AT SOUTH KENSINGTON, AUGUST 26, 1864.*

Not for pride of rank or glitter of wealth that scene;
The day was his, and the great stream of plebeian life
Came pouring in,-earnest, self-reliant manhood;
Meek, suffering, patient, glorious womanhood;
With joyous, careless childhood in their train.
All eagerly breathing the perfumèd air,

Which, like the cooling freshness of a desert spring-
Silver-white and crystal clear-was unto them
As the refilling of the cup of life.

They stood, a tangled web of good and evil,
And gazed with a grave wonderment and awe;
And as when in the aisle of an ancient shrine
A perfumed offering is borne on the air,

So there came on the breeze a thousand scents;
For each flower bent to her sister flower,
And borrowed a sweetness yet more rare,
Tossing to the skies a carnival of incense
From out their slender stalks and dewy leaves.
Rich, dropping, ethereal music stole o'er the ear,
"Till the very trees sang in gladness and joy,

And the dance of sun-shadows threw cobwebs of gold
O'er the silver tissue of the laughing cascades,

Whose rippling streams danced and splash'd as they ran,
And mingling with the joyous sunlight, made

A golden network—a tesselated carpet.

Grave, still, voiceless, look'd he down upon them;
Mighty in form, and on his lips a smile
Wanting but a Promethean flame, it seem'd,
Ere changing into words of love and blessing-
A mighty spell lasting through life, mighty in death.
And the sun, like an omen of joy, came and threw
Golden arrows around his form, as if to show
The seraph's glittering robe that now he wears.
And all the people's woe came back tenfold;

* The Horticultural Gardens were thrown open to the people on the anniversary

of the late Prince Consort's birthday by the Queen's command.

108 AT SOUTH KENSINGTON, AUGUST 26, 1864.

And thought on swift pinion cast a holy spell,
A sweet sadness, o'er the great surging throng,
Fathoming their depth of love with strangest charm.
Children, too sad to be rebellious, paused,

And in vague reverence spake with hush'd delight;
For in their fathers' eyes brimm'd unshed tears,
And they but faintly smiled upon them;
The bursts of music had a sadden'd cadence
Unto them, and became a dirge of solace;
For memories glad and sad were swiftly borne
On balmy winds, waking painful thoughts
From out the half-closed book of Time.
And the memory of that sad day came back
When the muffled mantle of death swept by:
That day, when men of iron nerve bow'd down
In childlike terror at the shadow o'er the world;
That day, when a nation's heart was turn'd; that day,
When a nation's pulse stood still in silent horror;
When men in hush'd accents told of England's grief,
With a hope weary and aching that their words were false.
And with reverent love they spake of her,

The dewiness of whose life hath pass'd away;
Who, with her hands outstretch'd imploringly,

Still graspeth nothing save cold, black misery;

Who, mourning over buried hopes full of one image,

And with a spirit out of tune with mirth or joy,
Now heareth but one voice-seeth but one face,
Yet knoweth still the noble alchemy

Of transmuting into blessings unto others
This her bitter woe-her deepest sorrow.

Time cannot break the potent charm, or bear away
On his rapid wing the thought of what he was.
For ever in the measureless march of Time
Will stand his memory, distinct and clear.
At his name thought shall ever trail her wings,
Nor wear the shadowy garments of the past.
Victoria! beloved Queen!

Each tear that thou hast shed for him so good and pure
Hath added to thy crown a rare and priceless gem.

That day became thy offering-not ours

To a stainless soul, whose most inner chamber

Knew no guile, and was unstain'd with sin.

'Twas not thy noble queenship, but thy glorious wifehood That gauged the tribute we should pay that day

To him so deeply mourn'd, so early lost.

AT SOUTH KENSINGTON, AUGUST 26, 1864.
And from on high he hath look'd down upon thee,
And smiled, and gather'd with a miser's care

Thy people's praise and love; and with a holy pride
Hath laid them at his heavenly Father's feet.
In a rough crucible hath thy love been tried,
O sovereign lady; through the heated furnace.
With it thou hast walk'd untouch'd,

And thou knowest it the lasting sorrow of thy life;
The shadowy arrow must probe thy heart for ever,
For no man is there who may draw it forth.
Yet He who ruleth all-the King of kings,

The Lord of lords, shall send from His throne to thee
An angel of comfort, who shall in thine heart

Fold its wings, and soothe with the warmth of its plumage.
Then brighten, O Queen, the cold grey ashes of thy grief;
Tune again with joy thy broken heart-strings:
For while his praise through England's land is heard,
Their melody hath not wholly pass'd away.

Light up with festal breadth thy shadowy life;
Soothe thy stripes with the balm of joyful hope:
For to him, the loosening of the silver cord,
The breaking of the golden bowl, was but the glad
Fulfilment of a long and joyful dream.

M. R. C.

109

HELEN CARR.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER I.

THE down platform of the King's Cross station in London was thronged with a crowd of travellers on one glorious summer afternoon fourteen years ago. Doubtless on many similar afternoons before and since, there has been precisely the same busy scene on that platform, the same pushing and crushing, the same variety of faces, anxious and merry, young and old, and the same air of bustle and confusion pervading all; but it is with that especial afternoon, the 27th of July, 1851, that our story has to do.

The down train was on the point of starting, when a young lady hurried across the platform towards the first-class carriages, and paused with her hand on the door of one of them. "Does this train stop at Deanswood?" she inquired of a passing porter.

The man told her that it did, and then she stepped into the somewhat crowded compartment, for Helen Carr was one of those who thought there was safety in numbers, and took her seat near the window. She was a very pretty girl, tall and slight; she had wavy chestnut hair, and honest dark blue eyes, which looked earnestly at you when she spoke, and were only wont to fall at the sound of their own praises. Sundry newspapers were offered for Miss Carr's perusal by her fellow-travellers, but all were politely declined; one or two of her nearest neighbours made stray remarks with the view of drawing her into conversation; but short though courteous answers were all they could obtain in return, and by-and-bye they respected her evident wish to be let alone, and left her to herself and her own thoughts, while the train sped on its way through the glorious summer sunshine and the lengthening shadows.

Helen Carr did not lack food for reverie. A hasty telegram had summoned her to the bedside of one of her dearest friends, and, mingling with her grief at her approaching loss, came thoughts of the future which lay beyond,-for ere long she was to be a wife, so it had been settled, and go with her husband to distant lands.

Helen Carr was an orphan, her father and mother having died within a few weeks of each other when she was a mere infant. mother's sister, Mrs. Ross, had had the care of her ever since, and with her Helen had found a fostering, affectionate home.

Her

Mrs. Ross was a widow who had seen bitter trouble. Her husband was taken from her by a malignant fever in the second year of their marriage, and twenty years afterwards, their only child, a fair young daughter, clandestinely married a man of a character so questionable that he had long been an outcast from the society of Deanswood and its environs. The pair sought Mrs. Ross that the young wife might sue for forgiveness when her vows were irrevocable, but intense grief and anger nerved the gentle widow to the one hard act of her life. She shut her door against her daughter, and vowed that she would never see her again. "I had rather she had died," was the sole answer which attempted mediation could wring from her; and the words came from the depths of a breaking heart. The pair wandered away to the Continent, it was said, and meanwhile the widow strove to harden her heart, and to forget that she had ever had a daughter.

It was just after this time of trouble that Helen Carr, as a helpless orphan, was cast upon Mrs. Ross's care. "She shall live with me," said the widow, when she heard of her niece's helplessness, "and I will see that she wants nothing; but I shall never have the heart to love anything again."

By-and-bye, however, the child's winning ways gained for her a sure place in the bereaved heart, and as Helen Carr grew to womanhood, the widow felt almost as much pride in her as she had once felt in the lost Adelaide.

Then, as years crept on, a new generation of young men of the neighbourhood seemed to have made up their minds that Deanswood Cottage was a pleasant place at which to make a morning call, and Mrs. Ross began to tremble. Suppose her orphan niece should involve her in such another trouble as that which had well-nigh broken her heart just nineteen years before?

But Helen was not likely to err as Adelaide had done. She was frank and open as the day; and the first thing she did when John Locksley, the surgeon's son, asked her to be his wife, was to lay the whole matter before Mrs. Ross and seek her counsel. "I like him, auntie," she frankly confessed, "rather much, you know, but I should like to do what you think right."

The flush on Helen's cheeks, and the tremor in her voice and manner, betrayed to Mrs. Ross that there was true, earnest love in the case, and so she sent for Mr. John Locksley and questioned him concerning his prospects. She knew that she could trust him to tell her the plain, unvarnished truth, and so he did. It was his intention to emigrate to New Zealand, he said; he had always had a fancy for the colonies, and his father's brother had settled there and was flourishing. When he came of age he would inherit a small property bequeathed to him by a rich godmother, and it had been settled that the money should be laid out in the purchase of a New Zealand farm,