The subject of my thoughts?  Yes—­there he lies
  As free from life, as if he ne’er had lived. 
  Where are his friends and where his old acquaintance
  Who borrowed from his strength, when in the yoke,
  With weary pace the steep ascent they climbed? 
  Where are the gay companions of his prime,
  Who with him ambled o’er the flowery turf,
  And proudly snorting, passed the way worn hack,
  With haughty brow; and, on his ragged coat
  Looked with contemptuous scorn?  Oh yonder see,
  Carelessly basking in the mid-day sun
  They lie, and heed him not;—­little thinking
  While there they triumph in the blaze of noon. 
  How soon the dread annihilating hour
  Will come, and death seal up their eyes,
  Like his, forever.  Now moralizer
  Retire! yet first proclaim this sacred truth;
  Chance rules not over Death; but, when a fly
  Falls to the earth, ’tis Heaven that gives the blow.

  —­BLACKETT.

COQUETRY.

It was in one of the most picturesque parts of South Wales, on the banks of the lovely Towy, that two ladies sat working at an open casement, which led into a veranda, covered with clematis and honey-suckle.  The elder of the two might be about fifty, perhaps not so much, for her features bore traces of suffering and sadness, which plainly told, that sorrow had planted far deeper wrinkles there than time alone could have done.  The younger, an interesting girl of nineteen, bore a strong resemblance to her mother; they were both dressed in deep mourning.  The room which they occupied, though plainly and simply furnished, had yet an air of taste and elegance.

Mrs. Fortescue was the widow of an officer, who died of cholera in the East Indies, leaving her with one daughter, and no other means of support than a small annuity and her pension.  An old servant of her own had married a corporal in the same regiment, who having purchased his discharge, now followed the trade of a carpenter, to which he had been brought up, previous to enlisting, and was settled in his native place, and the faithful Hannah, hearing of the Captain’s death wrote to Mrs. Fortescue, telling her, not only of the beauty of the spot, but the cheapness of living in that part of the world, concluding by saying, a house was then vacant, and could be had on very reasonable terms.  Mrs. Fortescue immediately wrote and engaged it.  Though a common looking building, yet by putting a veranda round, and making a few alterations inside, it soon, with a little painting and papering, was transformed into a pretty cottage.  The work required was an advantage to Mrs. Fortescue, inasmuch as it occupied her mind and thus prevented her dwelling on her recent affliction, in other respects too, she felt that a kind providence had directed her steps to the little village in which we find her—­and the good she found to do, was the greatest balm her wounded spirit could receive:  for though her means were so limited, still, a wide field of usefulness lay before her.