was their cherished life of life-
Of each and both a part-so grafted on,

That, if removed, they must become once more
Two bodies with two souls-no longer one,
Their living link destroyed-not loving less,
But singly loving-'twixt their hearts a gulf
Unbridged by Lily's love;-a love so pure
That not a taint of selfishness was near;
All this he felt, and on the future looked
As on a desolation.

Lily spoke

Or whispered rather-but a thunder peal Would less affect him than her sinking tones: "Raise me, dear father; take me to your breastYour broad kind breast, so full of love for me"Twill rest me on my road-'tis half-way Home!

And then he rose, and round her wasted form His brawny arms-before whose mighty strength The massive anvil quivered, as his hands Swung high the ponderous sledge-or in whose gripe The fiery steed stood conquered and subduedClosed, as the breath of heaven, or God's own love, So lightly, softly, gently, hemmed they in The little dying child. Then there he sat, Her face upon his breast, and on his knee Her tearless mother's head; for all her tears Were inly wept, dropping like molten lead Upon her breaking heart.

Far in the west

Long waves of crimson clouds stretched o'er the hills;
And through those clouds, as in a sea of blood,
The sun sank slowly down. Ere his last ray
Glanced upwards from the earth, the father felt
His Lily lift her head-celestial light
Beamed from her eyes, as for the last embrace,
She to her mother turned, and then to him:
"They beckon me," she said; "I come! I come!"
Around his neck she twined her faded arms,
Rising obedient to her heavenly call;
Again he pressed her lips, but in the kiss

Her soul, enfranchised, bounded from its thrall;
Its crumbling fetters drooped upon his heart-
The angel was at Home!

THE ELECTION.

BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

or

A few years back, a gentleman of the name of Danby came to reside in a small decayed borough town-whether in Wiltshire Cornwall matters not to our story, although in one of those counties the aforesaid town was probably situate, being what is called a close borough, the joint property of two noble families. Mr. Danby was evidently a man of large fortune, and that fortune as evidently acquired in trade,—indeed he made no more secret of the latter circumstance than the former. He built himself a large, square, red house, equally ugly and commodious, just without the town; walled in a couple of acres of ground for a kitchen-garden; kept a heavy one-horse chaise, a stout pony, and a brace of grayhounds; and having furnished his house solidly and handsomely, and arranged his domestic affairs to his heart's content, began to look about amongst his neighbours; scraped acquaintance with the lawyer, the apothecary, and the principal tradesmen; subscribed to the reading-room and the billiard-room; became a member of the bowling-green and the cricketclub, and took as lively an interest in the affairs of his new residence as if he had been born and bred in the borough.

Now this interest, however agreeable to himself, was by no means equally conducive to the quiet and comfort of the place. Mr. Danby was a little, square, dark man, with a cocked-up nose, a good-humoured, but very knowing smile, a pair of keen black eyes, a loud voluble speech, and a prodigious activity both of mind and body. His very look betokened his character,-and that character was one not uncommon among the middle ranks of Englishmen. In short, besides being, as he often boasted, a downright John Bull, the gentleman was a reformer, zealous and uncompromising as ever attended a dinner at the Crown and Anchor, or made a harangue in Palace Yard. He read Cobbett; had his own scheme for the redemption of tithes; and a plan, which, not understanding, I am sorry I cannot undertake to explain, for clearing off the national debt without loss or injury to anybody.

Besides these great matters, which may rather be termed the theorique than the practique of reform, and which are at least perfectly inoffensive, Mr. Danby condescended to smaller and more worrying observances, and was, in

respecting the proper situation of the church organ, the placing of which harmonious instrument kept the whole town in discord for a twelvemonth), was married to the Lady Elizabeth, sister of the Earl of B., one of the patrons of the borough; and being, as well as his wife, a very popular and amiable character, was justly regarded by Mr. Danby as one of the chief obstacles to his projected reform. Whilst, however, our reformer was, from the most patriotic motives, doing his best or his worst to dislike Mr. Cardonnel, events of a very different nature were gradually operating to bring them together.

deed, so strict and jealous a guardian of the purity of the corporation, and the incorruptibility of the vestry, that an alderman could not wag a finger, or a churchwarden stir a foot, without being called to account by this vigilant defender of the rights, liberties, and purses of the people. He was beyond a doubt the most troublesome man in the parish, and that is a wide word. In the matter of reports and in- | quiries Mr. Hume was but a type of him. He would mingle economy with a parish dinner, and talk of retrenchment at the mayor's feast; brought an action under the turnpike act against the clerk and treasurer of the commissioners of the road; commenced a suit in Mr. Danby's family consisted of a wife-a Chancery with the trustees of the charity school; quiet lady-like woman, with very ill health, and, finally, threatened to open the borough who did little else than walk from her bed to -that is to say, to support any candidate who her sofa, eat water-gruel and drink soda-water, should offer to oppose the nominees of the two-and of an only daughter, who was, in a word, great families, the one Whig, and the other Tory, who now possessed the two seats in parliament as quietly as their own hereditary estates; an experiment which recent instances of successful opposition in other places rendered not a little formidable to the noble

owners.

What added considerably to the troublesome nature of Mr. Danby's inquisitions was, the general cleverness, ability, and information of the individual. He was not a man of classical education, and knew little of books; but with things he was especially conversant. Although very certain that Mr. Danby had been in business, nobody could guess what that business had been. None came amiss to him. He handled the rule and the yard with equal dexterity; astonished the butcher by his insight into the mysteries of fattening and dealing; and the grocer by his familiarity with the sugar and coffee markets; disentangled the perplexities of the confused mass of figures in the parish books with the dexterity of a sworn accountant; and was so great upon points of law, so ready and accurate in quoting reports, cases, and precedents, that he would certainly have passed for a retired attorney, but for the zeal and alertness with which, at his own expense, he was apt to rush into lawsuits.

With so remarkable a genius for turmoil, it is not to be doubted that Mr. Danby, in spite of many excellent and sterling qualities, succeeded in drawing upon himself no small degree of odium. The whole corporation were officially his enemies; but his principal opponent, or rather the person whom he considered as his principal opponent, was Mr. Cardonnel, the rector of the parish, who, besides several disputes pending between them (one especially

the very apple of her father's eye.

Rose Danby was indeed a daughter of whom any father might have been proud. Of middle height and exquisite symmetry, with a rich, dark, glowing complexion, a profusion of glossy, curling, raven hair, large affectionate black eyes, and a countenance at once so sweet and so spirited, that its constant expression was like that which a smile gives to other faces, Her temper and understanding were in exact keeping with such a countenance-playful, gentle, clever, and kind; and her accomplishments and acquirements of the very highest order. When her father entered on his new residence she had just completed her fifteenth year; and he, unable longer to dispense with the pleasure of her society, took her from the excellent school near London, at which she had hitherto been placed, and determined that her education should be finished by masters at home.

It so happened, that this little town contained one celebrated artist, a professor of dancing, who kept a weekly academy for young ladies, which was attended by half the families of gentility in the county. M. Le Grand (for the dancing master was a little lively Frenchman) was delighted with Rose. He declared that she was his best pupil, his very best, the best that ever he had in his life. "Mais voyez, donc, Monsieur?" said he one day to her father, who would have scorned to know the French for "how d'ye do;”—“Voyez, comme elle met de l'aplomb, de la force, de la nettete, dans ses entrechats! Qu'elle est leste, et legere, et petrie de graces, la petite!" And Mr. Danby, comprehending only that the artist was praising his darling, swore that Monsieur was a good fellow, and returned the compliment

after the English fashion, by sending him a haunch of venison the next day.

But M. Le Grand was not the only admirer whom Rose met with at the dancing-school. It chanced that Mr. Cardonnel also had an only daughter, a young person about the same age, bringing up under the eye of her mother, and a constant attendant at the professor's academy. The two girls, nearly of a height, and both good dancers, were placed together as partners; and being almost equally prepossessing in person and manner (for Mary Cardonnel was a sweet, delicate, fair creature, whose mild blue eyes seemed appealing to the kindness of every one they looked upon), took an immediate and lasting fancy to each other; shook hands at meeting and parting, smiled whenever their glances chanced to encounter; and soon began to exchange a few kind and hurried words in the pauses of the dance, and to hold more continuous chat at the conclusion. And Lady Elizabeth, almost as much charmed with Rose as her daughter, seeing in the lovely little girl everything to like, and nothing to disapprove, encouraged and joined in the acquaintance; attended with a motherly care to her cloaking and shawling; took her home in her own carriage when it rained; and finally waylaid Mr. Danby, who always came himself to fetch his darling, and with her bland and gracious smile requested the pleasure of Miss Danby's company to a party of young people, which she was about to give on the occasion of her daughter's birth-day. I am afraid that our sturdy reformer was going to say, No! But Rose's "Oh papa!" was irresistible; and to the party she went.

After this the young people became every day more intimate. Lady Elizabeth waited on Mrs. Danby, and Mrs. Danby returned the call; but her state of health precluded visiting, and her husband, who piqued himself on firmness and consistency, contrived, though with some violence to his natural kindness of temper, to evade the friendly advances and invitations of the rector.

The two girls, however, saw one another almost every day. It was a friendship like that of Rosalind and Celia, whom, by the way, they severally resembled in temper and character-Rose having much of the brilliant gaiety of the one fair cousin, and Mary the softer and gentler charm of the other. They rode, walked, and sung together; were never happy asunder; played the same music; read the same books; dressed alike; worked for each other; and interchanged their own little property of trinkets and flowers, with a generosity

that seemed only emulous which should give most.

At first, Mr. Danby was a little jealous of Rose's partiality to the rectory; but she was so fond of him, so attentive to his pleasures, that he could not find in his heart to check hers; and when, after a long and dangerous illness, with which the always delicate Mary was affected, Mr. Cardonnel went to him, and with tears streaming down his cheeks, told him he believed that, under Providence, he owed his daughter's life to Rose's unwearying care, the father's heart was fairly vanquished; he wrung the good rector's hand, and never grumbled at her long visits again. Lady Elizabeth, also, had her share in producing this change of feeling, by presenting him in return for innumerable baskets of peaches and melons and hot-house grapes (in the culture of which he was curious), with a portrait of Rose, drawn by herself a strong and beautiful likeness, with his own favourite greyhound at her feet; a picture which he would not have exchanged for the "Transfiguration."

Perhaps too, consistent as he thought himself, he was not without an unconscious respect for the birth and station which he affected to despise, and was, at least, as proud of the admiration which his daughter excited in those privileged circles, as of the sturdy independence which he exhibited by keeping aloof from them in his own person. Certain it is, that his spirit of reformation insensibly relaxed, particularly towards the rector; and that he not only ceded the contested point of the organ, but presented a splendid set of pulpit-hangings to the church itself.

Time wore on; Rose had refused half the offers of gentility in the town and neighbourhood; her heart appeared to be invulnerable. Her less affluent and less brilliant friend was generally understood (and as Rose, on hearing the report, did not contradict it, the rumour passed for certainty) to be engaged to a nephew of her mother's, Sir William Frampton, a young gentleman of splendid fortune, who had lately passed much time at his fair place in the neighbourhood.

Time wore on; and Rose was now nineteen, when an event occurred, which threatened a grievous interruption to her happiness. The Earl of B.'s member died; his nephew, Sir William Frampton, supported by his uncle's powerful interest, offered himself for the borough; an independent candidate started at the same time; and Mr. Danby felt himself compelled, by his vaunted consistency, to insist on his daughter's renouncing her visits to

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the rectory, at least until after the termination of the election. Rose wept and pleaded, pleaded and wept, in vain. Her father was obdurate; and she, after writing a most affectionate note to Mary Cardonnel, retired to her own bedroom in very bad spirits, and, perhaps, for the first time in her life, in very bad humour.

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About half an hour afterwards, Sir William Frampton and Mr Cardonnel called at the red house. We are come, Mr Danby," said the rector, "to solicit your interest"-"Nay, nay, my good friend," returned the reformer, "you know that my interest is promised, and that I cannot with any consistency,-"To solicit your interest with Rose"-resumed his reverence. "With Rose!" interrupted Mr Danby. "Ay-for the gift of her heart and hand,that being, I believe, the suffrage which my good nephew here is most anxious to secure,' rejoined Mr Cardonnel. "With Rose," again ejaculated Mr Danby: "why, I thought that your daughter"-"The gipsy has not told you, then!" replied the rector. "Why, William and she have been playing the parts of Romeo and Juliet for these six months past.' "My Rose!" again exclaimed Mr Danby. “Why, Rose! Rose! I say!" and the astonished father rushed out of the room, and returned the next minute, holding the blushing girl by the arm. Rose, do you love this young man?" "O, papa!" said Rose. "Will you marry him?" "O, papa!" "Do you wish me to tell him that you will not marry him?" To this question Rose returned no answer; she only blushed the deeper, and looked down with a half smile. "Take her, then," resumed Mr Danby; "I see the girl loves you. I can't vote for you, though, for I've promised, and, you know, my good sir, that an honest man's word "I don't want your vote, my dear sir," interrupted Sir William Frampton; "I don't ask for your vote, although the loss of it may cost me my seat, and my uncle his borough. This is the election that I care about, the only election worth caring about. Is it not, my own sweet Rose?-the election, of which the object lasts for life, and the result is happiness. That's the election worth caring about-Is it not, mine own Rose!" And Rose blushed an affirmative; and Mr Danby shook his intended son-in-law's hand, until he almost wrung it off, repeating at every moment-"I can't vote for you, for a man must be consistent, but you're the best fellow in the world, and you shall have my Rose. And Rose will be a great | lady," continued the delighted father:little Rose will be a great lady after all!"

my

THE ACTRESS.

BY P. J. DE BERANGER.

Beneath these rags through which the blast blows shrill,

Shivering she kneels, and waits for bread.
Hither each morn she gropes her weary way,
Winter and summer, there is she.
Blind is the wretched creature! well-a day!
Ah! give the blind one charity!

Ah! once far different did that form appear;
That sunken cheek, that colour wan,
The pride of thronged theatres, to hear
Her voice, enraptured Paris ran:

In smiles or tears before her beauty's shrine,
Which of us has not bowed the knee?-
Who owes not to her charms some dreams divine?
Ah! give the blind one charity!

How oft when from the crowded spectacle,
Homeward her rapid coursers flew ;
Adoring crowds would on her footsteps dwell,
And loud huzzas her path pursue.
To hand her from the glittering car, that bore
Her home to scenes of mirth and glee,
How many rivals throng'd around her door-
Ah! give the blind one charity!

When all the arts to her their homage paid,

How splendid was her gay abode;
What mirrors, marbles, bronzes were displayed,
Tributes by love on love bestow'd:
How duly did the muse her banquets gild,
Faithful to her prosperity:

In every palace will the swallow build!-
Ah! give the poor one charity!

But sad reverse-sudden disease appears;

Her eyes are quenched, her voice is gone, And here, forlorn and poor, for twenty years,

The blind one kneels and begs alone. Who once so prompt her generous aid to lend? What hand more liberal, frank, and free, Than that she scarcely ventures to extend?Ah! give the poor one charity!

Alas for her! for faster falls the snow,

And every limb grows stiff with cold;
That rosary once woke her smile, which now
Her frozen fingers hardly hold.

If bruised beneath so many woes, her heart
By pity still sustained may be,
Lest even her faith in Heaven itself depart,
Ah! give the blind one charity!

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