r muscadel, your frolic,
The glad delirium of your joy,
Your fun un-apostolic,

Your drunken jargon through the fields,
Your bobolinkish gabble,
Your fine anacreontic glee,
Your tipsy reveller's babble!

Nay,--let me not profane such joy
With similes of folly,--
No wine of earth could waken songs
So delicately jolly!

O boundless self-contentment, voiced
In flying air-born bubbles!
O joy that mocks our sad unrest,
And drowns our earth-born troubles!

Hope springs with you: I dread no more
Despondency and dullness;
For Good Supreme can never fail
That gives such perfect fullness.

The Life that floods the happy fields
With song and light and color
Will shape our lives to richer states,
And heap our measures fuller.

GRIFFITH GAUNT; OR, JEALOUSY.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

She recoiled with a violent shudder at first; and hid her face with one
hand. Then she gradually stole a horror-stricken side-glance.

She had not looked at it a moment, when she uttered a loud cry, and
pointed at its feet with quivering hand.

"THE SHOES! THE SHOES!--IT IS NOT MY GRIFFITH."

With this she fell into violent hysterics, and was carried out of the
room at Houseman's earnest entreaty.

As soon as she was gone, Mr. Houseman, being freed from his fear that
his client would commit herself irretrievably, recovered a show of
composure, and his wits went keenly to work.

"On behalf of the accused," said he, "I admit the suicide of some person
unknown, wearing heavy hobnailed shoes; probably one of the lower order
of people."

This adroit remark produced some little effect, notwithstanding the
strong feeling against the accused.

The coroner inquired if there were any bodily marks by which the remains
could be identified.

"My master had a long black mole on his forehead," suggested Caroline
Ryder.

"'Tis here!" cried a juryman, bending over the remains.

And now they all gathered in great excitement round the _corpus
delicti_; and there, sure enough, was a long black mole.

Then was there a buzz of pity for Griffith Gaunt, followed by a stern
murmur of execration.

"Gentlemen," said the coroner solemnly, "behold in this the finger of
Heaven. The poor gentleman may well have put off his boots, since, it
seems, he left his horse; but he could not take from his forehead his
natal sign; and that, by God's will