"Just at this juncture, the mother came down to the beach, to know the cause of her daughters' delay: they told her every circumstance, describing the monster they had caught. The old lady was one of the most discreet women in the world; she was called the black-eyed princess, from two black eyes she had received in her youth, being a little addicted to boxing in her liquor. Alas! my children, cries she, what have you done? The fish you caught was a man-fish, one of the most tame domestic animals in the world. We could have let him run and play about the garden, and he would have been twenty times more entertaining than our squirrel or monkey. If that be all, says the young coquet, we will fish for him again. If that be all, I'll hold three tooth-picks to one pound of snuff, I catch him whenever I please. Accordingly they threw in their lines once more, but with all their gliding, and paddling, and assiduity, they could never after catch the diver. In this state of solitude and disappointment they continued for many years, still fishing, but without success; till, at last, the Genius of the place, in pity to their distress, changed the prude into a shrimp, and the coquet into an oyster."] But in tender mercy to your own patience and that of your readers, both of which I have so severely taxed, I will conclude for the present, and remain your friend, OLIVER OLDSCHOOL. {366} ON THE DEATH OF CAMILLA. BY L. A. WILMER. 'Tis past; the dear delusive dream hath fled, And with it all that made existence dear; Not she alone, but all my joys are dead, For all my joys could live alone with her. O, if the grave e'er claim'd affection's tear, Then, loved Camilla, on thy clay-cold bed Clothed with the verdure of the new-born year, Where each wild flower its fragrance loves to shed-- There will I kneel and weep, and wish myself were dead. 'Tis not for _her_ I weep--no, she is bless'd; A favor'd soul enfranchis'd from this sphere: A selfish sorrow riots in my breast; I mourn for woes that she can never share. She sighs no more--no more lets fall the tear, She who once sympathiz'd with every grief That tore this bosom, solac'd every care; She whose sweet presence made all sorrows brief, Ah, now no more to me can she afford relief. Around this world--(a wilderness to me, Not Petrea's deserts more forlorn or dread) I cast my eyes, and wish in vain to see Those rays of hope the skies in mercy shed-- Each dear memorial of Camilla dead-- Her image, by the pencil's aid retain'd, The sainted lock that once adorn'd her head, These sad mementos of my grief, remain'd To tell me I have lost what ne'er can be regain'd.