So Mrs. Harper lay down beside her daughter, who nestled against her bosom and slept. Ellen's happy spirit passed away in that sleep. But her mother was blind, and could not see when her child was dead; and when her husband, fearing what had happened, came near, she raised her finger and said, "Hush, don't wake Nelly!"

The next morning Lucy sent over for me to come and dress Ellen's hair for the last time. I found my friend looking very much as I had always seen her, only with a sweeter smile, if possible, hovering about her lips. She was lying on her couch, dressed in white muslin, and with many flowers scattered around her. A vase of roses stood on a stand at her feet, and over it hung the pretty cage of Robin; and Robin himself was singing very sweetly, but in lower tones than usual, as if he thought his young mistress was sleeping, and feared to waken her.

They had cut away some of the hair from the back of Ellen's head, but around the forehead the familiar ringlets were all left. These I dressed very carefully, though my tears fell so fast I could scarcely see what I was doing. I shall never forget the scene when the family came into the parlour to look upon Ellen, after she had been laid out that morning. Lucy, sobbing and trembling, led her mother to the couch. The poor woman felt in the air above the dead face a moment, and said, "How I miss her sweet breath round me!" when she knelt down, and, with her arms flung over the body, swayed back and forth, and seemed to pray silently. The father took those shining curls in his hands, and smoothed them tenderly and kissed them many times, while his great hot tears fell fast on the head of his child, and on the rose-buds which lay upon her pillow, and seemed to give a flush to her white, cold cheek.

I noticed that little Willie was the calmest of them all. He seemed to have taken to heart the words of his sister, when she told him that she was going into a better and happier life, where she would continue to love him, and whither he would come, if he was good and true in this life. So he did not grieve for her, as most children grieve, but was quiet and submissive.

Ellen was buried in a beautiful cemetery a mile or two from the noise and dust of the city. The morning after she had been laid there, I went to plant a little rose-tree over her grave. I was somewhat surprised to find Willie there, and with him Robin Redbreast in his pretty cage.

Why have you brought the bird here, Willie ?" I asked.

"Because," said he, in a low, trembling voice, "I thought that, now sister's spirit was free, I ought not to keep her bird a prisoner any longer."

"That is right," I said, for I thought that this was a beautiful idea of the child's.

So Willie opened the door of the cage, and out flew the Robin. This time he did not alight on the trees, but mounted right up toward heaven. There was a light cloud floating over us, and, as we stood looking up after the bird, Willie seemed troubled to see that it passed into this, and so was lost to our sight. "Ah," he said, "I hoped he would follow Nelly! but he has gone into the cloud, and sister's soul I am very sure, passed away into the sunshine,"

"Tis thus in friendships; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.
A Hare who, in a civil way,
Complied with everything, like Gay,
Was known to all the bestial train
Who hunt the wood, or graze the plain:
Her care was never to offend,
And every creature was her friend.
As forth she went at early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies.
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath
She hears the near approach of death:
She doubles to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy ground;
Till, fainting, in the public way,
Half dead with fear she gasping lay.
What transport in her bosom grew,
When first the horse appeared in view!
"Let me," says she, " your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend.
You know my feet betray my flight;
To friendship every burden's light.”
The horse replied, “Poor honest Puss,
It grieves my heart to see you thus :
Be comforted, relief is near,
For all your friends are in the rear."

She next the stately bull implored;
And thus replied the mighty lord:
"Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend.
Love calls me hence; a favourite cow
Expects me near yon barley-mow;
And, where a lady's in the case,
You know all other things give place.
To leave you thus would seem unkind:
But see, the goat is just behind."

The goat remarked her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye:

"My back," says she, "may do you harm;
The sheep's at hand, and wool is warm."

The sheep was feeble, and complained,
"His sides a load of wool sustained;"
Said he was slow, confessed his fears,
"For hounds eat sheep as well as hares."
She now the trotting calf addressed,
To save from death a friend distressed:
"Shall I," says he, "of tender age,
In this important case engage?
Older and abler passed you by;

How strong are those! how weak am I!
Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence,
Excuse me, then; you know my heart;
But dearest friends, alas! must part.
How shall we all lament! adieu;
For see, the hounds are just in view."

ION.

TALFOURD.

Mr. Justice Talfourd, whose memory still lives in the recollection of
too many sorrowing friends, needs no panygeric here as a judge, a
gentleman, or a poet. The leading character of his "Ion" is that of
a youth who discovers his own father in the person of a tyrant, who
has reduced his people to desolation in the indulgence of his own
vicious pleasures. Upon this, Ion, believing that the curse will
not be averted from his country till the last member of the tyrant's
family be extinct, destroys himself.

Ion. I thank you for your greeting.-Shout no more.
But in deep silence raise your hearts to heaven,
That it may strengthen me, so young and frail
As I am, for the business of this hour.

Must I sit here?

Medon.

Permit thy earliest friend, Who propp'd, in infancy, thy tottering steps, To lead thee to thy throne,—and thus fulfil His fondest vision.

Ion.

Thou art still most kind

Me. Nay, do not think of me, my son! my son! What ails thee? When thou shouldst reflect the joy

Yet thus, with Phœbus' blessing, I embrace it. [Sits on the throne. Stand forth Agenor!

Age.

I await thy will. Ion. To thee I look, as to the wisest friend Of this afflicted people ;-thou must leave Awhile the quiet which thy life hath earn'd, To rule our councils; fill the seats of justice With good men, not so absolute in goodness As to forget what human frailty is;

And order my sad country.

Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request;
Thou never couldst deny me what I sought
In boyish wantonness, and shalt not grudge
Thy wisdom to me, till our state revive
From its long anguish ;-it will not be long

If Heaven approve me here. Thou hast all power
Whether I live or die.

Ion. Death is not jealous of thy mild decay, Which gently wins thee his: exulting youth Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride, And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp His shivering prey at noontide. Let me see The captain of the guard.

Crythes.

I kneel to crave, Humbly, the favour which thy sire bestow'd

On one who loved him well.

That wakest the memory of my father's weakness;
But I will not forget that thou hast shared
The light enjoyments of a noble spirit,
And learn'd the need of luxury. I grant,
For thee and thy brave comrades, ample share
Of such rich treasure as my stores contain,
To grace thy passage to some distant land,
Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword,