“Anything—everything, my poor lad,” I answered chokingly. The little fellow smiled faintly—it was like an angel’s smile—but he did not answer. His eyes were fixed on the stars flickering in that patch of blue sky, far overhead. His mind wandered. “It is a long—long way up there,—but there are bright angels among them. Mother used to say that I would meet her there. How near they come, and I see bright faces smiling on me from them. Hark! is that music?” and, lifting his finger, he seemed listening intently for a moment. He fell back; and the old veteran burst into tears. The child was dead. Did he indeed hear angels’ voices? God grant it. I opened his trunk, and then discovered his real name. Out of mercy to the unfeeling wretches, who were his relatives, and who had forced him to sea, I suppress it. Suffice it to say, his family had once been rich, but that reverses had come upon them. His father died of a broken heart, nor did his mother long survive. Poor boy! I could not fulfil the whole of his injunction, for we were far out at sea, but I caused a cenotaph to be erected for him beside his mother’s grave. It tells the simple tale of The Ship’s Boy. Philadelphia, May, 1841. * * * * * TIME’S CHANGES. BY JOHN W. FORNEY. There is a sweet and wildering dream Of by-gone fresh and joyous hours, Which gilds the memory with its beam, And the stern spirit overpowers. Seen thro’ the chequered glass of Time, How spell-like do its glories rise! Like some ethereal pantomime Danced on the skirt of autumn skies! We stand and gaze; and wonder-rapt, Think of the changing power of years, As on our brow its trace has crept, And from our eyes exacted tears. There is glad childhood, rob’d in smiles, And beauteous as a dew-gem’d flower, Whose silver laugh and boyish wiles, Usurp the mother many an hour. There is the first half-spoken word, How rare a music to her ear! She listens, as she had not heard, And hearing, owns it with a tear. There is a passing on of Time— The boy is merged into the man— And daringly he frets to climb What once his vision could not scan. Come back from this poetic scene! Come from this scene of flowery youth! Come from the time when all was green, To cold and dreary, stubborn truth. Look on your own now withered brow, Where care sits emperor of the mind; Look to your throbbing heart; and now Cast all these dreams of youth behind. Read the sad change which Time has wrought Compare it by your memory’s glass; And turn from that whose lightest thought Points to the grave where ages pass.