that he, as well as she, upon some account or other, I forget what, was universally pitied by the whole regiment; but finish the story thou art upon." "Tis finished already," said the corporal, "for I could stay no longer, so wished his honour a good night. Young Le Fevre rose from off the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs; and as we went down together, told me they had come from Ireland, and were on their route to join the regiment in Flanders. But alas!" said the corporal, "the lieutenant's last day's march is over." "Then what is to become of his boy?" cried my uncle Toby.

It was to my uncle Toby's eternal honour-though I tell it only for the sake of those who, when copped in betwixt a natural and a positive law, know not for their souls which way in the world to turn themselves -that, notwithstanding my uncle Toby was warmly engaged at that time in carrying on the siege of Dendermond, parallel with the Allies, who pressed theirs on so vigorously that they scarce allowed him time to get his dinner-that nevertheless he gave up Dendermond, though he had already made a lodgment upon the counterscarp-and bent his whole thoughts towards the private distresses at the inn; and except that he ordered the garden-gate to be bolted up, by which he might be said to have turned the siege of Dendermond into a blockade, he left Dendermond to itself, to be relieved or not by the French king, as the French king thought good, and only considered how he himself should relieve the poor lieutenant and his son. That kind Being, who is a friend to the friendless, shall recompense thee for this.

"Thou hast left this matter short," said my uncle Toby to the corporal, as he was putting him to bed; "and I will tell thee in what, Trim. In the first place, when thou mad'st an offer of my services to Le Fevre -as sickness and travelling are both expensive, and thou knowest he was but a poor lieutenant, with a son to subsist as well as himself out of his pay-that thou didst not make an offer to him of my purse; because, had he stood in need, thou knowest, Trim, he had been as welcome to it as myself." "Your honour knows," said the corporal, "I had no orders." "True," quoth my uncle Toby; "thou didst very right, Trim, as a soldier, but certainly very wrong as a man."

"In the second place, for which, indeed, thou hast the same excuse," continued my uncle Toby, "when thou offer'dst him whatever was in my house, thou shouldst have offered him my house too. A sick brother-officer should have the best quarters, Trim; and if we had him with us, we could tend and look to him. Thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim; and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's, and his boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once, and set him upon his legs. In a fortnight or three weeks," added my uncle Toby, smiling, "he might march." "He will never march, an' please your honour, in this world," said the corporal. "He will march," said my uncle Toby, rising up from the side of the bed with one shoe off. please your honour," said the corporal," he will never march but to his grave." "He shall march,” cried my uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe

"An'

on, though without advancing an inch-" he shall march to his regiment." "He cannot stand it," said the corporal. "He shall be supported," said my uncle Toby. "He'll drop at last," said the corporal; "and what will become of his boy?" "He shall not drop," said my uncle Toby, firmly. "A-well-o'-day do what we can for him," said Trim, maintaining his point, "the poor soul will die." "He shall not die, by G-!" cried my uncle Toby. The Accusing Spirit, which flew up to Heaven's chancery with the oath, blushed as he gave it in; and the Recording Angel, as he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever.

SOMEBODY'S DARLING.

BY MRS. LACOSTE.

INTO a ward of the whitewash'd halls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's Darling was borne one day-
Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow,
Pale are the lips of delicate mould-
Somebody's Darling is dying now.

Back from his beautiful blue-vein'd brow
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Cross his hands on his bosom now,
Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,
They were somebody's pride, you know:
Somebody's hand had rested there;

Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in the waves of light?
God knows best; he has somebody's love;
Somebody's heart enshrined him there;
Somebody wafted his name above

Night and morn on the wings of prayer. Somebody wept when he march'd away, Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, Somebody clung to his parting hand.

Somebody's waiting and watching for him— Yearning to hold him again to their heart; And there he lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling childlike lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead,

Pausing to drop on his grave a tear; Carve on the wooden slab at his head,"Somebody's Darling slumbers here."

GINEVRA.

BY SAMUEL ROGERS:

IF thou shouldst ever come, by choice or chance,
To Modena, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
Its sparkling fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; thro' their archèd walks,
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day. A summer sun
Sets ere one-half is seen; but, ere thou go,
Enter the house-prithee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.

K