For my limbs are weak-I tremble

I've pains in my throbbing head.
I feel to-night so weary —"

When out of his tuneful store
He muttered in a child-like way
Of Her Majesty's Pinafore.

"Oh! say that you love me, darling,"
She murmured, pale with fears;
But he answered, "Hardly ever,"
As she wiped away her tears.
And then as the night-mare vision
The mind of the sleeper haunts,

He said, "You'll be kind-to my-sisters,
And my cousins, and my aunts."

On the ship that had been his playground
He sailed to his rest at last

With a cheer for his baby comrades
As he clung to the yielding mast.
And he moaned out, racked with torture
As the sand in the hour-glass ran,
"Well, in spite of all temptation
Your boy is an Englishman."

They buried the little fellow
Quite close to his father's side,
Just seven years from the joyful day
His mother was made a bride.

So there's the story of that which is,
(God knows what might have been!)

And this is the reason why Margaret Gray
Is walking to Kensal Green.

GRANDEUR OF THE OCEAN.-WALTER COLTON.

The most fearful and impressive exhibitions of power known to our globe, belong to the ocean. The volcano, with its ascending flame and falling torrents of fire, and the earthquake, whose footstep is on the ruin of cities, are circumscribed in the desolating range of their visitations. But the ocean, when it once rouses itself in its

chainless strength, shakes a thousand shores with its storm and thunder. Navies of oak and iron are tossed in mockery from its crest, and armaments, manned by the strength and courage of millions, perish among its bubbles.

The avalanche, shaken from its glittering steep, if it roll to the bosom of the earth, melts away, and is lost in vapor; but if it plunge into the embrace of the ocean, this mountain mass of ice and hail is borne about for ages in tumult and terror; it is the drifting monument of the ocean's dead. The tempest on land is impeded by forests, and broken by mountains; but on the plain of the deep it rushes unresisted; and when its strength is at last spent, ten thousand giant waves still roll its terrors onward.

The mountain lake and the meadow stream are inhabited only by the timid prey of the angler; but the ocean is the home of the leviathan,-his ways are in the mighty deep. The glittering pebble and the rainbow-tinted shell, which the returning tide has left on the shore, and the watery gem which the pearl-diver reaches at the peril of his life, are all that man can filch from the treasures of the sea. The groves of coral which wave over its pavements, and the halls of amber which glow in its depths, are beyond his approaches, save when he goes down there to seek, amid their silent magnificence, his burial monu

ment.

The islands, the continents, the shores of civilized and savage realms, the capitals of kings, are worn by time, washed away by the wave, consumed by the flame, or sunk by the earthquake; but the ocean still remains, and still rolls on in the greatness of its unabated strength. Over the majesty of its form and the marvel of its might, time and disaster have no power. Such as creation's dawn beheld, it rolleth now.

The vast clouds of vapor which roll up from its bosom, float away to encircle the globe: on distant mountains

and deserts they pour out their watery treasures, which gather themselves again in streams and torrents, to return, with exulting bounds, to their parent ocean. These are the messengers which proclaim in every land the exhaustless resources of the sea; but it is reserved for those who go down in ships, and who do business in the great waters, to see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep.

Let one go upon deck in the middle watch of a still night, with naught above him but the silent and solemn skies, and naught around and beneath him but an interminable waste of waters, and with the conviction that there is but a plank between him and eternity, a feeling of loneliness, solitude, and desertion, mingled with a sentiment of reverence for the vast, mysterious and unknown, will come upon him with a power, all unknown before, and he might stand for hours entranced in reverence and tears.

Man, also, has made the ocean the theater of his power. The ship in which he rides that element, is one of the highest triumphs of his skill. At first, this floating fabric was only a frail bark, slowly urged by the laboring oar. The sail, at length, arose and spread its wings to the wind. Still he had no power to direct his course when the lofty promontory sunk from sight, or the orbs above him were lost in clouds. But the secret of the magnet is, at length, revealed to him, and his needle now settles, with a fixedness which love has stolen as the symbol of its constancy, to the polar star.

Now, however, he can wind, and flowing wave. vast engines of flame and vapor, and, through the solitude of the sea, as over the solid land, goes thundering on his track. On the ocean, too, thrones have been lost and won. On the fate of Actium was suspended the empire of the world. In the gulf of Salamis, the pride of Persia found a grave; and the crescent set forever

dispense even with sail, and He constructs and propels his

in the waters of Navarino; while, at Trafalgar and the Nile, nations held their breath,

"As each gun

From its adamantine lips,

Spread a death-shade round the ships
Like the hurricane's eclipse

Of the sun."

But, of all the wonders appertaining to the ocean, the greatest, perhaps, is its transforming power on man. It unravels and weaves anew the web of his moral and social being. It invests him with feelings, associations, and habits, to which he has been an entire stranger. It breaks up the sealed fountain of his nature, and lifts his soul into features prominent as the cliffs which beetle over its surge.

Once the adopted child of the ocean, he can never bring back his entire sympathies to land. He will still move in his dreams over that vast waste of waters, still bound in exultation and triumph through its foaming billows. All the other realities of life will be comparatively tame, and he will sigh for his tossing element, as the caged eagle for the roar and arrowy light of his mountain cataract.

PADDY'S LAMENT.

Oh, Mary McGallagher, see phat you've done now,
You've tied me poor heart in a double bow-knot;
For a nice, daycent gairl it's a quare piece o' fun now,
To play such a thrick-Och! phat's into ye got?
You've twisted me head till it's all full of aching,
For thinking o' you, Mary, all the day long;
There's nothing I touch but it's shplitting and breaking,
I niver can do a thing right but it's wrong.

The whole house is aff on a horse-throt to ruin,
The parlor's not fit for a jintleman's pig;

I feel in me bones that there's throuble abrewin',
An' me legs are too wake for the ghost of a jig.

There's a pipe on the mantlepiece all broke to flinders,
There's a shoe near the fender's all out at the toe;
There's rags where the glass ought to be in the winders,
Fur, Mary, mavourneen, I'm loving you so.
Don't talk to that baste of a Barney McFinnegan!
It's working I am fur your good, don't you see?
He's no sooner out of a shpree than he's in agin;
Iv'ry cint that he owns, faith it's coming to me.
Then, Mary McGallagher, pity me sorrow,

Stand ready to put on your wedding-dress soon. Throw care to the dogs-pay the fiddler to-morrowAnd dance till the morn by the glint o' the moon.

Bad luck to the gairl! May I never begin agin!
I'll be an ould bachelor, sure, till I die;
For Mary's gone married to Barney McFinnegan
In the dress that I guv her the money to buy.
But fortune go with her! I'll niver deride her;
There's fish, jist as good as are caught in the say;
An' since she's took Barney, to jog on beside her,
Why, faith, I'll make love to swate Biddy McKay.

BIJAH'S STORY.

He was little more than a baby,
And played on the streets all day;
And holding in his tiny fingers
The string of a broken sleigh.

He was ragged, and cold and hungry,
Yet his face was a sight to see,
And he lisped to a passing lady-
"Pleathe, mithus, will you yide me?"

But she drew close her fur-lined mantle,
And her train of silk and lace,
While she stared with haughty wonder
In the eager, piteous face.

And the eyes that shone so brightly,
Brimmed o'er with gushing rain,
And the poor little head dropped lower
While his heart beat a sad refrain.