That the captain was not born to be hanged is certain; and although from childhood a sojourner upon the ocean, it was not his destiny to be drowned. There is a tradition handed down, that had it not been for very considerable donations, under his hand and seal, to a religious community in Spain, a method of bidding adieu to this life more in accordance with the pious notions prevalent three hundred years ago, would certainly have been chosen for our hero. Indeed, there were not wanting many heretic-hating persons who affirmed that an _auto-da-fe_ was got up expressly for the occasion. But we have ascertained beyond a doubt that he reformed in his manner of living, that he secured to the Holy Order the donations already mentioned, that the reverend fathers kindly took from his legal heirs all trouble in the division of his riches, and that he died in his bed at last, as a pious Catholic should die, and was buried in consecrated ground, with every rite and ceremony belonging to the community he had so munificently contributed to enrich. DIRGE FOR AN INFANT. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE. He is dead and gone--a flower Born and withered in an hour. Coldly lies the death-frost now On his little rounded brow; And the seal of darkness lies Ever on his shrouded eyes. He will never feel again Touch of human joy or pain; Never will his once-bright eyes Open with a glad surprise; Nor the death-frost leave his brow-- All is over with him now. Vacant now his cradle-bed, As a nest from whence hath fled Some dear little bird, whose wings Rest from timid flutterings. Thrown aside the childish rattle, Hushed for aye the infant prattle-- Little broken words that could By none else be understood Save the childless one that weeps O'er the grave where now he sleeps. Closed his eyes, and cold his brow-- All is over with him now! R. S. CHILTON. THE CHIMES. WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE. BY E.W. ELLSWORTH. It was evening in New England, And the air was all in tune, As I sat at an open window, In the emerald month of June. From the maples by the roadway, The robins sang in pairs, Listening and then responding, Each to the other's airs. Sounds of calm that wrought the feeling Of the murmur of a shell, Of the drip of a lifted bucket In a wide and quiet well. And I thought of the airs of bargemen, Who tunefully recline, As they float by Ehrenbreitstein, In the twilight of the Rhine. And then of an eve in Venice, And the song of the gondolier, From the far lagunes replying To the wingéd lion pier. And then of the verse of Milton, And the music heard to rise, Through the solemn night from angels Stationed in Paradise.