Yes she can. I will give the traveller two far more perfect illustrations. The on deggiando movement of a light breeze, as it passes, wave upon wave, over high grass: and the gradual and rapid passing away of a shadow, when the sun leaves a cloud, from a hill side of rich foliage.

24. "I have been thinking, more and more, of the probability of departed friends' watching over those whom they have left behind."—Henry Kirk White.

I have often done so; and whether the idea be a delusive one or not, there is no delusion in believing that the Deity sees them and us at the same instant. They turn, and we turn, at the same moment, to him, and thus through him we enjoy a communion. If two hearts were once preserved in reciprocal love by contemplating, when parted from each other, the same star, how close will be the bond with those who have gone before us, when, at such a distance, we are worshipping the same God!

25. "When one is angry, and edits a paper, I should think the temptation too strong for literary, which is not always human nature."—Lord Byron.

There is a couple of young Irishmen who "edit a paper" not far from the place of this present writing, who might furnish a striking corroboration of this opinion of the noble poet. Think of a couple of boobies, pretending to be oracles in literature, wreaking their petty vengeance upon the productions of one against whom they have a personal pique! Such and so contemptible are some of the "critics!" God save the mark! of this generation!

J. F. O.


LINES TO ——.

Lady!—afar yet loved the more—
My spirit ever hovers near,
And haunts in dreams the distant shore
That prints at eve thy footstep dear.
And say—when musing by the tide,
Beneath the quiet twilight sky,
Wilt thou forget all earth beside
And mark my memory with a sigh?
The wind that wantons in thy hair—
The wave that murmurs at thy feet,
Shall whisper to thy dreaming ear
An answer—loving—true and meet.
Oh! fancy not if from thy bower
I tarry now a weary while,
My heart e'er owns another's power
Or sighs to win a stranger's smile.
Those gentle eyes, which in my dream,
With unforgotten love still shine—
Shall never glance a sadder beam
Nor dim with tears for change of mine.
I gaze not on a cloud, nor flower
That is not eloquent of thee—
The very calm of twilight's hour
Seems voiceless with thy memory.
Like waves that dimple o'er the stream
And ripple to the shores around,
Each wandering wish—each hope—each dream
Steals unto thee—their utmost bound.
Oh! think of me when day light dies
Among the far Hesperian bowers—
But most of all 'neath silent skies,
When weep the stars o'er earth's dim flowers.
When the mysterious holiness
Which spell-like lulls the silent air,
Steals to the heart with power to bless,
And hallows every feeling there.