But Pierre had nothing more to live for. His work in the world was done. The artificial energy, supplied by one absorbing idea was gone; and the contemplation of his own work was driving him to madness. It so closely resembled life that he longed more and more to have it live. The lustrous eyes moved, but they had no light from the soul, and they would not answer to his earnest gaze. The beautiful lips parted, but they never spoke kind words, as in days of yore. The image began to fill him with supernatural awe, yet he was continually drawn toward it by a magic influence. Three months after its completion, he was found at daylight, lying at its feet, stone dead. Antoine Breguet survived him two years. During the first eighteen months, he was never willing to have the image of his lost darling out of sight. The latter part of the time, he often whistled to the bird, and talked to her, and seemed to imagine that she answered him. But with increasing imbecility, Rosabella was forgotten. He sometimes asked, “Who _is_ that young woman?” At last he said, “Send her away. She looks at me.” The magic-lantern of departing memory then presented a phantom of his wife, dead long ago. He busied himself with making imaginary watches and rings for her, and held long conversations, as if she were present. Afterward, the wife was likewise forgotten, and he was occupied entirely with his mother, and the scenes of early childhood. Finally he wept often, and repeated continually, “They are all waiting for me; and I want to go home.” When he was little more than eighty years old, compassionate angels took the weary pilgrim in their arms, and carried him home. A SONG. Hush! hush! Love lies at rest, Like a bird in her nest, Like dew in a lily’s breast, Love is sleeping. Roses breathe fragrant sighs Over his drowsy eyes, But, ah, how still he lies! Love is sleeping. Drive the honey-bees away! Let not the sun’s bright ray Over his features play! Love is sleeping. Lest his slumbers should fly, Gentle Music draw nigh, With your sweet lullaby! _Keep_ him sleeping! Ha! his cheek grows warm Under the magic charm, And he moves his white arm! Love is dreaming, His little limbs shiver, His soft eye-lids quiver, Like rays on a river: Love is waking. UTOUCH AND TOUCHU. “Nothing left But what _you_ touch, and not what _touches you_.” LEIGH HUNT. “Thou hast the fairy coin, which, in wrong hands Is merely stones and leaves;--in thine, true gold.” J. R. LOWELL.