them, the science of Palaeontology
would not have waited for its founder till Cuvier was born,--in short,
in every corner of the earth where the investigations of civilized men
have penetrated, from the Arctic to Patagonia and the Cape of Good Hope,
these relics tell us of successive populations lying far behind our own,
and belonging to distinct periods of the world's history.

* * * * *

In my next article I shall give some account of the marshes and forests
of the Carboniferous age, with their characteristic vegetation and
inhabitants.

CORALIE.

Pale water-flowers,
That quiver in the quick turn of the brook,
And thou, dim nook,--
Dimmer in twilight,--call again to me
Visions of life and glory that were ours,
When first she led me here, young Coralie!

No longer blest,
Yet standing here in silence, may not we
Fancy or feign
That little flowers do fall about thy rest
In silver mist and tender-dropping rain,
And that thy world is peace, loved Coralie?

Our friendships flee,
And, darkening all things with her mighty shade,
Comes Misery.
No longer look the faces that we see,
With the old eyes; and Woe itself shall fade,
Nor even this be left us, Coralie!

Feelings and fears
That once were ours have perished in the mould,
And grief is cold:
Hearts may be dead to grief; and if our tears
Are failing or forgetful, there will be
Mourners about thy bed, lost Coralie!

The brook-flowers shine,
And a faint song the falling water has,--
But not for thee!
The dull night weepeth, and the sorrowing pine
Drops his dead hair upon thy young grave-grass,
My Coralie! my Coralie!

* * * * *

I took from its glass a flower,
To lay on her grave with dull accusing tears;
But the heart of the flower fell out as I handled the rose,
And my heart is shattered, and soon will wither away.

I watch the changing shadows,
And the patch of windy sunshine upon the hill,
And the long blue woods; and a grief no tongue can tell
Breaks at my eyes in drops of bitter rain.

I hear her baby-wagon,
And the little wheels go over my heart;
Oh, when will the light of the darkened house return?
Oh, when will she come who made the hills so fair?

I sit by the parlor-window,
When twilight deepens, and winds get cold without;
But the blessed feet n