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SOME ACCOUNT OF MR. T. HARCOURT.

we had been strangers so long, and to which we were both restored in so wonderful a manner.

We therefore travelled northward by easy stages, and found our house and property in excellent preservation, having been intrusted to the care of so honest a steward, from whose hands I moreover received a considerable sum, which remained after all the expenses of our return were paid. This money I sent to the ambassador at Naples, of whose excellent heart and understanding we had had such abundant proof, begging he would see it applied to the ransoming of Christian slaves; and I had the satisfaction of meeting afterwards, in London, two of these poor men, who came to return me their acknowledgment.

The latter years of my father's life were like those of a venerable forest-tree, which, when branch and trunk appear outwardly decayed, yet puts forth green and pleasant leaves. He was a cheerful-hearted and thankful old man, who loved his fellow-beings, and did them good, and returned thanks, many were the times in the day, to that God who had crowned his life with goodness!

AGATHA.

BY L. E. L.

A tale of patient sorrow, and of faith,
Which taught that patience.

AN ancient chamber in a castle old :

The oaken wainscoting is black with age;
The tapestry, worked with Scripture histories,
Has lost its colours; and the books that fill
Those carved arches, show both care and time.
And yet the room is cheerful-for the sun
Looks through the casements, where bright flowers
are placed

In graceful order; and the cultured plant

Bears ever witness to a calm delight

Shed o'er the hours of such as nurse its bloom.
Two lean beside the window: one whose brow
Bears evidence of many a chastened grief,
For it is sad but calm-her cheek is pale,
And touching in its beauty-'tis so meek,
So kind, with light that suits an angel's face
Who dreams of heaven. By her side is one

Younger, and exquisitely beautiful,

With large blue eyes, the darker for their tears;
And with the red rose reign upon her face,
Paramount as in youth.

Agatha Loquitur.

Nay, Bertha, turn from gazing on the road
Which winds amid the lime-trees-'tis in vain ;
The last hoof-tramp has perished on the wind
Two hours agone. Now dry thy tears, dear child;
I would not check the natural tenderness,

The grief, the young and loved at parting feel;
But I must blame this utter yielding woe,
Which feeds upon indulgence, and forgets
Womanly fortitude and gentleness,

Making the strength it finds in patient hope.
But then the dangers of the red campaign—
The weary march—the night-watch when the snow
Drives on a northern wind !-My Bertha, yes,
All these, and more, are in thy Ernest's lot;
Yet not the less his life is in God's hand,

As much as when he wandered through our vales
With thy sweet eyes upon him: trust in heaven-
Prayer and submission bring their blessing down.
Dear child! I know your sorrow, though my heart
Now only beats unto a measured time;
Yet once its pulse was agony; I wept
Tears passionate and vain.

Oft have you asked

My early history; I'll tell it now,

That it may bring its lessons-faith and hope;
Show how the heart is schooled by suffering,
And how earth's sorrow may be guide to heaven!
You know that I am not a native here;
These quiet valleys, where security

Seems like a birthright, and the circling year
Is marked but by the seasons and their change-
The green ear ripening into yellow wheat,
The opening blossoms and the falling leaves-
These are our chronicles of passing time!
This was my mother's soil-this Saxon land:
She was the very being such a home

Would form to gentle beauty-calm and meek,
Yet steadfast; filled with all harmonious thoughts,
Her nature and religion were content-

Content which learnt submission from its hope-
Hope, high and holy hope, beyond the grave!
But I was born beside the winding Rhone,
And lived from infancy 'mid glittering scenes
Of falsehoods, follies, and appearances.
No kindly influences from solitude,

No communings with nature filled the heart
With thought, and mystery, and memories,
Which childhood doth unconsciously imbibe,
Till the mind, strengthened by such intercourse,
Finds its own power, and doth rejoice to find.
For never was it meant that we should be

Formed only by the artificial world.

We grow there selfish and indifferent ;
We take up cunning for defence, and deem-
How foolishly!-'tis wisdom: vanity,

Too strongly nourished and too early taught,
Makes every object, like a mirror, yield
Some likeness of ourselves; and we but see
Our own small interests, and our weak desires,
In all around; and we exaggerate

Our merits and our claims; unsatisfied,

As the false estimate must ever be,

It ends in disappointment; and then comes
Envy and hate, anger and bitterness;
While life, a constant fever, has no joy
In nature, or in meditation lone.

Such was my youth: I lived but for myself;
My gentle mother only asked to see
A smile upon the face she loved so well;
And my proud father, in his bold career
Of war and council, had but time to think
Indulgence was affection. Yet not glad,
Albeit so glittering, was my hour of youth;
It had its vain desires, hopes mortified,
Its envyings and repinings. I was young,
And rich, and (I may say so now) was beautiful;

But so were many; and to vanity

The triumph which it shares is incomplete.

Before a year of festival had passed,

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