said, that every attention must be paid him, in order to stay the progress of the disease, which had arrived at an alarming height; then promising to visit him the next day, with a sorrowful heart departed.

Mrs. Lumleigh, who had long known Doctor R., was convinced that he felt more than he expressed; and, with an aching heart, she knelt in fervent prayer to Him who alone can calm the troubled spirit, and heal the wounded breast. She knew that He could raise her child from the bed of sickness, or take him to his own kingdom, and she bowed in resignation to his dispensations, whatever they might be.

and

A few days had elapsed, and no change had taken place in the disorder of the youthful sufferer; but his mother and all the inhabitants of Elmwood were fearful that he was hastening to "that bourne from whence no traveller returns." On the ninth day there was a fearful alteration in his appearance; his eyes were sunk, and scarcely could he be raised in his bed; whilst his deep, hollow, frequent fits of coughing, were the only sounds that echoed through the mansion. Sleep alone afforded a transient cessation from pain; and during a short slumber Dr. R. visited him. His entrance awoke him, but he continued silent, and listened to the conversation of those around. The voices of the speakers were so low, that he could only hear a few words: this sentence distinctly reached him : "He never can recover; he may linger for some time, though I should think not more than a few weeks." The voice then ceased, and Charles feebly

called to his mother, who, with Dr. R., instantly approached the bed. He extended his hand to the latter, and in a tremulous voice said, "Sir, I thank you for what I have just heard; I will not deceive you, I have not slept, and your assurances that I shall never recover have been listened to with greedy attention by me. I again repeat, I am thankful to you for informing me of my danger. Until now, I had a few faint hopes that I might have lived some years longer. I know I have too fondly clung to this world, when I should have fixed my thoughts on another; but God, in his infinite mercy, will, I trust, forgive the sins of a guilty, erring mortal like myself”— here a severe fit of coughing precluded the possibility of his farther speaking, and he sunk exhausted on the pillow. Still his thoughts returned to the words he at first heard. "Then I must die," he mentally exclaimed. "Never again shall I behold the friends of my youth-never, never! Oh, what a sense of dreariness does it convey to my heart!" and a few, a very few tears fell at the idea. "But what am I grieving for? Do I mourn the separation from this world, and the deprivations of its pleasures-its few transient pleasures? No, no! it is not that I care for. Wherefore then do I mourn? O God! look down on me, thy guilty creature, and shed the light of thy merciful countenance upon me, to enable me to withstand the temptations that now assail me." This short, though fervent prayer, calmed his perturbation, and he fell into a slumber, which lasted for many hours.

It was late in the evening when he awoke, and softly

withdrawing the curtain, beheld his mother watching by the side of his bed: in her hand she held a watch, and a glass of medicine stood by her. She tenderly raised it to his lips, at the same time saying, "It will do you much good, dear Charles; Dr. R. assures me it will ease the pain that torments you." Her son unhesitatingly swallowed it, and when he had finished it, replied,-" To oblige you, my dearest mother, I will take any thing; but it is all in vain: it is like fanning a few expiring embers, which, though they burn for a time, are quickly quenched, and soon die away." The soporific draught he had taken he soon felt the influence of, and, with a languid smile, said he could talk no longer. His sleep now lasted until the sun had risen far above the horizon, and shed streams of golden light through the closed shutters of the apartment. Caroline Lumleigh was seated near the bed, and wept tears of unfeigned joy when she heard the cheerful sound of her brother's voice. He spoke now in a clear, firm tone, and expressed a wish to be moved to a sofa in the next apartment; but this request was not deemed prudent to be complied with, until the arrival of Dr. R. Impatiently Charles waited the physician's visit.

At length his well-known step was heard entering the room, and the patient was satisfied at being allowed to quit his bed. Supported by his mother and Dr. R., he was placed on a couch, which was drawn near the open window. It was a beautiful afternoon in May, and the odour of a thousand blossoms stole heavily through the casement. "What a lovely world is this!" exclaimed

Charles, as, resting his head on his mother's bosom, his eyes wandered over the scene; "but its beauties are trifling when compared to those of that heavenly kingdom which I am fast approaching. Nay, do not weep, dearest mother," he continued, as her warm tears fell rapidly on his face; " grieve not for me; I am resigned to die. I did once hope that I might live to be a comfort to you and a friend to my dear sisters; but Henry, I know, will never forget them. In his breast the seeds of virtue have, I trust, taken such deep root, as time will not speedily eradicate. Tell him, from me, as my last request, to remember the doctrines of our blessed Lord; for through the knowledge of his laws, and a desire to walk in his paths, can we alone hope to rise to the life immortal in heaven." He was here interrupted by the entrance of his two sisters. They had been wandering through the grounds, by their brother's wish, to find a few early roses. The invalid received them gratefully; but he soon relapsed into silence, and appeared intently watching the departure of the sun behind the mountains of his native county. When it had sunk from his view, he turned to the dear relatives who sat by him, and said, "I shall never see that bright luminary rise again. Death approaches; but I do not tremble. My sisters, I have a very foolish wish, still I know it will be gratified; it is, that you place a rose upon my grave, whilst they remain in bloom. And now, farewell! Bless you-bless you all!"-A faint. smile illumed his lips, which moved as if in prayer ;they were soon stilled-the blissful soul had fled!

For nearly half a century, a cluster of blushing roses were, during the summer months, thrown across the urn that marked the grave of Charles Lumleigh; but the flowers themselves, and the hand that placed them, are returned to dust, like him who sleeps beneath the sod. Combe Royal, Devon.

SONNET TO A YOUNG LADY.

BY THE NORTHAMPTONSHIRE PEASANT.

MAIDEN! the blooms of happiness surround thee;
The world's bright side, like thy young visions fair,
Gay and unclouded, smile in raptures round thee,
With joys unconscious of encroaching care;

The poesy

of life hath sweetly found thee

Ah! would thy sunshine had no clouds to share,

And the young flowers with which her joys have crowned

thee,

Would they were dreams as lasting as they're fair.
But Nature, Maiden, hath its winter ;-Care,

Or more or less, in ambush waits to wound thee.
Then cheat thy gentle heart with no frail token
From witching Hope-far better joys pursue :
I know her closest bonds are easy broken,
And feel the picture I have drawn too true.

JOHN CLARE.