death-bed of the humble, with equal reverence, and learn, as deeply, the lesson which a death-bed never should, and seldom does, for a time, at least, fail to teach, as though the spirit of one of the magnates of the earth were passing. In the present instance, every thing tended to keep up, and to increase, this feeling. There were none of those circumstances of squalidity, wretchedness, or ignorance, which, in despite of ourselves, will, in some degree, jar across the unity of our state of mind. Aline, as I now saw her, was, more than ever, freed from any of the coarser appearances or attributes common to her rank in life. She looked eminently lovely,-but it was the loveliness almost of death, the calm, pale, beauty of the tenement of humanity, from which the super-human essence has flitted. But when all were gathered round her, for the service to begin, the look which she turned on Pierre, as she placed her hand in his, lighted up her face with the radiance of pure and perfected affection,-human passion, in its noblest and least earthly form; sublimated by the grave, which was opening to receive her, from all its grosser particles, and rendered pure and excellent, almost as the spirit which was, so soon, to awake to heavenly love. Her beauty was no longer the beauty of death,-the still, fixed loveliness of inanimate and pallid clay. It was like a full, rich sunset, among her own Alps; rendering, for the time, warm and brilliant, the condensation and acmé of all that is colourless in nature.

I was so occupied in gazing upon this lovely and interesting object, that I had scarcely time, or oppor tunity, to pay much attention to the rest of the group. I did just look at them, however. The old father seemed, perhaps, to exhibit the fewest signs of emo tion. Old age, beyond a certain point, has, I am convinced, the faculty, like winter, of freezing the "genial current of the soul." It is, probably, a wise and benevolent provision of Nature,—thus, in proportion as we are the more likely to outlive our early and old friends, to render the heart less sensible to their loss. I do not mean to say that the old man appeared, wholly, regardless of what was passing; but he did not seem to suffer keenly. The mother sobbed deeply and audibly; and the tears coursed each other down her cheeks. She did seem to suffer very keenly. The young girls appeared shocked, in its stricter sense. The change and the revulsion had been so sudden and so strong, that they scarcely, as it were, had had time to analyze their sensations. They seemed almost as much mentally stunned, as sorrowful. Pierre,-worthy, kind, affectionate, Pierre,-who had risen in my esteem and regard, by the degree to which he had excited affection, and such affection, in one like Aline,—his grief I will not attempt to describe; he seemed heartbroken.

When the blessing had been given, Aline threw her head upon Pierre's bosom. "At last," said she, "I die your's." Sobs were his only answer. We,

then, all quitted the room, to enable the priest to fulfil the other, and more solemn rites of his church, to which I have before alluded.

I never saw Aline again. I kept, purposely, aloof, as being an heretic, as they would say-I would not, for the world, have given the least jar to their slightest prejudice, at such a moment.-I did not finally leave the house, however, till all was over.

About two hours after the marriage ceremony was over, the surgeon told me, Aline breathed her last→→→ a gentle sigh-upon her husband's bosom. I accompanied him on his way homeward. "I have, of course, sir," he said, "witnessed, in the discharge of my professional duties, many scenes of most poignant sorrow. Death-beds, of every shade and description of distress, are familiar to me. I only hope I may never witness such another wedding! The bridal flowers will be, still, fresh, to be woven into garlands for the bride's grave!"

THE PARTING.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

THE night is lowering, dull and dark,
He holds her to his heavy heart;
Her eye is on the fatal bark,-
And must they must they part!

Oh! that a wish could chain the gales,
How long that dreary calm should last,
Or ere a breath should swell the sails,
That flap around the mast!

Oh! that no ray might ever rise,

To light her latest sacrifice!

There are they met-the young and fond

That such should ever meet to part!

One hour is theirs, and all beyond
A chaos of the heart:-

She hears him yet-his softest sigh-
The breathing of his lowest word-
Sounds that, by her, beneath the sky,

Shall never more be heard;

Form, voice, that hour-all, save its sorrow

Shall be but memories on the morrow!

He is her all who bends above,

Her hope-the brightest, and the last ;—

Oh! that the days life gives to love

Should ever be the past!

What gleam upon their startled eyes
Breaks, like the flash from angry heaven ?
Lo, where the clouds, in yonder skies,
Before the gale are driven !

And, o'er their spirits, all grows night,
Beneath that burst of life and light.

The moon is forth,-but sad and pale,
As though she wept, and waited, still,
For him she never more shall hail,
Upon the Latmos hill :

The breeze is up, the sail unfurled ;-
Oh! for one hour of respite, yet!

In vain! 'Tis moonlight in the world,
But Ellen's light is set;

The bark is tossing in the bay,-
The streamers point away-away!

One kiss of lips as wan and cold
As life to them shall, henceforth,

be;

One glance the glance that makes us old,

Of utter agony;

One throb-the bitterest and the last,

Awaking, but to deaden, pain,

In hearts that, when that pang is past,
Shall never ache again ;-

And the loosed cord,-the broken bowl,
Lie at hope's fountain, in the soul.