* *

SONNET

BY THE AUTHOR OP THE LIFE OF BURKE, OF GOLDSMITH, &C.,

ON VIEWING MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

How warms the heart when dwelling on that face,
Those lips that mine a thousand times have prest,
The swelling source that nurture gav'st her race,
Where found my infant head its downiest rest!
How in those features aim to trace my own,
Cast in a softer mould my being see;
Recall the voice that sooth'd my helpless moan,
The thoughts that sprang for scarcely aught save me;
That shaped and formed me; gave me to the day,
Bade in her breast absorbing love arise;
O'er me a ceaseless tender care display,
For weak all else to thee maternal ties!
This debt of love but One may claim; no other
Such self-devotion boasts, save thee, my Mother!

* * * * *

CALEB STUKELY.

PART XIII.

THE FUGITIVE.

The tongue has nothing to say when the soul hath spoken all! What
need of words in the passionate and early intercourse of love! There
is no oral language that can satisfy or meet the requisitions of the
stricken heart. Speech, the worldling and the false--oftener the
dark veil than the bright mirror of man's thoughts--is banished from
the spot consecrated to purity, unselfishness, and truth. The lovely
and beloved Ellen learnt, before a syllable escaped my lips, the
secret which those lips would never have disclosed. Her innocent and
conscious cheek acknowledged instantly her quick perception, and
with maiden modesty she turned aside--not angrily, but timorous as a
bird, upon whose leafy covert the heavy fowler's foot has trod too
harshly and too suddenly. I thought of nothing then but the pain I
had inflicted, and was sensible of no feeling but that of shame and
sorrow for my fault. We walked on in silence. Our road brought us to
the point in the village at which I had met Miss Fairman and her
father, when, for the first time, we became companions in our
evening walk. We retraced the path which then we took, and the
hallowed spot grew lovelier as we followed it. I could not choose
but tell how deeply and indelibly the scene of beauty had become
imprinted on my heart.

"To you, Miss Fairman," I began, "and to others who were born and
nurtured in this valley, this is a common sight. To me it is a land
of enchantment, and the impression that it brings must affect my
future being. I am sure, whatever may be my lot, that I shall