deed, for their wants, but he thought how much more and richer treasure lay masterless beneath the water, and he resolved to dive again. All the arguments, entreaties, even prayers, of Donald were in vain. he said, "" only One other "But once more, Donald! once more. It would be folly, having gone so far, to rest satisfied with so little. plunge will secure us fortune and happiness for the rest of our days, and after that I will venture no more." "Not now, at least, brother! If you will do it, wait until to-morrow. See, the tide is flowing like a mill-stream, and a heavy wind rolls in the waves from the ocean breast-high." Donald spoke the truth. A sudden storm seemed brewing without, for the cavern, silent when they descended, now rung with the hollow roar of the waters, and sheets of glittering spray broke violently against its sides. "The more need, then, for haste," cried Malcolm, and once more he disappeared in the gulf. Donald stood watching in breathless and agonised suspense. A minute elapsed another yet nothing rose from the boiling cauldron that now lay seething at his feet. An enormous wave, with a curling crest of foam, came rolling up the cavern, almost sweeping the Highlander from his stand as it passed, and dashed with a hungry roar against the sides of the hollow pit. The jarring echo resounded deafeningly along the vault, but it seemed as if other sounds were mingled with the elemental noise-as if a piercing cry, followed by a peal of hollow laughter, rose from the bottom of the abyss. As with the daring diver of Charybdis, so here The waves roared up with the roar of thunder, THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. BY MISS M. A. BROWNE. The following lines were written in an album, once the property of a young lady who died some years ago. It contained nothing but a few drawings of flowers by herself. The memory of the precious dead! how oft its sudden gush Falls on the spirit with a deep, a reverential hush! A thousand things may bring it back, even in the midst of mirth; 'A flower, a tone, a breath of wind," may draw its magic forth. And, more than these, when falls the glance on some old relic, kept Even as this, because 't was her's, who many a year hath slept; Because her touch hath hallowed it, because her gentle eye Hath left to fancy on the page a light that cannot die. The image of the lovely dead within my mind I see; 'Tis not my privilege to have the boon of me mory; Yet, well for me, it spares one void, one pang the less is mine, One treasure less to lose around my spirit's mournful shrine. And I can call a phantom up with calm and open brow, And eyes of gentle thoughtfulness, and smile of happy glow; All that was fair and feminine, in heart, and face, and mien, I feel the young departed one of by-gone years hath been! She loved the flowers-the record here is writ in living hues ; She loved them, the sweet children of the sunshine and the dews; And this alone would be enough of sympathy with me, To make me feel a blessedness is round her memory. An humble faith, a spirit pure, a mind most meekly wise, That taught her all the simple gifts of Nature's hand to prize; The cheerfulness that placid light on all around confers A happy life, a peaceful death these surely have been her's! Call not this volume blank and bare-the memory of the dead, Her words, her looks, her smiles are there, through shed; all its pages Not for the dull, the coarse, the cold, but for the loving few, Who, gazing here, the sunny dreams of early youth renew. A secret writing lies therein, unseen by all, save those Unto the spells of whose warm love its cunning tracery shows; For them its records are revealed, and lessons deep are read To those who feel this book doth shrine the memory of the dead. THE MOONBEAM. BY MRS. WALKER. Thou com'st in brightness, when the day But not alone the dark blue deep, Not only those who love thee well- The mourner by the new-made grave, These, these, who deem the sun's broad glare The eye can weep, the heart can pray. |