It shone brightly on the long line of Spanish transports that were moored below, stem on to the beach, and on the white sails of the armed craft that were still hovering under weigh in the offing, which, as the night wore on, stole in, one after another, like phantoms of the ocean, and letting go their anchors with a splash, and a hollow rattle of the cable, remained still and silent as the rest.

Farther off, it fell in a crimson stream on the surface of the sheltered bay, struggling with the light of the gentle moon, and tinging with blood the small waves that twinkled in her silver wake, across which a guard boat would now and then glide, like a fairy thing, the arms of the men flashing back the red light.

Beyond the influence of the hot smoky glare, the glorious planet reassumed her sway in the midst of her attendant stars, and the relieved eye wandered forth into the lovely night, where the noiseless sheet lightning way glancing, and ever and anon lighting up for an instant some fantastic shape in the fleecy clouds, like prodigies forerunning the destruction of the stronghold over which they impended; while beneath, the lofty ridge of the convent-crowned Popa, the citadel of San Felipe bristling with cannon, the white batteries and many towers of the fated city of Carthagena, and the Spanish blockading squadron at anchor before it, slept in the moonlight.

We were civilly received by the captain, who apologized for the discomfort under which we must pass the night.  He gave us the best he had, and that was bad enough, both of food and wine, before showing us into the hut, where we found a rough deal coffin lying on the very bench that was to be our bed.  This he ordered away with all the coolness in the world.  “It was only one of his people who had died that morning of vomito, or yellow fever.”  “Comfortable country this,” quoth Splinter, “and a pleasant morning we have had of it, Tom!”

Blackwood’s Magazine.

* * * * *

DIRGE.

  Green be the turf o’er thy head,
  Light lie the earth on thy breast,
  Peaceful and calm be thy sleep,
  Till thou’rt called to rejoice with the blest.

  Though we weep, yet we joy at thy lot,
  Though we mourn thee, we yet can resign,
  Though we sorrow, ’tis not without hope,
  Though we lose thee, forbear to repine.

  From the cares and the pains of this world
  Thy beatified spirit is free,
  ’Twould be selfish in us to deplore,
  For we know that thy God is with thee.

Royal Lady’s Magazine. No. 1.

* * * * *

THE REBELLION IN STOCK POGIS.

Answer to Mrs. Jones’s Letter in Hood’s Comic Annual.[1]

Padinton third Janeary 1831.