TRIBUTARY STANZAS

TO THE MEMORY OF LADY WYATT,

(Late Miss L. H. Sheridan,)

BY MRS. CORNWELL BARON WILSON.

"The gifted ones of the Earth pass away like the Autumn breeze over a field of ripened corn."

Another! yet another! as the waves

That chase each other in succession down, So do the talented of Earth find graves;

For poison lurks beneath the laurel crown. The hand of Genius aids the scythe of Time

To sweep with ruthless force the gifted of our clime. And THOU hast joined the many gone before,

The bright, the brilliant in Fame's annals shrined; Whose page the eye, enraptured, lingers o'er, Charmed by the fictions of thy spell-wrought mind.

Wit's diamond pen, and Satire's chasten'd fire,
No less obeyed thy touch than the melodious lyre.

Yet not alone each mental grace was thine;

The Sister Handmaids, PAINTING, MUSIC, SONG, Waited thy bidding ::-at thy crowded shrine

Paid willing sacrifice;-a brilliant throng! While o'er thee Beauty's hand her mantle cast, (Earth's fairest, frailest boon!-so 'tis recorded last.)

And to these charms, the crowning grace of all,
A heart that sympathized with others' woe
Was thine-a soul no danger could appal

From Virtue's track; though Envy aims a blow
At those who bask them in the path of Fame,
Her with'ring tongue ne'er dropp'd its venom on
thy name.

Such wert thou, when thou saidst in playful mood "Go! write mine Epitaph;"-alas! that I, Thine elder in Life's pilgrimage, have stood

The storm, and seen it pass me, scatheless by, While younger blossoms of the Sister-wreath Have dropp'd, like leaves that fall 'neath Autumn's scatt'ring breath.

Our gifted ones! why is it other lands

Receive their ashes!-beneath other skies The dust that all our reverence commands,

Far from the hearts that mourn it, buried lies; As if the all of Genius we may claim

Lived in the fond regret that crowns a Poet's name?

LANDON! why sleeps she on a foreign shore?
And kindred ROBERTS in a stranger grave?
WILKIE, too, rests where howling surges roar

A stormy requiem from the engulphing wave ;
Yet, these were children of our native soil,
Who leave to it a fame no Time can e'er despoil.

I have obeyed thy wish; the fond demand

(Though feeble for such theme my pen may be) Has been complied with; would some abler hand Had twined th' Elegiac garland; since in me The lyric fire is quench'd by Sorrow's breath, For the FRIEND dims with tears the POET's votive wreath!

HOW TO MEND BROKEN HEARTS.

Young Tim had a heart, but so battered and bruised That the world, from his looks, thought poor Tim was ill-used;

It was rent, as he said, like a remnant in twain,
And no woman could darn it, or mend it again.
To London he came;-he was mesmerized;-
drained

The draughts of the doctor, yet still he complained.
Worse daily he grew,-the large hole in his heart
Grew bigger from wearing, for rents often start,
Like a hole in a stocking. Poor Tim in despair
Took a fancy one morning to dance in the air,
From a bough of an oak, without asking the aid
Of the kind bonest gentleman legally made
Responsible for such suspension,- so down
Came the bough, and poor Tim, at the cost of a

crown.

Not the crown of his head,-but he broke, in his fall,

A poor china-mender's ware,-basket and all;
And then, still on the work of extinction intent,
He swallow'd a bottle of PooLoo's cement,
Which he hoped would with speed all his sufferings
end,-

But lo! what he took for a foe prov'd a friend;
And instead of it making him quickly depart,
It join'd firmly together the cracks in his heart.
ROBERT LE DIABLE.

LINES WRITTEN AT SEA. Night, old Night, walks the ocean wide,

And never a word is heard beside

Save the musical" All's well;"
The moon looks down from her bower on high,
And the soft winds through the ratlins' sigh,
Hushing the waves to sleep.
'Tis my watch, and fond thoughts homeward steer
To the land I love and all I hold dear,
Far o'er the sea-
Is my mother gazing on night's queen fair,
Thinking on days when her boy was there,

By her dear side?
Are my sisters singing some long-loved lay,
Breathing my name, though far away
Out on the foam?
Of all our pleasant and happy ways
Are my brothers telling of gay past days,

In childhood's time?

Do they say, perhaps I'm looking on
The moon, though I am all alone,

Far, far from them;
And, though tossing here on the ocean's foam,
Their sailor's love is anchor'd at home

With his treasured ones?
NED HALYARD.

THE PAINFUL MOMENT.

Wouldst thou behold the young heart's earliest grief? Go where two fond ones take their first farewell, When nor the soothing tear may give relief,

Nor tender words each bosom's pangs can tell.

Go, mark the heaving breast, the throbbing heart.
The close-lock'd hands, the deep and painful sigh!
Shall these be sever'd? No! they cannot part:
Yet part they must! This, this is agony.
ALFRED.

CECIL GREY.

"There are a thousand joyous things in life, Which pass unheeded in a life of joy,

As thine hath been; till breezy sorrow comes
To ruffle it; and daily duties paid,

Hardly at first, at length will bring repose
To the sad mind that studies to perform them."
The Tragedy of "Ion."

I. THE SUDDEN BLOW.

"Cecil! my own Cecil!" sobbed the old man, as be bent over the inanimate form of his youngest daughter, "I have killed thee by my haste--my cruel haste! Open thine eyes again, my gentle child-open thine eyes, and look upon thy poor old father; for without thee he will lack strength to bear his heavy and unexpected burden. Oh, heaven, she is dead! my best-beloved, my only stay is dead!"

Cecil Grey, however, yet lived, and in a few minutes she was sufficiently recovered to lie down on a couch, and according to her most eagerly expressed desire to hear the particulars of that blow, the announcement of which had produced such fearful consequences. With many interruptions Mr. Grey concluded his short story. It appeared that he had never really been the wealthy man the world, as well as his daughter, had considered him to be. Ever fond of speculating, yet cautious and wary in his proceedings, and most anxious that his business should be a secret with himself and a few others, he had been for the last few years alternately verging on wealth and penury-one week rich, the next poor-one day the master of thousands, the next absolutely, and in point of fact, a bankrupt. This course could not continue for ever: for the last year he had been most unfortunate, and that very morning he had received a letter which told him that his greatest speculation had failed, and that he was now a ruined man and all this time he and his daughter had been the objects of envy to their acquaintances, as so rich, so prosperous, and so happy; and he had always been pointed out as "Walton Grey, the richest merchant and luckiest fellow in all Sproughton." Now, however, was come the hour of trial; henceforth they would be the objects of envy no longer.

:

"Dear father," said Cecil, as she kissed his furrowed brow, "forgive my weakness; you shall not have to complain of it again, but for the future you shall see me act as becomes the daughter you have ever loved so dearly-ever treated with such consideration. Tell me what to do, and I will do it. Have no fears for me. If I see you composed, I shall be sufficiently thankful—if I see you smile, my heart will be at rest; and oh, believe me, in our poverty and retirement we shall, after a little while, be as happy as we have been amid all our wealth and greatness."

Cheered and consoled by his daughter's words, Mr. Grey became more composed, and after an hour's conversation, the subject of which may be readily conceived, he left the room with a firmer step, and a less fainting spirit, to seek his solicitors,

with whom he had much to transact; while his daughter, in the solitude of her chamber, felt that henceforth it would be her lot to endure the stern realities of this life.

II. NEIGHBOURLY CHIT-CHAT.

"Oh, Mrs. Bubble, have you heard the news?" cried Miss Deane, as she burst into the old lady's parlour at an early hour, the morning after the events detailed in our last chapter took place.

Now Mrs. Bubble was deaf as well as cross, and on this particular morning she was more deaf, as well as more cross than usual; it was therefore with a loud voice that she bid her friend shut the door gently, and not to make such a noise, before she condescended to reply to her question. This having been done, and having been asked to take a cup of chocolate, which request was much more readily complied with than her former one, Miss Deane had the pleasure of hearing that her friend Mrs. Bubble was as yet ignorant of the important intelligence she was 30 anxious to communicate. Out then it came, even as a torrent, the relator feeling with justness that she had never had more surprising news to tell-no, not even when Laura Damer had eloped with her father's footman, nor when old Sir Joseph Coombes had married the young lady who was to have been his son's bride.

"What!" cried the old lady, "do you really mean to say that proud girl, Cecil Grey, is no longer an heiress, and that her father, old Walton, is a ruined man? Well-a-day! strange things do happen. I only hope they will now find their level, and that they themselves will be treated better in their poverty, than they treated others when in their riches and prosperity. Ah me! my back might well feel sore this morning; and the dogs did not howl so, last night, for nothing: I felt sure something was going to happen, but I never thought to hear that my old schoolfellow, Walton Grey, was made a bankrupt. And who told you this, Miss Deane?"

“Oh, Ma'am, I have heard it in a variety of places," was the answer. "Let me see; the first person who whispered it to me-for it was a kind of a secret then, though now it's known all over the town, and I may say country-was the charwoman, who works at the Greys, Susan Dennis by name, and a very discreet and truth-telling body. Well, she said there was a letter came from London, she supposed, which caused a fine to do— there was old Grey looking as pale as death, and crying out he was ruined; and there was her young mistress fainting outright: and what do you think the barbarian did? Why, as soon as ever he saw she was coming to, he turned them all out of the room, and locked the door, and it remained so for more than an hour! Only think! As to what took place then, no one knows; though Dennis says that John the footman put his ear to the key-hole, and heard a famous story, though he vows and swears he won't tell one tittle of it to any mortal being-such a fool-as if there was any harm in it; why it must all come out at last, know."

you

"Well, but Miss Deane," interrupted the other, "are you sure that all this is true? may

you have not been misinformed?—and it would be a dreadful thing were you to go from house to house with your budget of news, and after all it should turn out that you are wrong!-aye, Miss Deane?"

her-more shame to him; so dont talk to me about the banker's wife, for I'll have you to know I am as good as her any day."

And poor Mrs. Bubble actually got warmmuch to the delight of her dear friend, who had already made up a fine story about her and her ill-nature, to tell that very identical Mrs. Johnstone, whom she determined to call upon next.

"Well, Madam," she said, "it is getting late, and I have a hundred things to do. I think I'll just call in at Snatchem's, the auctioneer, you know, and ask him when the catalogues will be

"Oh, then, Miss Deane, he will be able to pay every one? well, that is a good thing; I'm very glad to hear it very glad, indeed."

"Yes, yes," was the answer, "I expect every one will get his own; and that, as you very justly observe, will be a good job. Well, I suppose the catalogues will be out soon. Bless me, it will be the best auction we Sproughton folks have had for a long time; the furniture is all good-that of the drawing-room splendid--solid rosewood, you know, and the best yellow silken damask, and then there are some good pictures; and the china -the old china, Mrs. Bubble, only think of that!"

"Ah, as you say, Miss Deane, it will doubtless be a good auction, and I confess I always coveted those old Nankin jars-not but what they will sell for more money than I can afford to give," and the old lady glanced complacently at a well-filled purse which was lying on the breakfast

table.

Slight as was the glance, it was observed by her visitor, who, being poor herself, hated though she envied the rich; and it was with a spiteful laugh, that she could not, had she so desired, have controlled, that she continued her gossip.

"Aye, madam, it is all very well to say you can't afford it, but I know that there is no one in Sproughton-no, not even Lady Combes, with all her wealth-has a better income than you; and I advise you by all means to buy the jars, though I do happen to know that Mrs. Johnstone, the banker's lady, has expressed a desire for them, and she, you know, when she has once set her mind upon a thing, cares no more for a pound than I do for a penny."

"Mrs. Johnstone, indeed!" was the reply, "and I should like to know who she is? Ah, you may smile, Miss Deane, but I remember the time when her father used to sell apples in the market-place-aye, and many a pennyworth have I bought of his daughter-she that old Johnstone was fool enough to make his wife. Many a time has he repented of it, I dare lay a wager. She was pretty, you know-at least so the men said-though I always thought 'handsome is that handsome does; and Miss Mary Johnstone took care of her, and brought her up as a sort of a companion, and she managed matters so well, that she wheedled her brother into marrying

do so, I'll see you again presently-so good morning." And having got all she could, Miss Deane took her leave, hoping the next family she called upon might be getting their lunch.

III. THE TIME OF TRIAL.

We will not follow Miss Deane on her visit to the banker's lady-suffice it to say, that both enjoyed a hearty laugh, the subject of which was of course Mrs. Bubble; and that Mrs. Johnstone, who was in the main a good-natured, though giddy and careless young woman, declared that she would have the jars at any price--both because she wished to do the Greys as much good as she was able, and because nothing pleased her so much as to spite the old lady, whose love of money as well as scandal was well known to the inhabitants of Sproughton.

Let us now return to the ruined merchant. As he had never been proud or unfeeling in his prosperity, so he was not left without friends in his adversity. More than one offered him money to go on with, and by those means to avoid making those sacrifices he would otherwise be obliged to make; but as he saw no probability of being enabled to repay his kind neighbours, he refused to accept their offers, and, with the full concurrence of his daughter, determined to sell everything that he could call his own, and then, having paid his debts, to retire to some humble cottage, and live on the residue. And he was assured by his solicitors that when all just claims were met, there would be sufficient for him and his daughter to live frugally though respectably; and cheered with this hope, and feeling that thereby a heavy weight was removed from his soul, Mr. Grey pursued his plans with fresh vigour, and smiled, though somewhat sadly, as he told his child that she would now have her wish, so often expressed in happier and more prosperous days-"a cottage in a country village, just large enough for herself and father.'

Still, however, and in spite of all their fortitude, it was a bitter thing, both for father and daughter, to see those articles they had so highly valued put in lots ready to be sold at the auction. With the pictures in particular it was hard to part; they had been such favourites-had been so often admired-so highly valued-and now they were to be sold for probably not half their worth, and to be dispersed in different places. Three of them, however, Mr. Grey determined to keep. They were portraits of his deceased wife, and of