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These fond expectations were, however, never to be realized, for his heart-wrung but resigned biographer thus continues :

" It was on the 8th May, 1847, that I awoke to the sad certainty that the dreaded hour of separation from my beloved child was now at hand. As I reflected upon the value at which I should hereafter estimate these few fleeting days, I mentally determined with Elisha – As the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth, I will not leave thee.' In accordance with this purpose I requested the members of my family not to disturb me for anything less than an imperative cause; and shutting the door of our little parlour upon all the world, I endeavoured to create a little world of interest around him. As I did so, the dear child exclaimed, 'How happy we are here in this quiet little room by ourselves!' It was a pretty spot; the windows were shaded by the luxuriant growth of ivy, which so embowered them, that curtains and sun-blinds were quite superfluous. They looked out into the gardens now clothed in May-day greenness, and as the spring was cold and backward, we were glad of the warmth of the little parlour, contenting ourselves with the view of the outside. The day was wet, too, so we made a little sunny sphere around us. We got our books, and pictures, and plates; and I endeavoured to amuse the sufferer, in the intervals of the distressing fits of coughing, with colouring little prints for his scrap-book, then got him to attempt the same amusement; but in a few minutes he laid himself down again on the sofa, exhausted by this trifling exertion. Looking languidly round the room, his eye rested upon a vase which he had filled with flowers of his own gathering; and observing that they were fading, he said, “These flowers are fading fast, but I think I am fading as fast.'”

(To be concluded nert month.)

POPERY IN NAPLES. The Official Gazette of the Two Sicilies contains a decree of which the following is a translation:

“ Ferdinand II. &c., &c. Upon the proposition of our Minister the Secretary of the Interior, after having heard our Council of Ministers, we have resolved to decree, and we do decree as follows:

Art. I. The National Guard of our most faithful city of Naples is placed under the special protection of the most holy Virgin of Carmel.”

Art. II. Our Minister the Secretary of State, President of the Council of Ministers, and our Minister the Secretary of State for the Interior, are charged with the execution of the present decree.

(Signed) FERDINAND. Naples, March 15th, 1848.



(Psalm cvii. 30.)

The ripples gently glide,

No angry billows foam, While I on life's serenest tide,

Am wafted home.

The silver moonbeams play

O'er ocean's sleeping breast, Which glitters as the orb of day,

Sinks in the west.

Anon the storm winds beat,

The heaving surges roar,
But soon this life, so short, so fleet,

Shall be no more.
On! 'mid the heaving surge,

On! 'mid the storm winds high, Onward, still on, my course I urge,

For Christ is nigh. I would not linger here,

To watch the moon's soft light, Nor heed the ripples sparkling clear,

At sunset bright.
I would not wildly fear,

Amid the tempest's roar,
For every billow brings me near

The blissful shore.
Soon shall I anchor there,

Where heavenly breezes blow, And leave my every weight of care,

My every woe.

C. B. C.


Where are the ones so loved in other years,
Where are their beaming smiles, their bitter tears ;
The voices lifted oft in fervent prayers,
The mighty deeds of some, their joys and cares ?

Our Fathers, where are they?

Where shall we seek them? Hill and stately wood
Stand now as they for ages long have stood;
But here our Fathers' feet no longer rove,
Their steps have passed away from hill and grove.

Where then, oh, where are they?

Shall we look for them, then, in lovelier lands
Making through all the earth our loud demands ?
Alas! no voice gives answer to our cry,
Echo returns the sad sound tremblingly--

Oh! tell us, where are they?

Come, let us go to the low grassy mound,
Where sweet but awful memories gather round;
Where the dark vault, in its sepulchral shade,
Tells for the slumbering dead that it was made-

There, there our Fathers lie.

But hark, what tones are those whose thankful song.
Peals, through the arch of heaven borne along
By winds celestial ? O'er the silent graves
In rapturous melody the music waves -

• Our Fathers, these are they?"

Yes ; dust returned to dust, but the freed soul
Hath passed across the seas which ever roll,
On this our mortal home, whilst songs of love
Welcomed each victor to his crown above.
'Twas thus our Fathers passed from this sad land away,
Then let us ask no more, Our Fathers, where are they?'



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