bosom, now flew boldly to her eyes, and curved her lips, with fondest looks and sweetest smiles for her wedded lord. We have before declared that Snipeton had an intimate acquaintance with his own ugliness: unlike so many who carry the disadvantage with them through life, yet are never brought to a personal knowledge of it, Snipeton knew his plainness: it was not in the power of mirrors to surprise and annoy him. And yet, in his old age, he would feel as though his ugliness was, by some magic lessened, nay, refined into comeliness, when his wife smiled upon him. His face, for the time, seemed to wear her light. And thus did this new belief in her affection give the old man a certain faith in his amended plainness; as though beauty beautified what it loved.

"There, Mr. Snipeton-there's a treasure. A lovely thing, eh?" cried the triumphant Crossbone.

"Very handsome, very; but is she well broken-is she quite safe?" said Snipeton, looking tenderly at his wife.

"A baby might rein her. No more tricks than a judge; no more vice than a lady of quality."

"Humph!" said Snipeton, dismounting, and giving his horse to St. Giles. 66 My dear, you will catch cold.' And then the ancient gentleman placed his arm around his wife's waist, and led her from the gate; Crossbone following, and staring at the endearment with most credulous looks. It was so strange, so odd; it seemed as if Snipeton had taken a most unwarrantable liberty with the lady of the house. And then the apothecary comforted himself with the belief that Mrs. Snipeton only suffered the tenderness for the sake of appearances: no; it was some satisfaction to know she could not love the man. "And your new maid is come? She seems simple and honest," said Snipeton.

"Oh yes: a plain, good-tempered soul, that will exactly serve us," answered Clarissa.

Very good-very good." And Snipeton turned into the house. He had thought again to urge his dislike of Mrs. Wilton; to suggest her dismissal; but he would take another opportunityfor go she should he was determined, but would await his time. As these thoughts busied him, Mrs. Wilton entered the room, followed by Crossbone. Somewhat sullenly, Snipeton gazed at the house-keeper: and then his eyes became fiery, and pointing to the riband that Clarissa had hung about her mother's neckthe riband bearing the miniature, yet unseen by the wearer, he

passionately asked-" Where got you that? Woman! Thief! Where stole you that?

"Stole!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilton, and she turned deathly pale; and on the instant tore the riband from her neck; and then, for the first time, saw the miniature. For a moment, her face was lurid with agony, that seemed to tongue-tie her, and then she shrieked-" Oh God! and is it he?

"Detected! detected! cried Snipeton-“a detected thief.” "No, sir; no," exclaimed Clarissa, embracing her parent. "You shall now know all. She is ".

Clarissa was about to acknowledge her mother, when the wretched woman clasped her daughter's head to her bosom, stifling the words. "No thief, sir," she said, "but no longer your house-keeper." And then, kissing Clarissa, and murmuring -"not a word-not one word " she hurried from the room.

THE POET'S FLOWER-GATHERING.

"FROM the Pleasance, Poet mine,

Fetch me flowers!" the Lady said-
"Flowers whereon the moonbeams shine,
And the night's first dews are shed.”
Then the Poet, slowly, slowly

Through the Pleasance takes his way,
('Mid the dream that wraps him wholly,
Murmuring low some sylvan lay),
To the beds of bloom that woo him
With their blended odours rare,-
Richest odours, wafted to him
On the calm night air.

And he saith-"O Rose, I claim thee
For a virgin flower more fair,-
For a bosom that shall shame thee
Into dying there."

But from that pale Rose proceeding,
Silver-sweet, was heard the pleading,
Poet, spare, oh spare !

"Spare me-earliest of my race,
I am queen of this still place,
And a star doth love me ;-

THE POET'S FLOWER-GATHERING.

Lift thy gaze from earth to sky-
Poet, lo! unchangeably

It doth smile above me.

And if thou hadst passed this way,
Gentle face, by light of day,
Not a breath of perfumed air

Would have 'scaped from out me ;-
Bloom and fragrance both I store
Till the weary day is o'er,
And the twilight, dusky, fair,
Drops her folds about me:
But when, one by one, the flowers
Sink to sleep around me ;
And from out its azure bowers

Yon sweet light hath found me,
With glad heart I offer up
All the incense in my cup,
And the winds together,
At my bidding, on their wings,
With Eolian whisperings
Waft it up the ether,
And be sure that loving smile
Groweth brighter yet the while.

"Poet, with that musing eye,
Look into this heart of mine;
Where the pearled dew-drops lie,

There the star-rays strike and shine;
Poet, they came down, came down,
Love-sent, from their native heaven-
Gifts are they for homage shown,
And for fragrance given;
And each ray that flasheth free
Hath a tale of joy for me.
Spare me, spare me, for the sake,

Poet, of thine own heart's pleasure,
And that love of thine shall take
Blessings with it beyond measure:
Spare me, spare me!'

And the Poet

Through the Pleasance takes his way-
With raised brow-the lips below it,
Shaped into a Well-a-day!

Not one rose for thee!" Then smiling,
Saith he, with soft voice beguiling,
"Lily, lily, thou must bend thee
From thy stately height-

Thou must pity and befriend me
In my task to-night!"

A low murmur stirred the air,
But the cry was still-" Oh, spare !"

"Hearken, hearken!"—and the singing
Voice that from the lily wells,
Soundeth like the breezy ringing
Of faint village bells;

Soundeth like the tones that waken
When the light winds sweep the fern,
And the melodies are shaken

From the hare-bell's urn. "Hearken," saith she, "Poet, hearken, Ere thou steal my joy away, Ere my fair new life thou darken With a swift decay. Blessed, blessed is the glory

Of the golden-crownëd light,
But for me a sweeter story

Hath the dewy face of night;
For when all the Pleasance lonely
Groweth, and beneath the trees
The white moonbeams, trooping only,
Wake their silent fantasies,
Oft from out the greenwood shadow
Comes an elfin sprite to me,
Tripping gaily o'er the meadow,
Singing ever merrily;
With a tiny shout of greeting,
Low he sinks on bended knee,
Smiling still, and still repeating,

Lily, ope thine heart to me!'
Then, with sudden gesture sprightly,
Close my slender stem is pressed,-
With a bound he leapeth lightly
To his place of rest :—

And all night, all night he singeth
Elfin songs that sweetest be,
Till the soft air round us ringeth
With his merry minstrelsy.

"He doth sing of sunny places,

Far away,

Where a constant calm embraces

Night and day.

Where the rivers as they wander,

"Never cruel hand, I wis,

Dareth pluck or break them

Angel touch or angel kiss,

Worse doth ne'er o'ertake them.

And that little fay hath vow'd
He will surely bear me

From this land of mist and cloud
Ere the storm-blast tear me,
To that refuge far away,

That calm home of brightness-
There to live and bloom for aye,
In immortal whiteness.
Nay-this very night, it may be,
He will keep that vow.
Poet, by thine own sweet lady,

Hear and heed me now!

Heed me!"-Ah, she ceaseth pleadingDown the alleys green,

Fast the Poet's form receding

Faint and dim is seen.

"Neither Rose, alas! nor Lily,

For thy crown, my queen!

But the Violet, close-hidden
'Midst its leaves he spies;
And quick stoopeth-unforbidden,
To possess his prize!

Nay, not so-sharp accents sudden
Of wild anguish rise ;

And again he needs must tarry
By that flow'ret pale,

While the scented air doth carry

To his ear her tale