and we will come, from time to time, to visit thy Rosalie's grave."

"But if thy father will not let me live with you?" "Then we will live in a cottage near him."

"Enough!" cried Madelon, "I believe thee, and wonder I could for a moment distrust thee, darling!"

Rosalie was right. Her father, alarmed at her silence, did come that evening, and their meeting was indeed a happy one. Though satisfied of her innocence himself, even before the trial, he was glad that every one else should be equally convinced; and he took care that the papers which contained the proceedings should be widely circulated.

The generous heir of the old lady was not wanting in proper feeling on this occasion, and he insisted on giving Rosalie a considerable present in money, not for having been the means of bringing the culprit to justice as in that she only did her duty-but as some amends for all the unmerited suffering which she had undergone. The day of Rosalie's return to her home, accompanied by her father and her maternal friend, whom the former had warmly invited to live with them, was indeed a day of rejoicing.

Their friends and neighbours-nay, the whole village, came out to meet them. Amongst the rest, Rosalie observed Auguste St. Beuve; but she eagerly turned away from him to greet that young man who, believing her innocent, as he candidly weighed her

previous character against every suspicious circumstance, had, though a stranger, visited her in prison. This young man had suddenly followed to America, unknown to his friends, a young woman whom he had long loved. He had married and buried her there; and, on his return to his native village, he had entirely exculpated himself from the calumnious charge against him, and had thereby rendered some service to Rosalie.

But the pleasure of welcoming home again the patient sufferer under unmerited obloquy was considerably damped by the alarming change in her appearance. She had now, however, the best of all restoratives in a quiet mind; and, at length, her sense of happiness, and of having "fought a good fight," restored her to health.

While the pious and grateful girl, never forgetting the mercy which had been vouchsafed to her in the day of her distress, was daily repeating those words of the patriarch, that had so often shed peace upon her soul" THOUGH HE SLAY ME, YET WILL I TRUST IN HIM!"

SLEEP.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CORN-LAW RHYMES.'

SLEEP! to the homeless, thou art home;
The friendless find in thee a friend;
And well is he, where'er he roam,
Who meets thee at his journey's end.
Thy stillness is the planet's speed;
Thy weakness is unmeasured might;
Sparks from the hoof of death's pale steed,—
Worlds flash and perish in thy sight.

The daring will to thee alone

The will and power are given to thee—
To lift the veil of the unknown,
The curtain of eternity-

To look uncensured, though unbidden,
On marvels from the seraph hidden !
Alone to be-where none have been!
Alone to see what none have seen!
And to astonished reason tell
The secrets of th' Unsearchable !

LA MEXICANA.

BY CHARLES SWAIN.

A VISION from the world of thought-
A dream of golden bowers;

When Youth and Time, like happy friends,
Were wandering 'mid the flowers:
When Love came like an angel down,

His radiant spells to weave;

And Hope sang like the lark at morn—
The nightingale at eve.

Within the mirror of the past,

How beautiful arise

The long-lost hues of early life—

The stars of Memory's skies!
When one bright beam of maiden's eye

Was sunlight to the mind;

One voice, a melody more sweet

Than Poesy may find!

Our painter's hand hath caught the power

And spirit of romance ;

How graceful that declining head!

How soft the downcast glance! She lists!-'tis not the vesper-hymn Along the valley borne,

Nor distant voice of forest-streams'Tis for her hunter's horn!

Her hunter's horn!-at break of day,
She heard his signal sound;
She saw across the misty hills

His own proud courser bound:
With rifle, lance, and bended bow,
To hunt the Llamma there;
Or chace, perchance, a nobler foe-
The panther from his lair.

Why stays he yet?-the lonely moon
Looks o'er the mountains blue;
The wild swan seeks her reedy nest;
The stars gleam faint and few;
The deer lie slumbering by the stream,
Half hid their crested brow;

And dreary chime the midnight bells :-
Where stays her hunter now?