O'er all those scenes, or beautiful or splendid, Which man risks wealth, and peace, and life to see, I roved at will--but all my journeys ended, Returned to gaze upon the old oak-tree. But, ah! beneath those broad, outreaching branches, What other forms, what different feet had strayed, Since I, a youth, went forth to dare the chances Which adverse Fortune in my path had laid. Past my meridian, sinking toward the season When Hope's horizon is with clouds o'ercast, When sportive Fancy yields to sober Reason, I came and questioned the remembered Past. I came and stood by that oak-tree so hoary, Forgetting all the intervening years, Stood on that turf, so blent with childhood's story, And poured my heart out in one gush of tears. I had returned to claim my father's dwelling, Borne like a waif on Time's returning tide-- Summoned I came, by one brief missive telling That all I left behind and loved had died. Wiser and sadder than in life's bright morning, As softly fall the sun's last rays on me, As when I saw their early glow adorning The emerald foliage of this old oak-tree. PAULINE GREY. OR THE ONLY DAUGHTER. BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD," "TELLING SECRETS," ETC. (_Concluded from page_ 233.) The result of Mr. Grey's investigations _was_ decidedly unfavorable. He had much difficulty, in the first place, in obtaining any distinct information at all, most people hating to commit themselves in such a matter. He was generally answered evasively, and one or two merely said, "they knew no good of him." A friend, however, undertook to make the inquiries, and with much better success than Mr. Grey could do; and he learnt "that young Wentworth was wild, very wild--much in debt, with no business habits; and, in short, that there was not a father in town who would be willing to give his daughter to him." Mr. Grey, of course, considered this information as decisive, and communicated it to his wife. She received it with mingled feelings of relief and apprehension. There was no danger now of Pauline's having him, but she dreaded telling her so; not that she for a moment doubted Pauline's acquiescence in the decision, about which she herself supposed there could be no two opinions, but only the burst of grief with which she would receive it. But never was Mrs. Grey more mistaken. Pauline saw nothing in the information that her father had received to change her opinions or feelings at all; "that he was wild--she knew that--he had told her so himself. He had been very wild before he knew her--and in debt--yes, he had told her that too. He had never had any motive to apply himself to business before," and Pauline seemed to think his not having done so as a matter of choice or taste, only showed his superior refinement. In short, she adhered as resolutely to her determination as ever.