And nothing to think of the rain.
For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the awful pangs

Of the run before the meal.

Oh! but for one short hour,
A respite however scant,
No blessed leisure for love or hope,
No! sleep is all I want.

A little sleeping would ease my brain,
But out of my warm snug bed,

I must tumble now, for the clamouring bell
Is going overhead.

With brain all reeling and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A fellow sat in his scanty clothes
On the side of his nice warm bed.
Dress! Dress! Dress!

In haste and in hunger as well,

And still with a voice of dolorous woe,
(I hope that singing won't make him slow)
He sang this" Song of the Bell.”

A TALE.

(Continued from our last.)

without find

I HAD not got as far as Exeter, however, when it struck me that I had done wrong in leaving ing out the meaning of all that had happened or at least speaking to Ellen on the subject; so off I got, and waiting

for the next coach, was soon at the comfortable inn. After tea I went out and called on my friend the grocer-why I call him grocer, and not baker or linen-draper, I know not, as he united all three, and several other, trades, in fact was the only shopkeeper in, save and except the smith. Over a pipe we got very confidential, and I learnt that, strange to tell, Master Richard had walked off with only part of the smith's money-the greater part, indeed, but only part. Having fearnt this I returned once more to the Bull, slept and rose early, for I had resolved to see Ellen at the market that I might catch her alone; there of course she was, pale and sad as I had been told. I went to her and she at once asked me about Richard. I had to say I knew nothing of him, but asked her carefully all about it, and learnt with much trouble that she had given the money to Richard. to Richard. He had not told her what he wanted with it, but she had such trust in him that she had let him take it; "and after all," said she, "it was my portion only that I gave. I had surely," (this she said doubtingly, wanting my approval) "a right to give it before marriage, it would have been his in a few months-what difference could a few months make in right and wrong?" He had promised to return in a year or less (it was a year and two months now), and if not bring it back, at least account for it, and tell her what he had wanted it for. She had borne up at first, though she missed him sadly, but her father's abuse both of him and of her stung her so that she had, as I could see, gradually got thinner and paler. However he must come very soon now, and she would know all about it and be cleared, and so would he.

All this she said half-despairingly, so I gave her what hopes I could, having but little myself, when who should

N

appear in the market but Master Richard himself, walking quite coolly as if he had never stolen £500, or, indeed, anything more valuable than an apple all his life. He came up, kissed Ellen,-who was mad with pleasure, and kept saying, "I knew he would; I knew he would,”— shook hands with me, who I must say could not help being very glad to see him, though I thought it would have been wiser of him to have stayed in America, or wherever he had escaped to, than to have returned and put his head into the noose, as it were. Still, I thought he could not have been so very wicked, and yet walk with so upright a carriage. He and Ellen soon walked off, Ellen I supposed to hear, and he to tell, his reasons for the theft, and, what had hurt her more, the delay. I went back to my inn, being afraid to take the news to the smith, lest he should instantaneously apprehend the two. After, however, having given them time for a very lengthy explanation, I returned to them, found them still together, but kissing more than talking, so disturbed them (I am an old married man, and knew they would have quite enough of that hereafter), and told them as the explanation seemed so satisfactory to go and give it to the old smith; to this, however, they demurred so much, that I doubted whether there was any explanation, and almost to think they were only two thieves plotting new schemes. However, at last Richard said that he had told Ellen everything, but did not like to tell any one else just at present. Awkward, said I, but anyhow go back to your master, tell him the money was to have been Ellen's when you married, and that to make all straight you think it best to marry at once. If Ellen can really tell me she thinks your object was good, now that she knows it, I will do my best for you;

otherwise you had best go back to America before you are caught here. He turned to Ellen, and she (she had recovered her bloom already) looked at me as much as to say, how dare you suggest that Richard could do anything very wrong; so I went with them to see old Carey; he was very wroth, but she appeased him more or less by her argument about the money, and at last he let her marry him, though still ignorant why his apprentice had bagged his money and broken his indenture. In fact, it did not come out till some time after, when I called upon the young smith (the old one had retired), whom I found in mourning; he then told me that his father, who had just died, had in his youth forged a bill, which after a long time was just being traced home to him; the only way to save his fame was to buy this bill; his father had not enough by £500, just the amount of Ellen's portion, and for this Richard had intended waiting; but hearing that his father was now so close pressed as to be unable to wait a month, he had persuaded Ellen to give him the money at once; he could not for his father's sake tell the smith, so took this way; and then went off as if having stolen it. He had been delayed in the affair longer than he had expected, which had, as I have before told, very much distressed Ellen, who I fear, began to think what every one else thought they had known a long while, viz., that Richard had gone to America with the money, and did not intend to return. His father's death put him in a position to tell us this, but as old Carey had quite forgiven it already, and had learnt from Ellen to believe, that though Richard might not be very careful, he was at least tolerably honest as times go, the discovery made but little difference in the way of life. After their marriage—at which, though nearly fifty, I danced all night,

I have paid them a visit nearly every year, and stood godfather to at least three out of their young family of twelve —too many for a man in my state of life; but in that country the more children the better; for as arrows in the hand of a giant so are young children, and, among our working population, happy is that father who has his quiver full of them.

(B.)

POLYCARP.

Martyrdom, thy truest glory
Comes not to the giddy throng,
Who would win a name in story
In the world's rude, godless song.

'Tis not he who loves the setting

That would meetest wear the crown,

Rather he, who self-forgetting,

Dreads the lustre of renown:

He, who on his God relying,

Seeks not hence uncalled to fly;

Living for his Lord, and dying
When his Master bids him die.

Thus, when Smyrna felt the anger
Of the zealous heathen's power,
Bidding blackest clouds of danger

O'er her Christian band to lower;