-

The youngest, whom my father loved, Because our mother's brow was given To him, with eyes as blue as heaven,For him my soul was sorely moved; And truly might it be distressed To see such bird in such a nest; For he was beautiful as day,

(When day was beautiful to me As to young eagles, being free,) A polar day, which will not see A sunset till its summer's gone,

Its sleepless summer of long light, The snow-clad offspring of the sun:

And then he was as pure and bright, And in his natural spirit gay,

With tears for nought but other's ills ; And then they flowed like mountain rills,

Unless he could assuage the woe

Which he abhorred to view below.

The other was as pure of mind,

But formed to combat with his kind;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood

Which 'gainst the world in war had stood,

And perished in the foremost rank

With joy; but not in chains to pine

His spirit withered with their clank;
I saw it silently decline,

And so perchance in sooth did mine;
But yet I forced it on to cheer
Those relics of a home so dear.
He was a hunter of the hills,

Had followed there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fettered feet the worst of ills.

I said my nearer brother pined,
I said his mighty heart declined,
He loathed and put away his food;
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunters' fare,
And for the like had little care;
The milk drawn from the mountain goat
Was changed for water from the moat;
Our bread was such as captives' tears
Have moistened many a thousand years,
Since man first pent his fellow-men
Like brutes within an iron den:
But what were these to us or him?
These wasted not his heart or limb;
My brother's soul was of that mould
Which in a palace had grown cold,
Had his free breathing been denied
The range of the steep mountain's side:
But why delay the truth? he died.
I saw, and could not hold his head,
Nor reach his dying hand- nor dead;
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died, and they unlocked his chain,
And scooped for him a shallow grave
Even from the cold earth of our cave.

I begged them, as a boon, to lay
His corse in dust whereon the day
Might shine: it was a foolish thought;
But then within my brain it wrought,
That even in death his freeborn breast
In such a dungeon could not rest.

I might have spared my

idle prayer,

They coldly laughed, and laid him there,

The flat and turfless earth above
The being we so much did love;
His empty chain above it leant,
Such murder's fitting monument !

But he, the favorite and the flower,
Most cherished since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,
His martyred father's dearest thought,
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be
Less wretched now, and one day free
He, too, who yet had held untired
A spirit natural or inspired,
He, too, was struck, and day by day
Was withered on the stalk away.
O God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood:

I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on the breaking ocean
Strive with a swoln, convulsive motion,
I've seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of sin delirious with its dread;

But these were horrors; this was woe
Unmixed with such,

but sure and slow

He faded, and so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
So tearless, yet so tender,-kind,
And grieved for those he left behind;
With all the while a cheek whose bloom
Was as a mockery of the tomb,
Whose tints as gently sunk away
As a departing rainbow's ray,
An eye of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon bright.
And not a word of murmur, not

I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rushed to him:- I found him not,I only stirred in this black spot,

I only lived, I only drew

The accursed breath of dungeon dew;
The last, the sole, the dearest link
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race,

Was broken in this fatal place.

23*

LXXVI. - DEATH AND BURIAL OF LITTLE NELL.

DICKENS.

[CHARLES DICKENS is the most popular living novelist, perhaps the most popular living writer, of England. His first work-a series of sketches under the name of Boz was published in 1836, and though it showed brilliant descriptive powers, did not attract great attention. But the Pickwick Papers, which appeared the next year, fairly took the world by storm, and lifted the author up to a dizzy height of popularity, equalled by nothing since Scott and Byron. Since then he has written several novels and tales, besides sketches of travel in Italy and in America, (he was here in 1842,) in which last his genius appears to less advantage than in his works of fiction. His most striking characteristic is a peculiar and original vein of humor, shown iz sketches taken from low life, and expressing itself by the most quaint, grotesque, and unexpected combinations of ideas. His Sam Weller-a character he has never surpassed is the type of his creations of this class; and it is a truly original conception, and very well sustained.

He is hardly less successful in his pathetic passages than in his humorous delineations. He excels in scenes which paint sickness and death, especially of the lovely and the young. His pages have been blistered by many a tear. The extract in tho text is alone enough to prove his great power over the sympathies of the heart.

He has also uncommon skill in the minute representation of scenes of still life, which he paints with the sharp fidelity of a Dutch artist. He depicts a bar room, a kitchen, a court of justice, or a prison, in such a way as to be next to seeing them. He sometimes uses this gift to a greater extent than the taste of his readers approves. The tone of Dickens's writings is sound and healthy; though he takes us a little too much into scenes of low life, and obtrudes his evil and hateful characters upon us more than we could wish. He has a poetical imagination, and a heart full of genial charities and humanities. The generous and sympathetic tone of his writings is one of their most powerful attractions. He has a hatred of oppression and injustice in all their forms, and is ever ready to take sides with the victim and the sufferer. His great literary reputation has given him much influence in England; and this has been uniformly exercised in behalf of those social reforms in which our English brethren have been of late years so much engaged, and with such honor to themselves.

Dickens is the editor of the Household Words, a weekly periodical published in London, conducted with much ability, and in a generous and enlightened spirit.

The following extract is from Master Humphrey's Clock, a novel published originally in 1841. Little Nell is one of the sweetest and purest of all his creations; and her life and death have touched many thousands of hearts. She is represented in the novel as the constant attendant of her grandfather, an affectionate old man, but weak in moral energy. She glides like a sunbeam of grace and innocence through many a troubled scene; but the burden of life is too heavy for her delicate spirit, and she thus gently lays it down.]

By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner chamber, while these words were spoken. pointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips,"You plot among you to wean my heart from her. never do that

You will

never while I have life. I have no relative