'When all is gone that once gave food to pride, Man little cares for what Time leaves beside; And when an orchard and a moat, half dry, Remain, sole relics of a power passed by, Should we not think of what ourselves shall be, And view our coffins in the stones of Leigh. For what within yon space was once the abode Of peace or war to man, and fear of God, Is now the daily sport of shower or wind, And no acquaintance holds with human kind. Some who can be loved, and love can give, While brain thinks, pulses beat, and bodies live, Must, in death's helplessness, lie down with those Who find, like us, the grave their last repose, When Death draws down the veil and Night bids Evening close. 'King Charles, who, fortune falling, would not fall, Might glance with saddened eyes on Morley Hall, And, while his throne escaped misfortune's wave, Remember Tyldesley died that throne to save.' * * * * * Branwell's next poem of this period is entitled the 'End of All,' which is complete, and is one of the most pathetic he ever wrote. It constitutes a true picture of his mood, and illustrates, at this time, the sombre and troubled nature of his thoughts. He pourtrays, in shades of great depth, his reflections on the death of one dear to him, whose loss leaves his soul a blank and desolate void, an evil which nothing can alleviate or remove. But he dreams for a moment that a life of peril in far-off lands, and in battle, strife, and danger, that the 'stony joys' of solitary ambition, may shrine the memory of sorrows which cannot be destroyed. Yet, even from this cold dream, this cruel opiate of the heart, he is recalled by the groans of her who is dying, to the consciousness that, with her departure, all will go. The bereaved is Branwell himself, and his 'Mary' is doubtless the lady of his misplaced affection, over whose loss he still broods in melancholy and afflicted language, each pathetic chord vibrating with intense mental anguish, as he contemplates the future years of desolation in which he is left to wander tombward unaided and alone. Here, as in his other poems, the rhythmic sweetness of Branwell's verse flows on in words well chosen to express the idea he intends to convey, which itself is worked out with great suggestiveness of power. THE END OF ALL. 'In that unpitying Winter's night, When my own wife--my Mary--died, I, by my fire's declining light, Sat comfortless, and silent sighed, While burst unchecked grief's bitter tide, As I, methought, when she was gone, Not hours, but years, like this must bide, And wake, and weep, and watch alone.