and deceive him. It is thus I see her to-night.

"See'st thou that grave?--does mortal know
Aught of the dust that lies below?
'Tis foul, 'tis damp, 'tis void of form--
A bed where winds the loathsome worm;
A little heap, mouldering and brown,
Like that on flowerless meadow thrown
By mossy stream, when winter reigns
O'er leafless woods and wasted plains:
And yet that brown, damp, formless heap
Once glowed with feelings keen and deep;
Once eyed the light, once heard each sound
Of earth, air, wave, that murmurs round.
But now, ah! now, the name it bore,
Sex, age, or form, is known no more.
This, this alone, O Hope! I know,
That once the dust that lies below,
Was, like myself, of human race,
And made this world its dwelling-place.
Ah! this, when death has swept away
The myriads of life's present day,
Though bright the visions raised by thee,
Will all my fame, my history be!"

We quitted the ruins and returned to town.

"Have you yet formed," inquired my companion, "any plan for the future?"

"I quit St. Andrew's," I replied, "to-morrow morning. I have an uncle,
the master of a West Indiaman, now in the Clyde. Some years ago I had a
fancy for the life of a sailor, which has evaporated, however, with many
of my other boyish fancies and predilections; but I am strong and
active, and it strikes me there is less competition on sea at present
than on land. A man of tolerable steadiness and intelligence has a
better chance of rising as a sailor than as a mechanic. I shall set out,
therefore, with my uncle on his first voyage."

CHAPTER IV.

"At first, I thought the swankie didna ill--
Again I glowr'd, to hear him better still;
Bauld, slee, an' sweet, his lines mair glorious grew,
Glow'd round the heart, an' glanc'd the soul out through."
ALEXANDER WILSON.

I had seen both the Indies and traversed the wide Pacific, ere I again
set foot on the Eastern coast of Scotland. My uncle, the shipmaster, was
dead, and I was still a common sailor; but I was light-hearted and
skilful in my profession, and as much inclined to hope as ever. Besides,
I had begun to doubt, and there cannot be a more consoling doubt when
one is unfortunate, whether a man may not enjoy as much happiness in the
lower walks of life as in the upper. In one of my later voyages, the
vessel in which I s