As yet I am a feeble child, A poor, frail thing of earth; Great Maker! keep me undefiled And sinless e’en in mirth! They tell me that thy guardian care Extends o’er land and sea, That e’en a sparrow may not fall Unseen, unknown to thee! That thou art God o’er great and small, That by thy power was made As well the fire-fly as the sun, The bright light as the shade— That the clear stars which shine above Are wondrous worlds like ours, Perchance with richer, softer skies And sweeter buds and flowers! They tell me, and my Bible true Confirms the cheering tale, That thou dost love all human things, That none who seek will fail— That none who bend the suppliant knee And ask thy godlike aid, Will fail to win a mansion bright When life and earth shall fade! Then guide, I pray thee, guide my feet, My youthful heart control, Chasten and purify my thoughts And brighten all my soul— Oh! make me true and dutiful To thee and kindred dear, And lead me to that better land, That world without a tear! * * * * * DE PONTIS. A TALE OF RICHELIEU. BY THE AUTHOR OF “HENRI QUATRE; OR THE DAYS OF THE LEAGUE.” (Continued from page 175.) CHAPTER V. Next morning, at the usual hour, Marguerite was at the door of the _Conciergerie_. The thread of affairs had become so intricate—matters that she felt at liberty to explain to her father, and other circumstances, which regard for the page’s safety forbade disclosing—that, for the first time in her life, she felt ill at ease in his presence. She was conscious of being, to a certain degree, culpable—the unreserved confidence hitherto subsisting between father and daughter was no more—there was reservation, and it produced distress, regret, and confusion. Still she was true to her own intent. She had made a deliberate resolve of secrecy when her mind was calm and free to judge, and she would not break it when in a state of fluttering and depression. The veteran was delighted with the progress in his affairs—there was yet some chance, he said, of his being able to make provision for a dutiful daughter—some temporal solace for old age. Leaving him after a short visit—for, in truth, she felt much of what he said as a secret reproach—Marguerite hastened to the advocate. “The packet is deposited in sure hands—and not at the _Tuileries_, Monsieur Giraud!” was her salutation. “And half an hour hence will see me at the _Hôtel De Fontrailles_,” replied the party addressed. “But I dread the peril you incur, Monsieur,” rejoined the damsel; “is there no”— “Has Marguerite done her duty?” demanded Giraud, interrupting her. “I have,” exclaimed the lady, firmly.