"Welcome, my prince," said she, holding out her little, delicate hand, "I congratulate you; you have triumphed by valor and constancy."
When the ceremony was over, the prince inquired anxiously whether she knew aught of his father, and was informed that he had married the daughter of good King Doddipol, and was wasting his substance as fast as possible, by giving fêtes to the bride, and lending great sums to his father-in-law. Prince Violet sighed at the fate of the Old Man of the Hills, but in good time forgot all his griefs in the arms of love and beauty.
The Princess Violetta made a most excellent wife, and never afterward talked more than became a reasonable woman. The wicked giant, who, it should have been premised, had been extricated from the moat, and finished his fit of sneezing, being freed from the diabolical influence of the enchanter, Curmudgeon, took the pledge, became a tetotailer, and lived ever after an example to all overgrown monsters, past, present, and future.
THE VESPER BELL.
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
How deep and mournfully at eve's sweet hour
The bell for vespers chimes its holiest note,
When the soft twilight lends its soothing power
And on the air a silence seems to float!
The weary wand'rer knows a home of rest,
He toils not now who toiled the livelong day,
Friends cherish fondest recollections, blest
With thoughts of them whose love cannot decay,
The best affections of the heart are told,
We greet with joy our dear, domestic hearth,
And think how strong the viewless bonds that hold
Unwearied love to transient things of Earth.
And visions of his lyre the poet sees
At this lone time of Nature's sweet repose,
When fancied music, borne on every breeze,
Æolian-like, with thrilling sadness flows.
Oh, then move thoughts, the holiest and best,
O'er the soul's calm and mild serenity,
Like beauteous birds that skim along the breast
Of the still waters in some waveless sea.
Where that deep bell sends forth its solemn tone,
How many worship at Devotion's shrine!
How many voices rise before the throne
Whence the bright glories of the Godhead shine!
Not when the glories of th' opening day
With crimson blushes usher in the dawn,
Not when the noontide pours its deepest ray
On forest, glade, blue lake and emerald lawn;
Not when the moonbeams shed their silvery light
In richest lustre over copse and dell,
Come sainted hopes, sweet dreams and fancies bright
As when through shadows sounds the Vesper Bell.