Grace Marks glances at you with a sidelong stealthy look; her eye never meets yours, and after a furtive regard, it invariably bends its gaze upon the ground. She looks like a person rather above her humble station, and her conduct during her stay in the Penitentiary was so unexceptionable, that a petition was signed by all the influential gentlemen in Kingston, which released her from her long imprisonment. She entered the service of the governor of the Penitentiary, but the fearful hauntings of her brain have terminated in madness. She is now in the asylum at Toronto; and as I mean to visit it when there, I may chance to see this remarkable criminal again. Let us hope that all her previous guilt may be attributed to the incipient workings of this frightful malady. To The Wind. "Stern spirit of air, wild voice of the sky! Thy shout rends the heavens, and earth trembles with dread; In hoarse hollow murmurs the billows reply, And ocean is roused in his cavernous bed. "On thy broad rushing pinions destruction rides free, Unfettered they sweep the wide deserts of air; The hurricane bursts over mountain and sea, And havoc and death mark thy track with despair. "When the thunder lies cradled within its dark cloud, And earth and her tribes crouch in silence and dread, Thy voice shakes the forest, the tall oak is bowed, That for ages had shook at the tempest its head. "When the Lord bowed the heavens, and came down in his might, Sublimely around were the elements cast; At his feet lay the dense rolling shadows of night, But the power of Omnipotence rode on the blast. "From the whirlwind he spake, when man wrung with pain, In the strength of his anguish dare challenge his God; 'Mid its thunders he told him his reasoning was vain, Till he bowed to correction, and kiss'd the just rod. "When call'd by the voice of the prophet of old, In the 'valley of bones,' to breathe over the dead; Like the sands of the sea, could their number be told, They started to life when the mandate had sped. "Those chill mouldering ashes thy summons could bind, And the dark icy slumbers of ages gave way; The spirit of life took the wings of the wind, Rekindling the souls of the children of clay. "Shrill trumpet of God! I shrink at thy blast, That shakes the firm hills to their centre with dread, And have thought in that conflict--earth's saddest and last-- That thy deep chilling sigh will awaken the dead!" CHAPTER XI Michael Macbride "His day of life is closing--the long night Of dreamless rest a dusky shadow throws, Between the dying and the things of earth, Enfolding in a chill oblivious pall The last sad struggles of a broken heart. Yes! ere the rising of to-morrow's sun, The bitter grief that brought him to this pass Will be forgotten in the sleep of death." S.M.