furious, but brief. As his enemy's foot slipped upon an oar, the outlaw bent him, by main force, over the gunwale; and the next moment a smothered cry, and a plunge in the troubled waters, told the event. The vessel was by this time a cable's length from the beachthe night was dark, and the wind was off shore !

Frank Hardy remained for a considerable time in the same position, leaning over the gunwale, and fixing a stupified gaze upon the abyss; and when at length he recovered his recollection, the shore was already far distant, and the vessel standing out to sea.

"To the point!" he shouted, suddenly and sternly— "to the nearest point!" and seized the helm himself, to give effort to his orders. They once more neared the beach, but at a different place, and Frank leaped upon the rocks.

Mate," said he, "the goods that still remain on board are of little value-I resign the charge of them to you. Land them when you will—my Last Trip is ended-good night!" and so saying, he darted up the cliff, heedless of the tumult which his hasty desertion had occasioned on board.

"His companions were near him," muttered Frank, on his hasty journey, while drops of cold perspiration trickled down his brow- -" their boats could not be far distant—and he was a fine, able fellow, one who would not suffer himself to sink without good cause!" The heaviness of his heart, however, gave the lie to his words,

and he took the way to Mr. D'Arcy's house, in an agony of soul which it is impossible to describe. It was late when he arrived, and Mr. D'Arcy was from home; but Jane was up, and dressed as if to receive company. When the young pair met, they stood silent for some moments, reading strange things in one another's faces. Jane's face and figure had lost all their finely rounded proportion. Her features were sharp; her eyes wild and anxious;—and not a tinge of colour was visible on her cheek.

"You are unwell, Jane!" said Frank, pressing her sorrowfully to his heart- -" but we shall be happy yet.

My Last Trip is ended!"

"Indeed!" said Jane, and she looked with deep, strange meaning in his face—“ all, then, is over— well over?"

- and

"I hope so," replied Frank, and they sunk again into silence.

"Come, come," said he at length, with a start; "you infect me with your strange sadness. An accident has happened; but a slight one. We were attacked at the Cove, and a man knocked into the sea. A ducking at the worst! My hands are now washed of the business; the Beauty is my own, as my share of former profits; and I tell you, love, we shall he happy still. What is the news? what of your family? are all well?"

"I could almost be happy," said Jane, with a momentary return of former spirits, "when I think that

now you are no longer what you have been. My only brother has been appointed to a command in the preventive service on this coast!"

Frank started, and turned pale.

-"Oh,

"I expect him every instant," she continuedI know you will like him! He is so open, and manly, and loyal-so beautiful, and brave!" At the instant, a tumultuous noise was heard in the hall, as of numerous persons carrying some weighty object; and soon after, a female servant entered the room, and exclaimed-" A man murdered at the Cove!"

Jane did not shrink, nor start, nor move; but calmly fixed her eyes upon her lover, who sank, pale, faint and soul-stricken, into a chair. "My heart foretold it!" said she, sitting down beside him, and taking his cold clammy hand within hers; "you would not promise not to do it! you could not-for all was ordained!" By the pressure of the crowd in the hall, the room-door was burst open, and Jane suddenly started up, and ran towards the fearful object in the midst. There appeared to be a disposition, on the part of the bystanders, to prevent her approach; and cries of "shut the door!" echoed on all sides; but, with almost preternatural strength, she forced her way through the crowd, and obtained a full view of the body. She then turned round, without uttering a word, and beckoned to her lover, who still sate oppressed with horror and expectation upon the chair. He rushed towards her through

the vista of spectators; clasped her in his trembling arms; and fixed upon her closing eyes a look of love, pity, and despair. He then laid her gently down by the lifeless body of her brother-the dead by the dead! In another moment Francis Hardy had left the house, and was never seen or heard of more.

SONNET.

ON LEAVING

IN DEVONSHIRE.

FAIR fields, rich hedgerows; the eternal sea,

And its great bounds; broad hills of green increase;
White hamlets lone; and, nestling among these,

A happy bower, where true-born courtesy
Clasps with its graceful wreaths the goodly tree
Of Home Affection;-through such scenes of peace,
Borne by his wayward fortune's hurrying breeze,

A stranger passed: and when the potency
Of that all-mastering blast still swept him on,
As traveller, harboured on some unknown strand,
On mossy trunk or rude memorial-stone
Inscribes his homely record; in like guise
Wove he these uncouth rhymes, to memorize
The welcome which he met in that fair land.

THE MOTHER AND CHILD.

LINES, SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.*

BY T. K. HERVEY.

THEY may not weep who gaze on thee!

It dries the source of tears,

Like some remembered melody,

Unheard for many years;

That as a ghost-steals out again,
From some dir chamber in the brain,
And waves the weary-hearted back,—
O'er many a dark and wasted track,—

Back to the half-forgotten bowers,

Where hope, in boyhood, gathered flowers!

Young mother!-oh! how long they haunt
The after-paths of time,

The mother's low, yet happy chaunt,
Whose memory-like the chime
Of church-bells-consecrates the air,
And calls the spirit home to prayer ;—

* See the frontispiece to this volume.