"Beloved princess," said he, kneeling, and respectfully taking her hand, "I hope my presence is not disagreeable to the queen of my heart, for whose love I have so long pined. Speak to me frankly, sweet lady Dewbell, tell me, can you love me? Will you permit me to call you mine forever?" The lady Dewbell changed her intention respecting the cushion upon which she had intended to faint, and, somehow, found herself before she was half conscious of it, in her lover's arms. An explanation ensued; the prince Paudeen gave up his post of honor to Sir Timothy; the ceremony was concluded on the spot; and as the gay and joyous party left the church, Puck was seen sitting at the organ accompanying himself in a sort of wild yet sweet chant, of which the lady Dewbell easily distinguished-- "Oh, a merry tale will the gossips tell, Of the happy mishap of the proud lady Bell." A NIGHT THOUGHT. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. Long have I gazed upon all lovely things, Until my soul was melted into song, Melted with love till from its thousand springs The stream of adoration, swift and strong, Swept in its ardor, drowning brain and tongue, Till what I most would say was borne away unsung. The brook is silent when it mirrors most Whate'er is grand or beautiful above; The billow which would woo the flowery coast Dies in the first expression of its love; And could the bard consign to living breath Feelings too deep for thought, the utterance were death! The starless heavens at noon are a delight; The clouds a wonder in their varying play, And beautiful when from their mountainous height The lightning's hand illumes the wall of day:-- The noisy storm bursts down--and passing brings The rainbow poised in air on unsubstantial wings. But most I love the melancholy night-- When with fixed gaze I single out a star A feeling floods me with a tender light-- A sense of an existence from afar, A life in other spheres of love and bliss, Communion of true souls--a loneliness in this! There is a sadness in the midnight sky-- An answering fullness in the heart and brain, Which tells the spirit's vain attempt to fly And occupy those distant worlds again. At such an hour Death's were a loving trust, If life could then depart in its contempt of dust. It may be that this deep and longing sense Is but the prophecy of life to come; It may be that the soul in going hence May find in some bright star its promised home; And that the Eden lost forever here Smiles welcome to me now from yon suspended sphere.