May the seas that we dare as we ride on the gale,
Only murmur of peace, as our island they lave,
And the bomes we have left not a danger assail,

While our wooden-walls gallantly float on the wave.
Tis our last night in England, then pledge to the land,
That has ruled and shall rule worlds in arms at her nod,
While the foot of the freeman stands firm on her strand,
Where for ages no conquering invader has trod.
Far away, far away her defenders may be,

Yet they strike for her right, and though distant their wars,
Her sons, as their thunder resounds o'er the sea,

Well know that their conquests give peace to her shores.

'Tis our last night in England, our ship's under weigh,
A favouring breeze swells every sail on the mast,
And the green smiling shores we have gazed on to-day,
To-morrow will be as a dream of the past.

But round with the wine-cup, while glistens the tear
In memory of sorrows that yet wring the heart;

Be the toast," May our meeting with those we hold dear
Ere long prove as sweet as 'twas bitter to part."

RICH. JOHNS.

SUMMER IN THE HEART.

THE cold blast at the casement beats,
The window-panes are white;

The snow whirls through the empty streets-
It is a dreary night!

Sit down, old friend! the wine-cups wait;

Fill! to o'erflowing, fill!

Though Winter howleth at the gate,

In our hearts 'tis Summer still!

For we full many Summer joys
And greenwood sports have shared,
When, free and ever-roving boys,

The rocks, the streams we dared!
And, as I look upon thy face-
Back-back, o'er years of ill,
My heart flies to that happy place,
Where it is Summer still!

Yes, though like sere leaves on the ground,

Our early hopes are strown,

And cherish'd flowers lie dead around,

And singing birds are flown,-
The verdure is not faded quite,
Not mute all tones that thrill;
For, seeing, hearing thee to-night,
In my heart 'tis summer still!

Fill up the olden times come back
With light and life once more!
We scan the future's sunny track
From youth's enchanted shore,

The lost return. Through fields of bloom
We wander at our will;

Gone is the winter's angry gloom

In our hearts 'tis summer still!

EPES SARGENT.

In which a highly-important secret is disclosed.

NOTWITHSTANDING the earnest anxiety of the widow to disguise the real state of the case, her true position soon appeared. Persons may with success conceal their thoughts, their emotions, or even their wealth; but their poverty will not be concealed: it will out; it will make itself manifest: the more energetic may be the efforts to keep it from view, the more boldly will it rear its hateful head to proclaim its existence to the world.

If the widow, when she found herself embarrassed had immediately retrenched, all would have been so far well as that she might have been able, with economy, to maintain something bearing the semblance of her usual style; but as, instead of acting promptly upon the principle of retrenchment, she not only lived as before, but incurred those additional expenses which are invariably consequent on an ardent desire to preserve a reputation for wealth when the means have departed, the necessity in her case for selling out became so constant that in a short time she possessed but little stock, indeed, to sell.

This she concealed as long as possible from Stanley. She trembled at the thought of its becoming known to him: the idea was, in her judgment, dreadful.

:

"Oh!" she would exclaim in tones of agony, when alone, "what on earth would he say if he knew it! He must not be told he would go raving mad! and yet, how can I now keep it from him? What am I to do? How-how can I act? I cannot-I dare not go on longer thus: he will be reduced to beggary! Oh! my poor boy! It is terrible - very, very terrible! The thought of it will drive me to distraction!"

But even this was not all. Had Stanley alone been concerned in the impending disclosure, it might have been borne: nay, she would then have summoned sufficient courage to impart the dreadful secret to him at once, for her embarrassments were daily becoming deeper and deeper still; but the thought of what Sir William would say, of what he would think of it, and how he would act, tortured her so cruelly that, although in his presence she wore a constant smile, and expressed the highest pleasure, her heart was in reality full of affliction. And oh! how she then sighed and panted to hear him propose! She had been for many months in the liveliest anticipation of being blessed by receiving a proposal in due form, and yet, albeit, in her view the question had been twenty times all but put, it had never been proposed with sufficient distinctness to warrant a formal consent. This was very distressing: it was indeed very. If he had but proposed to her then, all might have been well, all, at least, might have been without sorrow endured; but, although he still visited with all his wonted constancy, although he still conversed with his

VOL. IX.

P

usual warmth and eloquence, she could not tempt him to come to the point.

At length, having waited for this important question until she began to despair, her difficulties became too palpable to escape even the tardy observation of Stanley. He had previously entertained suspicions on the subject; but, as he hated to enter into matters of a pecuniary character, those suspicions had not taken root: indeed could he have got from time to time the sums of money he required, things might have gone on and on for years, without his troubling himself to give the matter another thought. When, however, he experienced a difficulty in getting what he wanted, his previous suspicions were reawakened, and he resolved to have them either removed or confirmed. "Mother," said he, "yesterday I asked you for money. You put me off: you were anxious not to draw too close: I should have some soon; in a day or so; to-morrow, perhaps! Why is this? Why have you not plenty at your bankers? The time is come, mother, when I cannot but deem it necessary that I should know the cause."

The widow, without answering, burst into tears.

“Why, what is the meaning of this?" demanded Stanley, having regarded her intently for a moment. "There is something-something which you have hitherto concealed, but which must be concealed from me no longer."

My poor boy!" sobbed the widow. "The dreadful secret must be told! I have struggled-Heaven knows how I have struggled to keep it from you."

"What is it?" cried Stanley, with impatience.

"You will never be able to bear it: I am sure you never will." "Whatever it be, mother, let me know at once, that I may at once guard against its effect."

"Those dreadful expenses, my Stanley !—those terrible expenses!" "Have ruined us!”

"No-no-no-no! not ruined-oh! Heaven forbid!"

"What am I to understand, then?" cried Stanley. "If they have not ruined us, what have they done?"

"So embarrassed us, my Stanley, that you must-oh, how it afflicts me to tell you !—you must, at least for a time, manage to live upon the estate which was purchased for your qualification."

"Impossible! How can I live on a pitiful three or four hundred a year? How can I entertain those friends whom I have been in the habit of entertaining? how can I meet them? how can I even show my face? Mother!"

"Stanley, do not be rash: pray do not be impetuous! You will break my heart! indeed, my love, indeed it was all done for you. Come, come! You will be calm, dear Stanley? You will be calm? You will not make this wound deeper than it is, or cause it to rankle, dear Stanley? Heaven knows I would have given worlds if this dreadful disclosure could by any earthly means have been avoided." "Why did you not tell me before? Why buoy me up with the hope -nay with the absolute belief that our fortunes had not been materially affected? Why did you not explain to me at once that we were ruined, beggared, comparatively beggared!"

"I dared not; indeed, my love, I dared not do it. I dreaded nothing on earth more. But, believe me, dear, I'll make every sacrifice in my power to promote your happiness still."