the scenes of the last few days, a light form glided to the side of the bed, and bending over me, seemed to watch earnestly for some token of returning animation.

The features appeared dim and indistinct; I fastened my straining eyes upon the face; my vision grew more clear. Ah! then the truth was manifest. There is but one in the world can boast those expressive eyes, that beautiful mouth.

"My own, own Pauline," I murmured.

She made me no answer, but pressed her warm lip to mine. "How came you here?" I asked.

Have you indeed sworn to forsake us?”

"Where is Pére Duval?

She replied cheerfully, "Don't ask me any questions now, dear Frank, the mystery shall be cleared up in time, but now you must be calm and quiet. The danger is by no means past; but you have another friend who will rejoice at your recovery."

With these words, she left the room; a few moments and I was clasped in the affectionate embrace of father Duval.

My request for the solution of these unusual occurrences was soon gratified. Almost immediately after my departure, the health of Pauline begin to decline. Her face, once animated and cheerful, was now seldom lighted up by a smile. This alteration was soon observed by her kind protector, and he resolved at once, to try the effect of a warmer sun and a balmier atmosphere. Upon his arrival at Rome, whither he very naturally directed his course, he received all the attention and respect, which the influence he exerted on the catholic interest in the Canadas commanded. As time passed on the melancholy of Pauline increased. She appeared more willing to assent to the long cherished wish of her uncle, that she should become the inmate of a convent. Consent in a mind like hers, soon became desire, and it was only my presence and agitation which interrupted the ceremony, and deprived the church of its prey.

And now, dear reader, fancy my joy, upon finding myself in possession of the most beloved being upon earth. A few months saw us once more place foot upon our native soil. My parents gladly coincided with my wishes; and it is in the dear solitude of Laurenne, that I record these strange events.

VOL. III.

TO A RILL.

FLOW on thou bubbling, sparkling rill,
And as thou runnest, sparkle still,

And cease thy music never;

My lingering thoughts shall dwell with thee,
Although thy gentle murmurs be

Unheard by me forever.

51

[One of the strong inducements held out to passengers to embark, was, that they would be out only one night on their voyage.]

"Only one night at sea,"

Was echoed oft with jocund glee,
And bosoms joyous leap;
As bidding friends and land adieu,
Exulting eyes are turned to view,

The proud boat plough the deep.

Proudly and gallantly she flew;
Propitious gales around her blew,
As she cut the yielding wave-
And

like a thing of life," she rode,
As conscious, that with her abode
"The beautiful and brave."

But ah! the sickening heart shrinks back,
Aghast, to follow her dread track,

Through that eventful night—

When head of age and infant brow

Were doomed, with youth in richest glow,

To see no coming light.

Wild through the ocean's solitude,

One shriek which chilled the heart's warm blood,

Broke on the midnight air;

Down, down to coral caverns deep,
They sink, to find a last, long sleep,
The good, the bright, the fair!

Morn dawned along the murky sky,
O'er billows rolling wild and high,
With shattered wreck beneath;
Revealing there, a scattered band,
Struggling through nature's strong command,
To shun the coming death!

In vain they seek the flying land,
In vain they raise the imploring hand;
None sees-none hears their cry!

The firmest souls begin to quail,
And tender spirits faint and fail,

And meekly yielding, die!

Thrice they behold day's parting hue,
And morning light return to view,
With gathering ills dismayed;
When famine gaunt, and brooding now,
Begins to knit the lowering brow,
And prompts to darkest deed!

Oh! can distress and famine make
A fiend of man? urge him to take
A brother's sacred blood?
Forbid it heaven!-far better die,
Than hear through life its fearful cry
For vengeance to our God!

But there was one who sat apart,
Still straining to his breaking heart,
His young and lovely boy;
He heeds not all the passing strife,
Reckless alike of death or life,

His child his thoughts employ!

His darling boy !-and where was she
Who watched his helpless infancy,
With a mother's wakeful eye?
Howl on, ye winds! ye billows roll!
Ye cannot wean a parent's soul,
Nor break strong nature's tie!

TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF HENRY ELLSWORTH DICKSON, A MEMBER OF THE JUNIOR CLASS, WHO DIED JULY 3, 1838, AGED 19 YEARS.

MOURN for the fallen, for the first
Whom Death hath from us taken!
Mourn for the severed tie of love,
Of friendship never shaken!

Mourn for the heart that climbed with us
Up Wisdom's holy mountain!

Mourn for the hopes all crushed, while life
Was yet within its fountain!

Mourn for the friends so soon bereft

Of one too fondly cherished!

Mourn for ourselves, classmates of him
Who hath so early perished!

Mourn for the fallen! E'en mute nature weeps,
When but the young do die, and o'er them keeps
Her wakeful vigils; and the summer eve

Sheds tear-drops, and the whisp'ring breezes grieve,
Passing his tomb whose race is run,

At morn or at the set of sun.

"Tis manly now to mourn. Aye, he did stand
With us but yesterday, as hand in hand

We ploughed the classic field, and onward pressed—
A toilsome way-at Wisdom's high behest,

To gain, beneath those sunny skies

Where Fame doth dwell, a richer prize.

He was our comrade. As the birds that sing
At morn or even, in the maiden spring,
Converse of pleasure, so did we converse
In friendship's bowers,-did each to each rehearse,
In love that mutual burdens bears,

Our hopes, our comforts, and our cares.

He died!—and death was like the woodman's stroke,
Selecting oft the young and thriftiest oak :-

He died 'mid summer suns and summer showers,
And songs of birds, and balmy breaths of flowers,
Just verging into youthful prime,

At life's young dawn of summer-time.

He sleeps, and not alone. They made his bed
Where yet the grass waved not o'er the recent dead;

Where for a brother first they op'd the tomb,

And for a sister then, whose early bloom

Passed with the flowers of spring away,
Even in the vernal month of May.

And they shall sleep ;—we'll not disturb their rest,—
And year by year shall be their grave turf-dressed;
And there the winds that round them moaning sigh,
Shall murmur dirges as they wander by;

And when the autumn o'er them grieves,
Shall strew that hallowed spot with leaves.

J. C.

EPILEGOMENA.

PAUSE, Reader, for a moment, and look around thee. In the haste of thine on. ward course, and surrounded by so many excitements to increase thy speed, it is well to check thy flight, to take a retrospect of the past, and with the keenest prophetic eye to reconnoiter the future. Many a destructive shoal and quicksand would be avoided, if in thy voyage upon the broad ocean of life, and amidst its waves and conflicting winds, thou shouldst more frequently take observations and find thy distance and departure. He who dashes along through the varied and ever varying scenes of an active and busy world, perfectly reckless of what has been or will be the consequences of such unrestrained fury, acts the part of the inconsiderate, if not the madman and fool. It is then the dictate of wisdom, to rest awhile at one of those stopping places which intercept our paths, to gather up the "bits and ends" of gone-by days, and thus to invigorate and arm ourselves for a new campaign. The close of this college year, now at hand, affords one of those periods to which we allude. Its scenes and events can now be mentioned only as things that were. The privileges it afforded, improved or unimproved, are irrevocably past ; its transactions sealed up for another day. But reader, in thy vows of self amendment yet unfulfilled, still pressing with increased responsibility,--the goal which a noble emulation has reared, high on the hill of science, yet unattained, still inviting with new and bewitching charms, in these thou hast yet grounds of hope. Just redeem thy time by closer application; buckle on thine armor anew, and fearlessly meet all opposition, and soon the syren voice of the seducer will be hushed, and the lofty summit of classic excellence will be surmounted. [Who sager than we for good counsel.]

But a sadness comes over us when we call to mind the events which have deprived us of so many of our friends and classmates, those who commenced the year with us, buoyant with hope, flushed with high expectations, and eagerly striving for the highest honors our Mantua confers. Some in their giddy moments of relaxation and merriment, stepped over the bounds of legal enactments, and have been compelled to vacate their places. Others thinking only of their destiny, quivering upon the point of the tutor's pencil, have been obliged to seek their health in other and distant retreats. And one who but yesterday was by our side, in the full tide of onward movement, has bid us a final adieu. For almost three years, the ranks of the class of 1839, were unbroken by death. But at length, the insatiable foe has come, marked his victim, and DICKSON is no more. But reader, we will leave this subject of retrospection, with only these few sketches, and let each fill up the picture to his liking. We have other things to say, and must on.

*

To the contributors to the pages of our Magazine, which, with this number closes its III. Vol., we return our most humble thanks. The communications that