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scended to communicate the extraordinary events of the ́night. It would have been excessively provoking to one like Brian, whose five senses were so many corroborating evidences in favour of his narration, to have even a shadow of doubt thrown on it. Judge, then, what must havé been his feeling to see Darby laugh outright in his face, and insist on it that it was only a dream. In vain did he appeal to the black mark on his forehead, or to the diminution of the oats in the hold; the other stoutly insisted that the sails were clued up just as he had left them, the tiller lying exactly in the same spot, and, moreover, he was himself so wakeful at night, that he would have heard the pit-a-pat of a mouse overhead, not to speak of the noise necessarily attendant on the working of the boat. Darby, however, became much less strenuous in his incredulity on observing, as they passed the Beeves, in their voyage up, Jem Driscoll's little cruiser a wreck upon the rocks. But he was altogether astounded by the weight of conviction, on his return to Loughill, when he learned that Mr. O'Shaugnessy's gray mare had been spirited out of the stable the night before, and ridden almost to death-the stable-boy having found her in her stall in the morning, covered with foam and mud, and yet the door fast locked, just as he had left it when retiring to bed.-""Twas the wonder of all the neighbours, and of the country wide, moreover, and why wouldn't it?" added Darby, " and a long warnen, into the bargain, to all boatmen, how they'd venthir out of a day that they wouldn't have any purtection agen them that it isn't good to mention."

SHE LOVES ME! SHE LOVES ME!

She loves me! she loves me!

I see it in her eye:

I note it in her lightest look;
I hear it in her sigh!

I mark it in her twittering feet,
When by me side by side,-
All tell a tale, as true as sweet,
Of her-my more than bride!

She loves me! she loves me!

Her very frown doth show-
And when upon her ruddy cheek
There comes a ruddier glow.
If 'tis the blush of maiden thought-
The flash of woman's pride,-
All, all to me but love are nought
From her-my more than bride!

She loves me! she loves me!
Ay, this was all my song,
My faith, my prayer, and my hope,
In dreams, and all day long!-
Her smiles were false-her looks a lie,-

Save when a frown they wore:

Or, if it be she ever loved,

She loves me now no more!

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

BY D. WEIR, ESQ.

"She would sit and weep at what a sailor suffers."-Cowper.

HAVING passed the days of my childhood, and the principal part of my more advanced years, in a seaport town, my mind has long been rendered familiar with the melancholy relation of shipwrecks and disasters at sea, and affecting accounts of the diseases and deaths which await many in a foreign land. It has often been stated, that the stir of business in large towns, on the sea-coast, is rather unfavourable to literary pursuits, and tends to deaden that love of romance familiar to the inhabitants of retired and rural districts. There is no doubt some truth in the remark; for retirement and meditation has a much more congenial home among woods and streams, than amidst the bustle of business, and the arrival and depar

ture of vessels from and to distant parts of the world. This, which may apply to other places, can have no reference to the delightfully situated town of Greenock, on the banks of the Clyde. Here Nature has spread the richest variety of hill and dale, grove and lawn; and he must be but a careless observer of the scenery around, who is not struck with its magnificent and sublime appearance. How often, on a summer evening, has it been my delight to wander along the banks of that noble river, to gaze upon its fine expanse of water, and to observe the beautiful glow of sunset above the finely marked hills of Roseneath; while the stillness of approaching night gave a solemnity and grandeur to the picturesque scenery by which I was surrounded. With what emotions have I beheld the calmly gliding bark returning from a long and hazardous voyage, and pictured to myself the anxious look and beating heart which awaited its return. With equal interest have I beheld the departure of some wanderer of the deep, to encounter storms and tempests, with the uncertainty of ever again visiting these shores. Perhaps, at that moment, the weeping eye of a mother and wife, or a lover, were gazing with intent and mournful interest, as all that they loved on earth was receding from them. There is a something in parting with those "who go down to the sea in ships," that gives rise to feelings and emotions, which a stranger cannot intermeddle. The howling of the tempest thrills to their very heart. When disease and pestilence are raging in a foreign land, how anxiously every intelligence is looked for and dreaded; and when death has overtaken a friend or relation, that sorrow is embittered, because

"No friend was there to close his eye,-
No friend to shed a tear."

I had often heard of the manner in which death-tidings had been received; and, on returning one evening from a solitary ramble, it was my lot to witness its sad reality.

News had arrived that afternoon of the loss of a fine ship on the coast of Ireland, where all on board had perished. An amiable young man, who was the only support of an aged mother, was one of the number; and I accompanied a near relation to announce the melancholy intelligence. On entering her apartment, (it was not a time for frivolous remark, or to take particular notice of its elegant simplicity,) she was seated with a little child by her side, repairing some articles of dress for Colin's expected return; and on the table before her was a letter, which she had received from him on the same morning. When she saw us enter, a smile of joy played upon her cheek, and she began to relate "the good news which she had so shortly received from her dear boy." Whether there was any thing in our look that gave indication of the mournful errand, I cannot say, but all in a moment her countenance changed, and she exclaimed, with inexpressible feeling, "Is Colin well?" It was impossible to answer the question, and her too prophetic soul easily understood the reason. "Oh! may my God forgive me," she continued, "I have prayed morning and evening for his safety, and never thought he was beyond the reach of my prayers." Her cries pierced me to the very heart, while “ my dear". “dear”—was all her lips could utter. The little child, who was the only surviving branch of her numerous offspring, and an early orphan, gazed with silent astonishment; and, at last, clinging with innocent affection to her grandmother's breast, exclaimed, "Don't cry-don't cry. Colin will be soon here, and he will bring the pretty shells." This infant remembrance went like an arrow to her heart, and stopped all utterance. Mary, seeing that her words had no effect, lay down her head upon her knee, and wept as if her little heart would have burst asunder. We had by this time related all that was prudent concerning Colin's untimely fate, and tried to soothe the heart of his mother. She would listen for a moment with a calmness peculiar to deep distress, and then burst

forth with an expression of grief beyond all description. We were but mere spectators in this tragedy. He was her only hope on earth; and when that was for ever gone, she seemed to have no other joy under the sun. There was a something peculiarly affecting in her situation in her early days. She had been born to affluence; but one misfortune after another followed her steps; and affliction and sorrow seemed so wedded to her fate, that they were unwilling to leave her even on the brink of the grave. The husband of her youth died in a foreign land: she was left destitute with a numerous family; yet complaint never escaped her lips. She was often heard to say, that "Providence had been kind to her, and she was enabled to give her children clothing and education without aid or assistance." She had a pride that could not brook dependence, and would rather have parted with some family relic, than have lived for one day on the bounty of another. Colin was her youngest and her only surviving child; and the misfortunes of his mother had made her dearer to him; and if the world had been his, it would only have yielded him happiness on her account. The unscrutable decrees of Providence, however, did not permit him to smooth her steps to the grave. She survived, as she said, "her six pretty boys, but this last stroke seemed severer than them all." Her frame had been long in a declining state;-age, with its numerous frailties, surrounded her; and when its last prop was gone, it never again gave bud or blossom, and she sunk with sorrow to the grave. She only survived the intelligence a few weeks; and the last time I ever saw her abroad, was the week in which she died. It was on a Communion Sabbath, and as lovely a day as ever shone; she went with a mild, but resigned look to the altar; and having seated herself there, seemed to forget all her own sorrows, in the contemplation of that mysterious event which the solemnity of the occasion brought to her mind. I thought surely the broken-hearted sacrifice of that widow was an offering meet for heaven.

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