But a temporary relief was at hand. Through the obscurity the long-boat that was,

STANZAS.

AWAY.

After a little while we heard a human voice, and on looking over the stern, I discovered James Gavel hanging on by the rudder-gudgeon.

"Ardent Troughton," said he, "shake hands with me; you have proved yourself a better man than I-God bless you-pray for me --sometimes think of the poor deluded sinner, who sinned through ignorance more than hardness of heart:—you have my mother's address."

"Come on board," said I, endeavoring to haul him in by the hand that grasped mine firmly.

"Never: one murderer shall not again endanger two precious lives."

"As you hope for redemption, beware of suicide."

"I will, I do-God bless you-I will hope, and I will swim to the last. Remember Alfred Gavel, and your promise to his mother." Then, with a plunge, he wrenched his hand from my grasp, boldly turned his face from the boat, and struck out in the direction where the vessel, or some remnants of her, might be supposed still to exist.

In a few seconds, he was lost to my view. As my sobs involuntarily burst forth at the nobleness of this self-sacrifice, I could not help confessing, that, in the self-devoted visionary all the best requisites of a hero were concentrated, and ruined by a senseless superstition and an impious and degrading notion of a beneficent Deity.

He was never heard of more.

(To be continued.)

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

WHEN the golden sun sinks to his rest,

And the night breeze around me is spring-
ing;

When the white tombs in moonlight are drest,
And the sweet bird of sorrow is singing;
Sad fancy beguiles me to stray
To the loved one, that sleeps far away.

No friend ever wept o'er the sod,

Where thine ashes, my brother! are lying; No footsteps of kindred have trod

On the green sward that pillow'd thee dy-
ing;

Nor holy lips prayed o'er the clay
Of the lov'd one, that sleeps far away.

Albuera! thou field of the dead!

Dark, dark is the page of thy story: More tears at thy shrine have been shed,

Than ere washed the red laurels of glory! They were martrys that fell on that day, With the loved one, that sleeps far away.

They dug him a grave—his own bands,
And slowly and tenderly bore him,
As if in fond woman's soft hands;

And the tears of the heroes fell o'er him,

As they laid the last sod on the clay
Of the loved one, that sleeps far away.

Oh! when I last stood in the room,

Where his sweet voice so often had sounded,

And saw the bright sunshine illume,

Those woods, where in boyhood he bounded,

I wept, though all faces look'd gay,
For the loved one, that sleeps far away.

For freshly he rose to my view,—

Our beautiful, brave, and light-hearted; With those smiles that a talisman threw Over spirits, that now are departed,— Fond bosoms, since gone to decay, Like the loved one, that sleeps far away.