“I learned long ago the bar that prevented our union—it is in existence still, Duncan. Your mother only, shall decide, if it be insurmountable. I have never, for a moment, doubted your faithfulness, and it has been to me an unspeakable comfort, in the days when I was alone, and toiling for a support, to know that none had supplanted me in your affections. In the temptations, and struggles, and hardships I have known, it has kept me above and beyond the world—and if the last night’s triumph proves to be but the opening to a new life for me on earth, the recollection of what you are, and that you care for me, will prove a rock of defense, and a strong-hold of hope, always. Severed from, or united with you, I am yours forever.” Seven days after, there was a marriage in the little church of that remote village, where Duncan Melville and Rosalie Sherwood, passed their childhood. Side by side they stood now, once again, where the baptismal service had long since been read for them, and the mother of the bishop gave the bride away!—“_Honi soit qui mal y pense!_” * * * * * THE DEATH OF WORDSWORTH. BY WILLIAM SYDNEY THAYER. When the beloved guide, with whom we oft Have wandered over meadow, hill and dale, Have had sweet converse, and who bore aloft Our minds attentive to some pleasing tale, Whose words of wisdom often could avail To cheer us on our weariest pilgrimage, Bending with years, passes beyond the pale Of earthly life, what crowding thoughts engage Our hearts, which seek in vain the staff-supported sage! Wordsworth is dead! and yet not wholly sad The feelings which our sorrowing bosoms thrill; Death was his gain, for here his spirit had Not space enough to wander at its will, Filling its fruitful treasury until Men might be blest with its rich overflow; As when the sinking sun behind the hill, Growing more broad as it doth westward go, Scatters its golden dust upon the world below. To him Creation all her stores unrolled, To him unveiled the glories of her face; To him ’twas given her mysteries to behold, Her countless forms of grandeur and of grace— The blue-eyed violet in its hiding-place, The drowsy locust, singing at high noon, From the elm-bough, her shrill, unvarying lays, Till listening Nature seems almost to swoon— The humblest sights and sounds chimed with his spirit’s tune.