s his last.
A picture is lying,
Lorn maid! on his breast--
That picture in dying
His hand closely prest.

Why turns thy cheek paler
These tidings to know?
The truth of thy sailor
Should lessen thy wo:
The wave could not chill it
That stifled his breath;
Pure _love_--can aught kill it?
Give answer, Oh, Death!

THE LITTLE GOLD-FISH.

A FAIRY TALE.

BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF THE "DUTCHMAN'S FIRESIDE," ETC.

In the reign of good King Doddipol, surnamed the Gnatsnapper, there
lived in a stately castle, on the top of a high mountain, a rich old
Norseman, who had an only son whom he loved with great ardor, and
little discretion, on account of his being the last of an illustrious
family. The youth was called Violet, partly because he had for his
godmother the Fairy Violetta, and partly on account of having on his
left shoulder an impression of that flower, so perfectly defined, and
so vivid in color, that the old nurse mistook it at first sight for a
real violet, and declared it smelled like a nosegay.

Being the only son of a great and rich nobleman, as well as somewhat
indolent and unambitious, Violet passed much of his time, while
growing up to manhood, in thinking much and doing nothing. He was
without companions, having no equals around him, and was prohibited
from associating with his inferiors by the strict etiquette which
prevailed throughout the dominions of good King Doddipol. As he grew
up thus in almost entire solitude his temperament became highly
poetical and imaginative, his feelings irregular and ardent, and it
was predicted that some day or other he would become a martyr to love.

Much of his time was spent in lonely rambles among the mountains which
surrounded the residence of the Old Man of the Hills, as he was
called, a distance of many miles in every direction, and one summer
day, wandering on without knowing or caring whither he went, he at
length found himself in a region where he had never been before. It
was a deep, sequestered, rocky dell, shaded by gloomy pines, from the
farther extremity of which there tumbled a bright cascade of
snow-white foam, which, after forming a deep transparent basin at its
foot, escaped murmuring among the rocks below and disappeared. Not a
sound was heard but that of the falling waters and the gurgling
stream, for the birds delight not in the gloom of perpetual shade, and
neither hunter