I now am hastening to him. more, more: and I He was my only child. How fair he looked Mar. You must not talk, Ch. Indeed you must not. Amel. Well, then, I will be silent; yet not so. A sweet leave of our friends, and wish them well, She ever loved you-ever; so as might Become a mother's tender love no more. Charles, I have lived in this too bitter world I took you to my bosom, when a boy, Who scarce had seen eight springs come forth and vanish. You have a warm heart, Charles, and the base crowd Will feed upon it, if-but you must make That heart a grave, and in it bury deep Its young and beautiful feelings. Ch. I will do All that wish you all; but you cannot die And leave me? Amel. You shall see how calmly Death Ch. Oh! no. No, no: oh! say not so. I cannot bear To hear you talk thus. Will you break my heart? That soon must happen. Calmly let us talk. When I am dead - Ch. Alas, alas! Amel. This is Not as I wish: you had a braver spirit. Bid it come forth. Why, I have heard you talk [WENTWORTH enters.] Mar. She's pale-speak, speak. Ch. Oh my lost mother. How! You here? To pray her pardon. Let me touch her hand. - Poor faded girl! I was too harsh — unjust. Ch. Is it then so? My soul is sick and faint. Like one that hath no country. I shall find I say "I have no friend in all the world," [She dies Unto itself of happiness; and in truth Of pleasure which the social never know. Bryan W. Procter. The Minstrel's Song in Ella. Oh! sing unto my roundelay; Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought was he; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; Oh! he lies by the willow-tree. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briered dell below: Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. See! the white moon shines on high, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave, Nor one holy saint to save Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers, Elfin-fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, All under the willow-tree. Death of Long Tom Coffin. Lifting his broad hands high into the air, his voice was heard in the tempest. 'God's will be done with me,' he cried: 'I saw the first timber of the Ariel laid, and shall live just long enough to see it turn out of her bottom; after which I wish to live no longer.' But his shipmates were far beyond the sounds of his voice before these were half uttered. All command of the boat was rendered impossible, by the numbers it contained, as well as the raging of the surf; and as it rose on the white crest of a wave, Tom saw his beloved little craft for the last time. It fell into a trough of the sea, and in a few moments more its fragments were ground into splinters on the adjoining rocks. The cockswain [Tom] still remained where he had cast off the rope, and beheld the numerous heads and arms that appeared rising, at short intervals, on the waves, some making powerful and well-directed efforts to gain the sands, that were becoming visible as the tide fell, and others wildly tossed, in the frantic movements of helpless despair. The honest old seaman gave a cry of joy as he saw Barnstable [the commander whom Tom had forced into the boat] issue from the surf, where one by one several seamen soon appeared also, dripping and exhausted. Many others of the crew were carried in a similar manner to places of safety; though, as Tom returned to his seat on the bowsprit, he could not conceal from his reluctant eyes the lifeless forms that were, in other spots, driven against the rocks with a fury that soon left them but few of the outward vestiges of humanity. Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants of their dreadful station. The former stood in a kind of stupid despair, a witness of the scene; but as his curdled blood began again to flow more warmly to his heart, he crept close to the side of Tom, with that sort of selfish feeling that makes even hopeless misery more tolerable, when endured in participation with another. 'When the tide falls,' he said in a voice that betrayed the agony of fear, though his words expressed the renewal of hope, 'we shall be able to walk to land.' 'There was one and only One to whose feet the waters were the same as a dry deck,' returned the cockswain; 'and none but such as have His power will ever be able to walk from these rocks to the sands.' The old scaman paused, and turning his eyes, which exhib |