"'Oh nature!' I cried, 'in thy beautiful face All the wisdom and love of thy Maker I trace; Thy aspect divine checks my tears as they start, And fond hopes long banish'd flow back to my heart!' Thus musing, I wander'd alone to the shore, To gaze on the waters, and list to their roar, When I saw a poor lost one bend over the steep Of the tall beetling cliff that juts out o'er the deep. "The wind wav'd her garments, and April's rash showers Hung like gems in her dark locks, enwreath'd with wild flowers; Her bosom was bared to the cold midnight storm, That unsparingly beat on her thin fragile form; Her black eyes flash'd sternly whence reason had fled, And she glanc'd on my sight like some ghost of the dead, As she sang a loud strain to the hoarse dashing surge, That rang on my ears like the plaint of a dirge. "And he who had left her to madness and shame, Who had robb'd her of honour, and blasted her fame-- Did he think in that hour of the heart he had riven, The vows he had broken, the anguish he'd given?-- And where was the infant whose birth gave the blow To the peace of his mother, and madden'd her woe? A thought rush'd across me--I ask'd for her child,-- With a wild laugh of triumph the maniac replied-- "'Where the dark tide runs strongest, the cliff rises steep, Where the wild waters eddy, I've rock'd him to sleep: His sleep is so sound that the rush of the stream, When the winds are abroad, cannot waken his dream. And see you that rock, with its surf-beaten side, There the blood of my false love runs red with the tide; The sea-mew screams shrilly, the white breakers rave-- In the foam of the billow I'll dance o'er his grave!' "'Mid the roar of the tempest, the wind's hollow moan, There rose on my chill'd ear a faint dying groan; The billows raged on, the moon smiled on the flood, But vacant the spot where the maniac had stood. I turn'd from the scene--on my spirit there fell A question that sadden'd my heart like a knell; I look'd up to heav'n, but I breath'd not a word, For the answer was given--'Trust thou in the Lord!'" CHAPTER XVI Provincial Agricultural Show "A happy scene of rural mirth, Drawn from the teeming lap of earth, In which a nation's promise lies. Honour to him who wins a prize!-- A trophy won by honest toil, Far nobler than the victor's spoil." S.M.