escaped? And do you now complain of your lot, W----? You know
not the designs of Providence. Will not Charlotte be yours in the
world to come?"

"God grant it!" said I; "but where will be Benny and Charles? They can
never be, and I shall die, and the flame of parental love will burn in
me, and never can it have an object."

"Hush you!" said Margaret, "cannot God give you in the other world
those spirits of fancy? Did you not enjoy them in the dream, and
cannot the same power make you enjoy them in Elysium? Is it nothing
that God has done for you in showing you what might have been, and
what can be _there_? Are you still ungrateful, and do you still
distrust his goodness? Is it nothing that he has kept you from
temptation, and that you have so clear a conscience? Will you not be
worthy of Charlotte in heaven; and have you no gratitude for all this?
Have you not dear friends still; and will not Margaret be a
guardian-angel to you so long as you sojourn in this valley of tears?"

"Ah!" said I, "I am blest beyond my deserts, and I will no more
complain, but thank my heavenly Father for the dream-children he hath
given me."

I felt reproved by the words of Margaret, for I felt I had often
indulged in useless repinings; and I determined I would do so no more,
but patiently await my time to enjoy the loved ones, both real and
ideal, in heaven. I again turned to speak to Margaret--but Margaret
had vanished to the land of spirits, and I was alone, the solitary man
I had long been. It was but a dream within a dream.

PASSED AWAY.

BY W. WALLACE SHAW.

With wearied step, and heavy heart,
O'erburdened with life's woes--
My soul bowed down with grief and care
The orphan only knows--
I strayed along old ocean's shore,
Where I had wandered oft before,
My grief to hide from men;

I listened--something seemed to say--
The joys that once did fill thy breast
Where, oh! where are they?
A voice that mingled with the roar
Of dashing waves against the shore,
In hollow tone, replied--
"They _bloomed_; and _died_!"

AN EVENING SONG,

BY PROFESSOR WM. CAMPBELL.

[AN EXTRACT.]

Lyre of my soul, awake--thy chords are few,
Feeble their tones and low,
Wet with the morning and the evening dew
Of ceaseless wo.
The time hath been to me and thee, my lyre,
When soul of fire
Was ours, and notes and aspira