unpassionate stars that have their gentle courses in the sky. Yet I could not breathe. There was a dew, the first fresh dew of spring floating mid air, and moistening the wind. Yet was I parched as if Sirocco had enwrapped me. There was a fire within which all the dew on Hermon could not quench. The flame leaped up my throat, and as it touched my lips, it withered them. My tongue rattled against my dry rough teeth, and there was not a damp of moisture on my frame, save where one drop on either temple quivered ere it fell (cold as her heart to me).

To fly along the crowded streets, and silent lanes which lie between her home and that of the friend nearest, asked a time so brief, that, as it passed away, its pinion left no mark on memory's tablets. Hunger is pain-but thirst-thirst-thirst is agony.On a table in the house of — a pitcher stood-a grasp-a gasp a drop-but one small drop of hot and heavy water ;-a gaze wild as the Vampyre's, or the earth-stained Goul's-a totter and a heave-heave of the heart so laboured and so deep that its strings cracked--(would they had broken rather!) and one weak dizzy whirl is all I know about, or felt till life-as with a gasp it fled, with one returned; and the pulse, which had paused resumed its beat.

Who hath not felt the dotardness of words ?-Who that in the heart's alembic heated up with passion's furnace glow, hath ever tried to fine and distil the mightiest might of language to something far more forceful, will not own her weak, the very essence of all spoken tongues is for the purposes that speech was made? Give, then, imagination but the metal bar, and it will coin for its own payment.-I struggled-battled-conquered.-I could not say to the whirlwind of Passion, "Peace, be still," or "Listen to the voice of the Reimkenner," but I reefed my canvass, nay, cut the masts by the board-tied myself to the rudder-and now ride, while the gale sweeps past me, in the shelter of philosophic tranquillity.-I willed to be firm; I remembered that I was a manand I am so,-CALM.

T. A.

TIME'S CHANGES.

THERE was a child, a helpless child,
Full of vain fears and fancies wild,
That often wept, and sometimes smiled,
Upon its mother's breast;

Feebly its meanings stammered out,
And tottered tremblingly about,
And knew no wider world without,
Its little home of rest.

There was a boy, a light-heart boy,
One whom no troubles could annoy,
Save some lost sport, or shattered toy,
Forgotten in an hour;

No dark remembrance troubled him,
No future fear his path could dim,
But joy before his eyes would swim,
And hope rise like a tower.

There was a youth, an ardent youth,
Full of high promise, courage, truth,
He felt no scathe, he knew no ruth,
Save love's sweet wounds alone;
He thought but of two soft blue eyes,
He sought no gain but beauty's prize,
And sweeter held love's saddest sighs,
Than music's softest tone.

There was a man, a wary man,
Whose bosom nursed full many a plan
For making life's contracted span
A path of gain and gold;

And how to sow and how to reap,
And how to swell his shining heap,
And how the wealth acquired to keep
Secure within his fold.

There was an old, grey-haired one,
On whom had fourscore winters done
Their work appointed, and had spun
Their thread of life so fine,

That scarce its thin line could be seen,
And with the slightest touch, I ween,
'Twould be as it had never been.

And leave behind no sign.

And who were they, those five, whom fate
Seem'd as strange contrasts to create,
That each might in his different state

The other's pathways shun?

I tell thee that, that infant vain,
That boy, that youth, that man of gain,
That grey beard, who did roads attain
So various, They were One!

HENRY NEALE.

DRAWN FOR A SOLDIER.*

"Arma Virumque Canoe."

I was once for a few hours only-in the militia. I suspect I was in part answerable for my own mishap. There is a story in Joe Miller of a man, who, being pressed to serve his Majesty on another element, pleaded his polite breeding, to the gang, as a good ground of exemption; but was told that the crew being a set of sad unmannerly dogs, a Chesterfield was the very character they wanted. The militiamen acted, I presume, on the same principle. Their customary schedule was forwarded to me, at Brighton, to fill up, and in a moment of incautious hilarity-induced, perhaps, by the absence of all business or employment, except pleasure-I wrote myself down in the descriptive column as Quite a Gentleman."

66

The consequence followed immediately. A precept, addressed by the High Constable of Westminster to the Low ditto of the parish of St M- and endorsed with my name, informed me that it had turned up in that involuntary lottery, the Ballot.

At the sight of the Orderly, who thought proper to deliver the document into no other hands than mine, my mother-in-law cried, and my wife fainted on the spot. They had no notion of any distinctions in military service-a soldier was a soldier-and they imagined that, on the very morrow, I might be ordered abroad to a fresh Waterloo. They were unfortunately ignorant of that benevolent provision, which absolved the militia from going out of the kingdom-" except in case of an invasion." In vain I represented that we were "locals;" they had heard of local diseases, and thought there might be wounds of the same description. In vain I explained that we were not troops of the line; they could see nothing to choose between being shot in a line, or in any other figure. I told them, next, that I was not obliged to "serve myself;"-but they answered, "'twas so much the harder I should be obliged to serve any one else." My being sent abroad, they said, would be the death of them; for they had witnessed, at Ramsgate, the embarkation of the Walcheren expedition, and too well remembered "the misery of the soldiers' wives at seeing their husbands in transports!"

I told them that, at the very worst, if I should be sent abroad, there was no reason why I should not return again;-but they

*From "Hood's Comic Annual," 1830.

both declared, they never did, and never would believe in those "Returns of the Killed and Wounded."

The discussion was in this stage when it was interrupted by another loud single knock at the door, a report equal in its effects on us to that of the memorable cannon-shot at Brussels; and before we could recover ourselves, a strapping Serjeant entered the parlour with a huge bow, or rather rainbow, of party-coloured ribbons in his cap. He came, he said, to offer a substitute for me; but I was prevented from reply by the indignant females asking him in the same breath, "Who and what did he think could be a substitute for a son and a husband ?"

The poor Serjeant looked foolish enough at this turn; but he was still more abashed when the two anxious Ladies began to crossexamine him on the length of his services abroad, and the number of his wounds, the campaigns of the Militia-man having been confined doubtless to Hounslow, and his bodily marks militant to the three stripes on his sleeve. Parrying these awkward questions he endeavoured to prevail upon me to see the proposed proxy, a fine young fellow, he assured me, of unusual stature; but I told him it was quite an indifferent point with me whether he was 6-feet-2 or 2-feet-6, in short whether he was as tall as the flag, or "under the standard."

The truth is, I reflected that it was a time of profound peace, that a civil war, or an invasion, was very unlikely; and as for an occasional drill, that I could make shift, like Lavater, to rightabout-face.

Accordingly I declined seeing the substitute, and dismissed the Serjeant with a note to the War-Secretary to this purport.—“ That I considered myself drawn; and expected therefore to be well quarter'd. That, under the circumstances of the country, it would probably be unnecessary for militia-men to be mustarded;' but that if his Majesty did call me out,' I hoped I should give him satisfaction.""

The females were far from being pleased with this billet. They talked a great deal of moral suicide, wilful murder, and seeking the bubble reputation in the cannon's mouth; but I shall ever think that I took the proper course, for, after the lapse of a few hours, two more of the General's red-coats, or General postmen, brought me a large packet sealed with the War-office Seal, and superscribed "Henry Hardinge;" by which I was officially absolved from serving on Horse, or on Foot, or on both together, then and thereafter.

And why, I know not-unless his Majesty doubted the handsomeness of discharging me in particular, without letting off the

rest;-but so it was, that in a short time afterwards there issued a proclamation, by which the services of all militia-men were for the present dispensed with,-and we were left to pursue our several avocations, of course, all the lighter in our spirits for being disembodied.

GRAVES.-A FRAGMENT,

Oh alas, and alas !

Green grows the grass

Like the waves we come, like the winds we pass.

'Twas autumn-and methought I stood alone
Among the relics of the ancient dead-
Earth's Mausoleums, over which were strewn
The dust of ages, and the mossy stone
On which decay had writ, with bony hand,
The vanities of life; and there was spread
Oblivion's sober pall, which all might read,
And haply reading, all might understand.
The hollow autumn-wind raved loud without,
And down the gloomy aisles I heard it pass,
As 'twere the spirit of decay, from out
Her desolate palace; and the long rank grass,
That waving o'er the sepulchres of men,
Made hollow music to the ear of night!

Hush'd were those sleepers in their coffins there.
The arm that curb'd the war-horse in his might,
And razed the peaceful homes of Innocence
And slumbering faith. Ambition's votaries slept-
And there reposing beauty-they who kept
Their lonely vigils o'er them, summoned hence,
A long descending line of fathers, sons,
And mothers, daughters, and the little ones
Who look'd on life, and bade the world adieu!
O, who would sleep in such lone scene as this!
Who, that hath viewed the towering hills of blue--
Thy own fair mountains, Caledon! "Twere bliss,
Methought, and soothing in the hour of death,
To know that we would rest, life's fever o'er,
By some lone cairn, rude work of ages, where
No gloomy vault shut out the holy breath
Of summer morn; but where the ceaseless roar
Of mountain-torrent filled the breathing air
With nature's melody ;-blue peaks above,-
Beneath, the fluctuating, mysterious main,

DELTA.