" Hush!" said a stately angel,
         Responsive to my thought,
      " We're all that future times shall know
         Of what your hand hath wrought;
      Your gay green leaves, and flowers of song,
         You've flung them forth, broad-cast;
      But like the bloom of parted years,
         They've gone into the past.

      " But we, though no one knows us,
         Shall echo back your tones
      As long as England's speech shall run
         The circuit of the zones.
      Think not your fate unhappy!
         To live to future time,
      In noble thoughts and noble words,
         Is destiny sublime."

      " Angels of grace and beauty;"
         I rubbed mine eyes and sighed—
      A dream! a dream! a pleasant dream!
         Of vanity and pride.
      A sleeping thought! A waking doubt!
         If only one—not seven—
      Of all my rhymes be doomed to live,
         Earth shall be part of Heaven.

NEW UNCOMMERCIAL SAMPLES.
BY CHARLES DICKENS.

A LITTLE DINNER IN AN HOUR.

IT fell out on a day in this last autumn
that I had to go down from London to a
place of sea- side resort, on an hour's business,
accompanied by my esteemed friend
Bullfinch. Let the place of sea- side resort
be, for the nonce, called Namelesston.

I had been loitering about Paris in very
hot weather, pleasantly breakfasting in the
open air in the garden of the Palais Royal
or the Tuileries, pleasantly dining in
the open air in the Elysian Fields, pleasantly
taking my cigar and lemonade in
the open air on the Italian Boulevard towards
the small hours after midnight. Bullfinch—
an excellent man of business—had
summoned me back across the channel,
to transact this said hour's business at
Namelesston, and thus it fell out that Bullfinch
and I were in a railway carriage together
on our way to Namelesston, each
with his return ticket in his waistcoat
pocket.

Says Bullfinch: "I have a proposal to
make. Let us dine at the Temeraire."

I asked Bullfinch, Did he recommend
the Temeraire? Inasmuch as I had not
been rated on the books of the Temeraire
for many years.

Bullfinch declined to accept the responsibility
of recommending the Temeraire,
but on the whole was rather sanguine about
it. He "seemed to remember," Bullfinch
said, that he had dined well there. A plain
dinner but good. Certainly not like a
Parisian dinner (here Bullfinch obviously
became the prey of want of confidence),
but of its kind very fair.

I appealed to Bullfinch's intimate knowledge
of my wants and ways, to decide
whether I was usually ready to be pleased
with any dinner, or—for the matter of that—
with anything, that was fair of its kind and
really what it claimed to be. Bullfinch doing
me the honour to respond in the affirmative,
I agreed to ship myself as an Able
Trencherman on board the Temeraire.

"Now, our plan shall be this," says Bullfinch,
with his forefinger at his nose. " As
soon as we get to Namelesston, we'll drive
straight to the Temeraire, and order a little
dinner in an hour. And as we shall not have
more than enough time in which to dispose
of it comfortably, what do you say to giving
the house the best opportunities of serving
it hot and quickly, by dining in the coffee-
room?"

What I had to say was, Certainly. Bullfinch
(who is by nature of a hopeful constitution)
then began to babble of green geese.
But I checked him in that Falstaffian vein,
urging considerations of time and cookery.

In due sequence of events, we drove up
to the Temeraire and alighted. A youth
in livery received us on the doorstep.
"Looks well," said Bullfinch, confidentially.
And then aloud, " Coffee-room!"

The youth in livery (now perceived to be
mouldy) conducted us to the desired haven,
and was enjoined by Bullfinch to send the
waiter at once, as we wished to order a
little dinner in an hour. Then Bullfinch
and I waited for the waiter until, the waiter
continuing to wait in some unknown and
invisible sphere of action, we rang for the
waiter: which ring produced the waiter
who announced himself as not the waiter
who ought to wait upon us, and who didn't
wait a moment longer.

So Bullfinch approached the coffee-room
door, and melodiously pitching his voice into
a bar where two young ladies were keeping
the books of the Temeraire, apologetically
explained that we wished to order a little
dinner in an hour, and that we were debarred
from the execution of our inoffensive
purpose, by consignment to solitude.

Hereupon one of the young ladies rang
a bell which reproduced—at the bar this
time—the waiter who was not the waiter
who ought to wait upon us; that extraordinary
man, whose life seemed consumed
in waiting upon people to say that he
wouldn't wait upon them, repeated his
former protest with great indignation, and
retired.