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 feipo\l^ 
 
FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING. 
 
 S 
 
 A 
 
 LITERAKY ALBUM. 
 
 KOITRD BY 
 
 THOMAS K. HERVEY. 
 
 £aeh minstrel's tributary lay 
 Paid homage to the festal day. 
 
 >p THK Isles. 
 
 'Uiri7BESIT7l 
 
 LUPTON RELFE, 13, CORNHILL. 
 1826. 
 
917 
 H579 
 
 LONDON ( 
 
 Printed by D. S, Maurice, Fenchureh-street. 
 
TO THE KING'S 
 MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY, 
 
 'Wbi% Folume 
 
 18, 
 WITH PERMISSION, 
 HUMBLY INSCRIBED. 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 The present Volume of the " Friendship's 
 Offering" is presented to the public, under cir- 
 cumstances which render a few observations neces- 
 sary. It has, very recently, come into its present 
 Editor's hands, with a view to an entire change in 
 its character and plan ; and, under the disadvantage 
 of that fact, he has, of course, found it impossible to 
 avail himself of all those sources which he has reason 
 to believe are open to him, next year, for giving 
 interest to its pages. The difficulties of his situation 
 have, however, been greatly relieved, by the kind- 
 ness and promptitude with which assistance has been 
 given to him, in almost every quarter in which the 
 limited time permitted an application : — and, whilst 
 he has thus been enabled to present to the public, 
 on the present occasion, a very splendid assemblage 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 of names and talent, — the promises Which he has re- 
 ceived of continued and additional assistance, next 
 year, ajQTord reason to hope that it will have still 
 increased claims to popularity. 
 
 The readers of the " Friendship's Offering'* 
 will perceive that the alterations in its plan consist 
 in the removal of all those features which marked it 
 as more peculiarly adapted for one season of the 
 year than another ; and m the dismissal of its more 
 toy-like attributes, for the purpose of combining, 
 with the increased beauty of its embellishments, a 
 high literary character. 
 
 Whilst acknowledging his obligations to the many 
 friends who have given him the use of their names 
 and talents, the Editor may escape the imputation of 
 personal vanity, in expressing his confidence that the 
 Work has attained the character at which it aimed ; 
 because little merit can be due to him, for the moral 
 or literary excellence of a miscellany, which has been 
 fortunate enough to obtain such contributions as 
 those which fill the pages of this Volume. 
 
 The Editor must not omit a more particular ex- 
 pression of his obligations to one or two individuals,. 
 
PREFACE. Vll 
 
 to whom he is indebted for peculiar exertions of 
 kindness, in the compilation of the work. 
 
 To Miss Edgeworth, (although circumstances 
 have, for the present year, deprived him of the aid of 
 her high talents,) for the sketch from the pen of her 
 late Father; and for her steady and persevering kind- 
 ness, in promoting the interests of the Publication. 
 
 To Mr. Washington Irving, for the Stanzas at 
 page 102, from the pen of the late Lord Byron, 
 extracted by that gentleman from the Album of 
 Captain Medwin ; and, with the omission of a 
 single stanza, inserted here, (though evidently a very 
 hasty production of their Author,) — because the spirit 
 which breathes through them cannot, now, give pain 
 to any one to whom they may be supposed to allude, — 
 and because the high value which death has stamped 
 upon every unpublished line from his Lordship's 
 pen, leaves its possessor scarcely at liberty to with- 
 hold it from the eye of the public. There are some 
 other Poems, from the pen of his Lordship, bearing 
 the same date with these Stanzas ; which are, of 
 course, familiar to our readers. 
 
 To Lady Caroline Lamb, for the verses at page 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 230 ; taken from the note-book of her Ladjship, and 
 addressed to her, by Lord Byron, sixteen years ago. 
 They form a singular contrast to the memorable 
 and bitter lines preserved by Captain Medwin, in 
 his recent publication. To Lady Caroi.ine Lamb 
 the Editor is, also, indebted for a beautrfixl mini- 
 ature drawing of his Lordship, taken by herself, 
 about the same time ; which has been engraved in 
 Meazotint, by Turner, and will be published, in a 
 few days, by the publisher of this work. 
 
 The very splendid and characteristic Ode, on the 
 death of Lord Byron, from the pen of the Rev. C. 
 C. Col TON, has been lately printed, and privately 
 circulated by the author, in Paris ; and may, there- 
 fore, have heea seen by some of our readers. It is 
 translated into these pages, jfrom one of the printed 
 copies, received from Mr. Colton himself. The 
 following stanza has, since, been added by Mr. 
 CoLTO», for insertion betwixt the ninth and tenth 
 verses. 
 
 What was thy talent ? not the beam 
 That gilds and glads the sky ; 
 But the dim curtain's fiery gleam. 
 When storms and wrecks are nigh. 
 
phepace. IX 
 
 Shrouded in darkness,— like the red right arm 
 
 That cleaves the vault of Heaven, 
 
 Engendered but to dazzle and alarm, 
 
 Brief, brilliant torch for bright destruction given, 
 
 But not to guide to good, or refuge point from harm ! 
 
 It is right to add that the Fragment, at page 138, 
 from the pen of Barry Cornwall, was not fur- 
 nished to this Work by its author, but transferred 
 from the Album of a friend. 
 
 The Editor is in possession of some other lines, 
 by the late Mr. Maturin, derived from the saffie 
 source as those printed at page 148 ; which will, in 
 all probability, form part of the next year's volume. 
 
 The four original Poems by Tho3ison, the au- 
 thor of " The Seasons," have been long in the pos- 
 session of the Earl of Buchan ; from whose custody 
 they passed into the hands of the gentleman who has 
 communicated them to this Work. They are in the 
 hand writing of the Poet, — the productions of his 
 very early years, — and are printed here, in strict 
 adherence to the MSS. They are inserted, for their 
 curiosity. 
 
 The Editor has only to add, that there are a few 
 individuals who have afforded him the use of their 
 
 y^ OF THK^'n^- 
 
 [UiriVERSlT 
 
talents, withholding, (from particular circumstances, 
 which will not operate next year,) that of their 
 names. They are fully included in his acknowledg- 
 ments of obligation ; and would, in one or two in- 
 stances, be entitled to more particular notice, if the 
 absence of their names did not prevent individual 
 mention. 
 
 London, 
 10th Nov. 1825. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Prepack iii. 
 
 A Monarch's Death-bed, by F. H • i 
 
 An Adventure among the Alps, by the Author of " Gilbert 
 
 Earle" 3 
 
 The Parting, by T. K. Hbrvey 23 
 
 Hindoo Girl, by an Um, — from a Group, by Westmacott, by 
 
 L. E. L 25 
 
 Timanthe: a Dramatic Scene, by Laurkncb Young, Esq. 28 
 Song.—" Here's to thee, my Scottish Lassie !" by John 
 
 Moultrie, Esq 32 
 
 Stage Coach Physiognomists, by the late Richard Lovell 
 
 Edgkworth, Esq 36 
 
 Old Lithuanian Song, translated by John Bowring, Esq. • . 45 
 
 " Am I, too, in Arcadia ?" by Bernard Barton 47 
 
 The Dream : a Tale, by Miss Roberts 49 
 
 Questionsand Answers, by James Montgomery, Esq 60 
 
XU CONTENTS. 
 
 P«ge. 
 Discretion the better part of Valour, by Hobatio Smith, 
 
 Esq. one of the Authors of the " Rejected Addresses." • ■ 62 
 Glastonbury Abbey and Wells Cathedral, by the Rev. W. L. 
 
 BowLKS 64 
 
 A Woman's Pride, by Mona 66 
 
 To the Departed, by the Rev. Thomas Dalb 67 
 
 Stanzas to a Lady, by T. K. Hkrvby 69 
 
 Raphael's Death-bed, by L. E. L 73 
 
 The Idiot Boy : a Mountain Adventure, by Mona 76 
 
 The Comet, by Henry Nkklb, Esq. 85 
 
 From the German, by P 86 
 
 A Mother's Grief, by the Rev. Thomas Dai<b 88 
 
 On an Hour Glass, by J. M*C 90 
 
 The Lady of Beeehgrove : a Sketch, by Miss Mitford ... 91 
 Stanzas to her who best can understand them, by Lord Byron 102 
 
 TotheOwl 106 
 
 The Laughing Horseman : a Tale 109 
 
 To the Picture of a Dead Girl, by T. K. Hervby 135 
 
 Rosamund Gray : a Fragment, by Babry Cornwall, Esq. 138 
 Sapphics, from Cassimir Sarbievius, by J. Bowring, Esq. • • 139 
 
 Ode to the Turtle, by W 140 
 
 From the Italian, by R. S 144 
 
 St. Cecilia, by T. K. Hkrvby 146 
 
 Wellington, by the late Rev. C. R. Maturin 148 
 
 The Conscript : a Tale, by Mona 150 
 
 Inscription for a Tablet, at Banavie, by R. Souths y, Esq.. . 167 
 
 Persian Song, by P 168 
 
 A Prayer and a Promise to Cupid, by Wilmam Jbroan, Esq. 170 
 
 A Sea-side Reverie, by Bernard Barton 171 
 
 Impromptu to Oriana, by Thomas Gent, Esq 176 
 
CONTENTS. XUl 
 
 Page. 
 Lines addressed to Sir Walter Scott, Bart, on the publication 
 
 of " Marmion," by J. Calt, Esq 177 
 
 Epitaph on a Dog, by William SothbBy, Esq 178 
 
 To Inis, — from the Spanish 180 
 
 The Child's Last Sleep, by K H 181 
 
 Stanzas,,by T, K. Hervey 183 
 
 The Emigrants: a Tale, by L. E. L 185 
 
 Stanzas for Music, by the Rev. Thomas Dalk 1 91 
 
 The Two Hussars: a Tale, by Miss Roberts 193 
 
 The Love of God : Two Sonnets, by the Rev. H. H. Milman. 206 
 Verses to the Hon. W. Lamb, by Lady Caroline Lamb. 208 
 
 The Dying Girl : a Poetic Sketch, by Eliza 209 
 
 The Wife: a Tale, by Mona 211 
 
 The Soldier and his Dog : a Poetic Sketch, by T. K. Hervey 223 
 Irregular Ode on the Death of Lord Byron, by the Rev. 
 
 C. C. CoLTON 225 
 
 Lines addressed to Lady Caroline Lamb, sixteen years ago, 
 
 by the late Lord Byron 230 
 
 Beauty, Wealth, and Love: a Romance, by Mrs. C. B, 
 
 Wilson 233 
 
 Legendary Stanzas, by J. B. Thompson, Esq 236 
 
 The Lovfer on the Field of Battle, — from the German 237 
 
 To an Infant, by F. H. 239 
 
 Forgiveness : a Tale 240 
 
 The Banquet : a Dramatic Scene, by Laurence Youno, Esq. 248 
 
 A Tale of Ispahan, by Miss Jane Porter 253 
 
 Stanzas composed during a Tempest, by Bernard Barton 279 
 
 Friendship's Offering, by J. M. 280 
 
 Spain: an Invocation, by Lord Dillon 281 
 
 To a Wreath of Dead Flowers, by Mona 283 
 
XIV . CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 The Exile : a Poetic Fragment '. 284 
 
 From the Spanish of Francisco de la Torre, by W 286 
 
 Constance : a Tale, by Miss Roberts 287 
 
 The Dead Trumpeter, by T. K. Hervby 303 
 
 Coeur de Lion's Adieu to Palestine 305 
 
 Written at Silchester, the ancient Calleva, by the Rev. W. 
 
 L. Bowles 308 
 
 The Last Wish, by F. H 311 
 
 An Address to the Garden Roll : a Mock Heroic, by Mrs. Opik 31 4 
 
 Marian Seaforth : a Tale of America 318 
 
 iEneas and Dido, by T. K. Herve y 347 
 
 The Broken Vow, by Allan Cunningham, Esq 349 
 
 The Mourner, by the Rev. Thomas Dale 351 
 
 Welsh Melody, by W 3-53 
 
 Widowed Love, by T. Gent, Esq 354 
 
 Lucalpine, by Lord Porchester 355 
 
 Epitaph on William Hayley, by Mrs. Opib 367 
 
 Sonnet on Autumn, by David Lester Richardson, Esq. 369 
 
 Country and Town, by Horatio Smith, Esq 360 
 
 Autumn, by T. Hood, Esq 362 
 
 Rouen, by T. K. Herve y 363 
 
 The Astrologer, by Lord Porchester 365 
 
 Reichter and his Staghounds : a Tale 369 
 
 Stanzas for Music, by Cheviot Tichburn, Esq 387 
 
 Four unpublished Poems, by the late James Thomson, 
 Author of " The Seasons"— 
 
 Poetical Epistle to the late Sir William Bennet 388 
 
 A Hymn to God's Power 389 
 
 Upon May 390 
 
 Morning in the Country 391 
 
CONTENTS. XV 
 
 Page. 
 Sonnet— Sunrise, by David Lester Richardson, Esq. • . 392 
 " Go, beautiful and gentle Dove," by the Rev. W. L. 
 
 Bowles 393 
 
 Stanzas, by T. Hood, Esq 395 
 
 The New Year 397 
 
LIST OF EMBELLISHMENTS. 
 
 Illustrated Title H. Corbould. 
 
 TheParting R. Westall. 
 
 The Honours paid to Raphael, after his 
 
 Death Bebjbret. 
 
 Sleeping Infant, after Chantrey H. Corbould. 
 
 The Marriage of Rebecca Claudb. 
 
 The Laughing Horseman R. Westall. 
 
 ^neas relating his Adventures Guerin. 
 
 The Dog of the Regiment H. Vernet. 
 
 A Hindoo Girl, after Westmacott H. Corbould. 
 
 St. Cecilia Mignard. 
 
 View of Ispahan Sir R. K. Porter. 
 
 The Dead Trumpeter — <^ H. Vernet. 
 
 ViewofRouen R. P. Bonnington. 
 
'^*^ OF TETE *. 
 A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. 
 
 The Emperor Albert First, assassinated by his nephew, John, 
 sumamed the Parricide, expired on the banks of the river 
 Reuss, in the field afterwards called Konigsfelden, supported 
 only by a female peasant, who was accidentally passing at the 
 time. 
 
 A MONARCH ill his death-pangs lay — 
 
 Did censers breathe perfume. 
 And soft lamps pour their silvery ray. 
 
 Through his proud chamber's gloom ? 
 He lay upon a greensward bed. 
 
 Beneath a dai-kening sky, 
 A lone tree waving o'er his head, 
 
 A swift stream rolling by. 
 
 Had he then fallen as warriors fall. 
 Where spear strikes fire with spear ? 
 
A monarch's death-bed. 
 
 Was there a banner for his pall, 
 
 A buckler for his bier ? 
 Not so :— nor cloven shields nor helms 
 
 Had strewn the bloody sod, 
 Where he, the helpless lord of realms. 
 
 Yielded his soul to God I 
 
 Were there not friends with words of cheer, 
 
 And princely vassals nigh ? 
 And priests, the crucifix to rear 
 
 Before the fading eye ? — 
 A peasant girl that royal head 
 
 Upon her bosom laid. 
 And, shrinking not for woman's dread. 
 
 The face of death surveyed. 
 
 Alone she sat : — from hill and wood 
 
 Red sank the mournful sun ; 
 Fast gushed the fount of noble blood, 
 
 Treason its worst had done. 
 With her long hair she vainly prest 
 
 The wounds, to staunch their tide ; — 
 Unknown, on that meek, humble breast. 
 Imperial Albert died ! 
 
 F. H. 
 
AN ADV^ENTURE AMONG THE 
 ALPS. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " GILBERT EARLE." 
 
 [The following letter is taken from a correspondence, which was 
 kept up, for many years, between the gentleman by whom it 
 was written, and one of his most intimate friends. We have 
 every reason to believe the reaHty of the occurrence which it 
 
 relates] 
 
 Berne, October. 
 MY DEAR , 
 
 I HAVE been wandering among the Alps, for the last 
 three weeks, which has been the occasion of my not 
 writing to you, during that time. Even now, you 
 must expect from me no particular account of my 
 peregrinations; for, during the last five days, I 
 have been able to think, only, upon one subject ; and 
 am too eager to vent it upon you, to be inclined to 
 talk about any thing else. 
 
 I had been above a fortnight out, and had visited 
 most of the usual points in the tour of the Alps ; and 
 
^ AN ADVENTURE 
 
 had, already, begun to turn my face towards my head- 
 quarters, here. I had slept, the night before, at the 
 hospice on the Great St. Bernard ; and had set off, 
 early in the morning, to have day-light to take me 
 into the Valais, intending to get to Martigny that 
 night, if I could. I had loitered, however, in the 
 earlier part of the day ; and, as it advanced, I began 
 to fear I should not get clear of the mountains before 
 night-fall. I was on foot, and alone ; for, as I had, 
 already, passed the road I purposed to go, I had not 
 thought it necessary to take a guide ; not doubting 
 that I should arrive, in good time, at my inn. As the 
 day advanced, however, I found I had, yet, several 
 miles to go, and did not much relish the idea of per- 
 forming the latter part of my journey in the dark, 
 in a region sufficiently desolate and difficult, and 
 with which, as the fogs of the evening drew around 
 me, I began to find I had not so perfect an ac- 
 quaintance as, in the bright sunshine of the morning, 
 I had thought. The autumn wind, too, blew chill 
 from the mountains, and added to the discomfort of 
 the autumn twilight. I was exceedingly hungry, 
 very cold, a little cross, and not quite at ease as to 
 how I was to pass the night ; when, shortly before 
 it got dark, I heard a voice singing merrily behind 
 me, and, on looking back, perceived a peasant trudg- 
 ing stoutly down the mountain, carolling as he came. 
 He had a mountain-staff* in his hand, and a dog 
 trotting by his side. He came on at a pace which 
 shewed he was well acquainted with the road and the 
 
AMOAG THE ALPS. 5 
 
 country ; and, besides his singing so gaily, his whole 
 air and manner betrayed a certain joy and lightness 
 of heart, which, when they exist in the breast of one 
 of these frank and open peasants, are sure to beam 
 on their countenance, correspondingly. 
 
 I slackened my pace, that he might the sooner 
 come up with me ; (he would have done so shortly, 
 at all events:) he accosted me civilly; and we pro- 
 ceeded on our way together. I told him whence I 
 came, and whither I was going. On hearing the 
 latter piece of information, he said that it was still 
 several miles off, that the night was fast closing in, 
 that it threatened to be a rough one, that I might 
 very possibly lose my way ; in short, that, if I would 
 honour him so far, I had much better stop at his 
 village, about a mile farther on ; that he would en- 
 sure me a hospitable welcome, and good cheer, — for 
 he was going to be married the next day, and all the 
 village was merry with the wedding. I, at first, 
 hinted some fear of being de trop on such an occasion ; 
 but he would not listen to such an objection, for a 
 moment. He was the happiest man in the world, 
 he said ; and it would be hard, indeed, if Monsieur 
 should deny him the gratification of giving him a 
 night's lodging, which he would not deny to the 
 poorest goat-herd in the Canton. If, he added, 
 more timidly, I could be prevailed upon to stay for 
 the noce^ the next day, he should be more gratified 
 still. He had been, he said, to the next village, 
 to engage the priest to come down the mountain, the 
 
AN ADVENTURE 
 
 following day, and was thus far on his way back, 
 when he overtook me. 
 
 I need scarcely say that, under the circumstances, 
 
 1 accepted the invitation, as frankly as it was given. 
 The man's appearance bespoke, undeniably, eas}' 
 means; and I had no scruple in profiting by the 
 rencontre. My new friend was a stout, well-built 
 fellow, of about five or six and twenty, with a face 
 of comely features, and peculiar good humour and 
 openness of expression. Before we got to his 
 village, I was master of his whole history. It was 
 an old attachment, he told me, which was to be 
 crowned the next day. When he was twenty, he 
 had wanted to marry his bride, but her parents 
 would not consent ; for, they were tolerably opulent, 
 and he had nothing but a stout pair of legs, and a 
 sanguine heart ; " so," he added, " like many of my 
 neighbours among these vallies, I buckled my knap- 
 sack on my back, broke a bit of silver with my be- 
 trothed, and, with an empty purse, a full heart, and 
 my dog, (looking, affectionately, at him, as he spoke,) 
 I set off on the tour of Europe, to seek my fortune. 
 I never doubted Aline's faith, sir," he continued, 
 *' but, still, I was always glad to hear, from any of 
 my countrymen who came from this neighbourhood, 
 that she was, still, single ; and I took care to let her 
 hear, through the same means, the same thing, occa- 
 sionally, of me. ' If she thinks I forget her,' said I, 
 ' it is the likeliest thing in the world to make her 
 forget me.' I went through great part of Germany, 
 
AMO^G THE ALPS. / 
 
 and the Low Countries, and France, and as far as 
 London. And I throve, and was frugal and pru- 
 dent ; for, I had the best spur to make me active, and 
 the best curb to make me cautious — the thought of 
 for whom and for what I was working and sparing. 
 I should scarcely, however, have come back so soon, 
 if it had not been for some news I heard concerning 
 Aline's health, which made me feel somewhat un- 
 easy. A young man of our village, whom I chanced 
 to fall in with, told me that Aline seemed to be 
 growing thin and pale — fading away, by degrees, as 
 it were, under the influence of deferred hope, and 
 uncertain prospect. Her parents were growing old, 
 her father was in feeble health, and it was uncertain 
 when I might be able to return, to be a prop and a 
 comfort to her and them. I determined to do so, 
 at once ; for I thought it was better to marry, with 
 a little less wealth, now that I had sufficient for 
 comfort, than to wait till youth, and youthful health, 
 and youthful spirits were gone from both of us. 
 So, I set off for home, and arrived about a month 
 ago. I found Aline reduced and weakly, but as 
 beautiful and affectionate as ever; and, since I have 
 been back, and every thing has been going on smoothly 
 and happily, she has been growing stronger and 
 better every day. And I have bought and stocked a 
 little snug farm, a short distance down the valley ; 
 and we are to be married to-morrow ; and, the day 
 after, we are to go there." 
 
 Such was the substance of what this honest fellow 
 
8 AN ADVENTURE 
 
 told me ; and, in truth, he seemed to be, as he said, 
 the happiest man in the world. An irrepressible joy 
 seemed, still further, to exhilarate a disposition natu- 
 rally gay. He never seemed to have doubted, even 
 at the gloomiest moment, of the ultimate clearing 
 of his fortunes ; and now, that they had shone out 
 with such warmth and brightness, he appeared to 
 enjoy them as much as though the consummation 
 had been unexpected. 
 
 He had just finished his story, and was, at once 
 gaily and fondly, patting the head of his dog Turco^ 
 who, he said, had followed him, from first to last, 
 throughout all his wanderings, when we reached the 
 village. It was ensconced in a secluded nook — a 
 sheltered elbow, as it were, of a narrow valley, 
 which ran up into the mountain ; protected from the 
 colder winds by the mountain itself, and opening 
 towards a fairer and milder prospect of cultivated 
 grounds, stretching to the Rhone. The Canton of 
 the Valais is, for the most part, sterile, and some- 
 thing gloomy ; for, although the Rhone runs through- 
 out its whole length, it possesses, before it enters 
 the Lake of Geneva, the character of a mountain 
 torrent, rather than of a fertilizing stream. There 
 are, however, here and there, spots of rich and cul- 
 tivated beauty, surrounding, generally, and supply- 
 ing the clusters of villages inhabited by the herds- 
 men of this country, so essentially pastoral. 
 
 " Yonder 's the village," exclaimed my companion, 
 as the last gleam of the sun streamed along the 
 

 r) 
 
 ITT 
 
 valley, upon it. " It 's a charming spot," he said, 
 "and I love it dearly." He did not overrate it; it is? 
 in truth, of very great natural beauty; partaking 
 both of the grandeur of mountain scenery, and of 
 the peaceful and gentle character of a pastoral and 
 agricultural village. As we approached it, we could 
 see the long lines of cows gathering towards the 
 homestead, each guided by their herdsman, whose 
 voice or whose pipe they knew, and whose call they 
 obeyed. We heard, too, somewhat farther, a pipe, 
 breathing that celebrated air which has become 
 almost the national emblem of the whole country— 
 the epitome and the climax of the love of the absent 
 for their native hills and home. " I recollect," said 
 my friend, Pierre, with whom, by this time, I was 
 become pretty familiarly acquainted, " I recollect, 
 when I was in England, about eighteen months ago, 
 hearing that Ranz des Vaches played by a young 
 gentleman, on his flute, to a young lady, for her 
 piano; and my heart swelled, till I thought it would 
 have choked me, as I listened. It is with delight 
 that I listen to it now. What then gave me so 
 much pain, gives me exquisite pleasure now ; for I 
 recollect when I heard it in exile, and I feel that I 
 need never be in exile again." 
 
 As we neared the village, we seemed to have left 
 the mists and the rough weather on the hills behind 
 us; for they had cleared away, and softened into a 
 rich, still, and beautiful autumnal sunset. The 
 meadows and the gardens breathed, richly, of the 
 
10 AN ADVEKTUKE 
 
 fresh and scented air ; and the village, as the last 
 ray of the sun dwelt upon it, seemed a spot chosen 
 for seclusion, and softness, and repose ; yet, it had a 
 tinge of sadness upon it, too. 
 
 You will think, dear , I am growing wofuUy 
 
 sentimental; but, I speak of this place more from 
 the influence of subsequent feelings, than from what 
 struck me when I saw it first. You know, my 
 letters are not often of the lachrymose order; I am 
 rather past that sort of thing, by this time; but, 
 really, you yourself, unromantic as you are, would 
 have been bitten with a slight tinge of it, if you had 
 witnessed, at this village, what I did. You will 
 please to bear in mind that it lay among the Alps, 
 which, naturally, incline one to a serious turn of 
 mind ; and, consequently, confer a diploma upon one 
 to be a little high-flown for the duration of one's 
 wanderings. But, in sober truth, this is no jesting 
 matter, as you will find presently. 
 
 AVhen we arrived at the village, we went straight 
 to the house of t-he bride's father, where the bride- 
 groom had been staying, since his return. The new- 
 married couple were, the day after their wedding, 
 to go into their new dwelling ; some of the fields 
 adjoining which Pierre pointed out to me, as we de- 
 scended the hill. When we reached the house, his 
 bride came to the door, to meet him, with that expres- 
 sion of frank and unreserved affection and kind na- 
 ture, which is, perhaps, the most winning of all the 
 appearances, moods, seasons, and degrees of womanly 
 
AMONG THE ALPS. 11 
 
 beauty. We all think so, naturally enough, when 
 the expression is directed towards ourselves ; but he 
 must be a man of very close selfishness, indeed, who 
 does not, in all cases, see and acknoAvledge the influ- 
 ence of this, the real cestus which love lends to 
 beauty. Pierre explained, in a few words, the cir- 
 cumstances under which he had met me ; and M. 
 r Anglais was received, accordingly, with abundance 
 of cordiality and kindness. You may guess, it was 
 not long before he had promised to stay for the noce^ 
 the next day. 
 
 The family in which I thus found myself, sud- 
 denly, and so familiarly, domesticated, was that of a 
 cultivator ; in circumstances easy, if not opulent, and 
 abounding in all those indications and productions of 
 rustic wealth, which, naturally, exist in a country 
 where the means of disposing of them are neither 
 many, nor easy, nor frequent. I mean, every thing 
 arising from flocks and herds was in richness and 
 abundance ; more than in proportion, as it seemed to 
 me, with the house itself, and its furniture ; — though 
 these, if not refined, were, to say the least, in the 
 highest degree, indicative of our English word, comfort. 
 But, I am sure you are impatient to hear 
 
 something of the bride; and you, dear , who 
 
 know me so well, will, already, have discovered that 
 there must exist some reason which makes me feel 
 reluctant to speak of her, or, I should not have 
 talked of her gowns, and cloaks, and chairs, and 
 tables, before I had duly described herself But, 
 
12 AN ADVENTURE 
 
 truth to speak, from the first moment I saw her, I 
 was, painfully, struck with the fallacy of the hopes of 
 long happiness, which poor Pierre had formed to 
 himself; and I pitied him, from my heart, for that 
 blindness which affection, so proverbially, spreads over 
 the very eyes which it might be supposed to be the 
 readiest and surest to open. She must, indeed, have 
 been weakly and reduced, a month ago, if " she had 
 been growing stronger and better every day," said 
 I to myself, quoting her lover's words, when I first 
 saw her. If he had exaggerated her health, however, 
 he had not her beauty ; — for, in this respect, she as 
 far surpassed my expectation, as, in the other, she 
 fell beneath it. She was not only much handsomer 
 than, but altogether of a different order of beauty 
 from, any of her countrywomen whom I had seen» 
 
 The costumes of the Swiss peasantry are far prettier 
 than themselves, — they are, singularly, varied and 
 picturesque, as you and every body know ; but,' 
 the wearers of these dresses are, for the most part, 
 square, thick, coarse, and hard, as the women you see 
 in Tenier's pictures, — the nearest likeness I can 
 find for them. But Aline was very different from 
 all this. The dress of the Valais is plainer and 
 less peculiar than that of most of the other Cantons ; 
 chiefly distinguishable, indeed, by the peculiar and 
 by no means becoming hat, which Aline, being 
 within doors, had not, then, upon her. She appeared 
 to me to be about two and twenty — the age, pro- 
 bably, when female beauty has arrived at its most 
 
AMONG THE ALPS. 13 
 
 perfect point, — when it has reached, that is, its full 
 ripeness and developement, but while the fresh- 
 ness of youth still, to the full, remains. The co- 
 lour of the fruit has received the full richness of 
 mature beauty ; but the bloom is, in no degree, 
 brushed off. But this is not applicable to Aline. 
 She was of this age, indeed ; but its richness had, 
 in her, faded into delicacy of colour, and thinness of 
 form. Death was, to my view, plainly stamped 
 upon her cheek ; but he was arrayed in false beauty, 
 — not in revolting or disagreeable sickness, or squa- 
 lor. In plain words, it was evident to me that 
 this interesting and very lovely girl was dying of a 
 consumption, — to which the excitement given to her 
 heart and spirits, during the last few weeks, had, 
 probably, given a deeper hectic flush, deceitful to 
 others, from its beauty, and, perhaps, to herself, 
 from the false strength and feverish spirits to which 
 it gave rise. 
 
 Her old father was in the chimney comer ; and 
 her mother, a hearty and kind old woman, bustled 
 about, in the usual joy of a bride's mother. We 
 supped all together ; there were three or four younger 
 children, — ^brothers and sisters of Aline, — the elder 
 of which, blooming and lively, though not nearly so 
 lovely as her sister, had a happy Hebe look, which did 
 but make the contrast more apparent, to my eyes, of 
 the colour which spread upon her sister's cheek. 
 The younger was brown, and strong, and healthy; — 
 the elder was exquisitely fair in complexion, and 
 
14 AN ADVENTURE 
 
 delicate in form, but she appeared to me fated for 
 the grave. 
 
 As the evening advanced, her eyes seemed to 
 grow heavy ; and, though she appeared most unwil- 
 ling to complain, she, at last, did complain of feeling 
 tired and exhausted ; and, as she rose to retire, she 
 said, " I will go to rest early, that I may be re- 
 freshed in the morning ; I have had a busy day, to- 
 day, but I shall be as fresh as a lark to-morrow, 
 Pierre, — don't doubt it — Good night." I recollected, 
 as she spoke, an old nursery song, which my nurse 
 used to sing to me, when I was a child, of a bo}' who 
 died, from eating snakes, by mistake, for eels, 
 -r-not a very poetical cause of death ; — ^but of which 
 the ever-recurring burthen, sung, as it was, to a wild 
 melancholy cadence, used to make me cry bitterly, — 
 
 * ' Haste mother, haste mother, make my bed soon, 
 For I am sick, and I fain would lie down." 
 
 I little thought, at the moment, hoAv far the parallel 
 was about to extend. 
 
 The next morning, when I left my room, instead 
 of seeing the bright faces, and hearing the merry 
 voices, natural to a wedding, I met nothing but 
 hurried steps, and clouded faces ; and no one spoke 
 but in a hurried and under tone. The cause of this 
 soon occurred to me, and the mother speedily con- 
 firmed me in my belief. Aline was much, and sud- 
 denly, worse, and could not leave her bed. Pierre 
 had set oft", two hours before, for the nearest medical 
 
AMONG THE ALPS. * 16 
 
 man ; but he lived at a very considerable distance, 
 — St. Maurice, I think they said, — and he could 
 not be back before noon. I enquired into the par- 
 ticulars of the attack, and, from what I learned, I 
 believed a blood-vessel to have broken on the lungs; 
 in which case, weak as she seemed to me to be, I 
 feared for the worst. I could not, I confess, recon- 
 cile it to myself to leave the place, till I had heard 
 the report of the doctor. I had become strongly, 
 perhaps strangely, interested in this young couple. 
 There had appeared to me to be so much good- 
 heartedness and right feeling about Pierre; — he 
 seemed so open, so honest, so affectionate; — he had 
 striven so hard, and persevered so long, to enable, 
 him to be united to the object of his early love ; — 
 she, above all, was, in every way, so calculated to 
 inspire interest, — so lovely, so delicate, so fond of 
 him ; — they had been so long true to each other, un- 
 der such trying circumstances ; — and their love and 
 their trials had seemed now, at last, so happily about 
 to receive their completion and their reward ; — that 
 it struck me — I will say, deeply — to think that this 
 long-expected, this well-merited happiness was, pro- 
 bably, on the point of being marred for ever, in a 
 manner so tragical and shocking. 
 
 At length, Pierre returned, with the doctor. 1 
 question whether, with the exception of the lover 
 and the parents, any one awaited the result of the 
 interview with more anxiety than I did. It was 
 as I had anticipated; — a blood-vessel had broken 
 
16 AN ADVENTURE 
 
 during the night ; and the hemorrhage, which was, 
 in great part, internal, had left Aline exhausted to 
 extremity : the surgeon pronounced, positively, 
 that she could not survive five hours. I questioned 
 him myself. He seemed a person of skill in his 
 profession, and, certainly, was one of sense and feel- 
 ing. He was much touched with the peculiarity of 
 situation of his patient ; and promised, partly at my 
 entreaty, to remain till all was over. He visited 
 her, again, in about an hour, and repeated his former 
 opinion. Her hours were numbered, — the scene 
 was about to close. 
 
 I have seen many scenes of grief in my time, and 
 I have undergone, as you know, at least, my share 
 of those afflictions which fall to the lot of humanity ; 
 but, I do assure you, I have scarcely ever witnessed 
 any thing which affected me more deeply, — certainly, 
 never any thing in which I had not personal concern, 
 — than the grief of poor Pierre. Fine manly fellow 
 that he was, he was totally unmanned. " We were 
 to have been married to-day !" he kept saying, "we 
 were to have been married to-day!" 
 
 When the surgeon, next, visited his patient, he re- 
 mained with her longer than he had done before ; 
 and I began to hope that some favourable turn had 
 taken place in her disorder. When, at last, how- 
 ever, he came out, he was brushing off the tears 
 which had risen into his eyes, — a circumstance so 
 extraordinary with men of his profession, accus- 
 tomed, both from habit and from duty, to have 
 
AMONG THE ALPS. 17 
 
 the strongest and sternest command over their feel- 
 ings, as, at the moment, to make me suppose that 
 his predictions had been verified, even sooner than 
 he had expected. I was wrong in both ideas. No 
 change had taken place, either for the better, or the 
 worse, except the gradual declension, as death 
 drew nigh. The surgeon's emotion was caused by 
 something very different. He had communicated, 
 as was his duty, to the poor girl, the truth as to her 
 condition. She bore the sudden reverse, he said, 
 of what W3LS to have been her bridal day, with 
 far more fortitude and composure than he could 
 have conceived to be possible. But, — till the 
 return of her lover had given so strong an excita- 
 tion to her system, — she had, (as she let fall,) been 
 fully alive to the dangerous condition of her health, 
 and had thought often, and long, and deeply, on the 
 probable result. This, in a mind so well regulated 
 as hers, had greatly tended to disarm death of his 
 terrors, and to enable her to view his approach, 
 now, at the last, so sudden, and in such sad contrast 
 with her more recent hope, with resignation and 
 tranquillity. But, she said, her chief source of 
 regret formerly, and of joy of late, was the fear 
 then, and the hope now, as to being united to the 
 chosen of her youth, — to the tried and beloved ob- 
 ject of all the stronger passions of her soul. 
 
 " It has always been," the surgeon told me she 
 said to him, " it has always been the first, the 
 chief, the one object and wish, and hope of my 
 
18 AN ADVENTURE 
 
 life and heart, that I should live to be the wife 
 of Pierre. Many obstacles and difficulties lay be- 
 tween me and the accomplishment of that hope, 
 but they have all been removed, through his active 
 love and steady constancy ; and now, when, after 
 long years of exertion on his part, and of endurance 
 on mine, we were to have been united, this day, I 
 am about to be snatched from him, and to leave him 
 widowed in heart, — though only his betrothed, not 
 his wedded, bride. Sir, let us yet be united. You 
 say, a few hours must close my life ; — ^let me die, the 
 wife of Pierre. The clergyman will be, shortly, here, 
 who was to have joined us, — alas, how differently ! 
 — he shall join us still. Exert, sir, your influence 
 with my parents. Your sanction, I know, will 
 carry, with it, their's." " What could I say ?" con- 
 tinued the surgeon, — " it was but too clear that she 
 was at that point where my only medicine must be 
 to soothe the path of death, as much as might be 
 possible. Her wish appeared to me to be as inno- 
 cent and just, as it was natural. Pierre was there, 
 also, divided between his agony at her fate being 
 inevitable, and his fond affection, at hearing her thus 
 speak of him, — ^with more unreservedness of attach- 
 jnent, perhaps, than she had ever spoken before. 
 I sent for her mother; to her she repeated her 
 last request. I not only sanctioned it, but joined 
 my voice to hers. It has been agreed, sir, that they 
 shall be married, as soon as the priest arrives; and I 
 only hope that he may come soon." 
 
AMONG THE ALPS. 19 
 
 In effect, I found it was as the surgeon said. 
 Her two favourite companions in the village, who 
 were to have joined her sister in being her bride's- 
 maids, were sent for. They, and the priest, arrived 
 at the same moment. He seemed a mild, amiable, 
 benevolent man, who came prepared to join, with 
 subdued, and yet encouraging, mirth, in the merri- 
 ment of the house of feasting ; — he was proportion- 
 ately shocked, at finding it changed into the house of 
 death. The circumstances were explained to him. 
 He immediately gave his consent, and hastened to 
 commence the ceremony ; that there might be suffi- 
 cient time for the performance of those other offices 
 of the Catholic religion, which so seldom follow, in 
 such rapid succession, to the ritual of marriage. 
 
 We were all invited into the room of the dying 
 bride, to witness the wedding-service. She was 
 sitting up in her bed, supported by pillows. A 
 white night-gown was thrown across her shoulders, 
 and fastened upon her bosom. Her neck and face 
 were of a marble whiteness ; which contrasted, 
 strongly, with her dark eye-lashes, and her brown 
 hair, plainly parted upon her brow. 
 
 There is something in the aspect of a person im- 
 mediately about to die, — aware of, and preparing for, 
 the transition, — which is inexpressibly solemn, — I had 
 almost said awful. Their position, as a human being 
 about for ever to cast off humanity, wholly out- 
 weighs, and throws into shade, their conventional 
 position in society. We look upon the virtuous 
 
20 AN ADVENTURE 
 
 death-bed of the humble, with equal reverence, and 
 learn, as deeply, the lesson which a death-bed never 
 should, and seldom does, for a time, at least, fail to 
 teach, as though the spirit of one of the magnates 
 of the earth were passing. In the present instance, 
 every thing tended to keep up, and to increase, this 
 feeling. There were none of those circumstances of 
 squalidity, wretchedness, or ignorance, which, in 
 despite of ourselves, will, in some degree, jar across 
 the unity of our state of mind. Aline, as I now saw 
 her, was, more than ever, freed from any of the 
 coarser appearances or attributes common to her 
 rank in life. She looked eminently lovely,— but it 
 was the loveliness almost of death, — the calm, pale, 
 beauty of the tenement of humanity, from which 
 the super-human essence has flitted. But when all 
 were gathered round her, for the service to begin, 
 the look which she turned on Pierre, as she placed 
 her hand in his, lighted up her face with the radi- 
 ance of pure and perfected affection, — human pas- 
 sion, in its noblest and least earthly form; subli- 
 mated by the grave, which was opening to receive her, 
 from all its grosser particles, and rendered pure and 
 excellent, — almost as the spirit which was, so soon, 
 to awake to heavenly love. Her beauty was no 
 longer the beauty of death, — the still, fixed loveli- 
 ness of inanimate and pallid clay. It was like a full, 
 rich sunset, among her own Alps ; rendering, for the 
 time, warm and brilliant, the condensation and 
 acme of all that is colourless in nature. 
 
AMONG THE ALPS. 21 
 
 I was SO occupied in gazing upon this lovely and 
 interesting object, that I had scarcely time, or oppor- 
 tunity, to pay much attention to the rest of the group. 
 I did just look at them, however. The old father 
 seemed, perhaps, to exhibit the fewest signs of emo- 
 tion. Old age, beyond a certain point, has, I am con- 
 vinced, the faculty, like winter, of freezing the 
 " genial current of the soul." It is, probably, a wise 
 and benevolent provision of Nature, — thus, in pro- 
 portion as we are the more likely to outlive our early 
 and old friends, to render the heart less sensible to 
 their loss. 1 do not mean to say that the old man 
 appeared, wholly, regardless of what was passing ; but 
 he did not seem to suffer keenly. The mother 
 sobbed deeply and audibly ; and the tears coursed 
 each other down her cheeks. She did seem to suf- 
 fer very keenly. The young girls appeared shocked^ 
 in its stricter sense. The change and the revulsion 
 had been so sudden and so strong, that they scarcely, 
 as it were, had had time to analyze their sensations. 
 They seemed almost as much mentally stunned, as 
 sorrowful. Pierre, — worthy, kind, affectionate, 
 Pierre, — who had risen in my esteem and regard, 
 by the degree to which he had excited affection, 
 and siicli affection, in one like Aline, — his grief I 
 will not attempt to describe ; he seemed heart- 
 broken. 
 
 When the blessing had been given, Aline threw 
 her head upon Pierre's bosom. " At last," said she, 
 " I die your's." Sobs were his only answer. We, 
 
22 AN ADVENTURE AMONG THE ALPS. 
 
 then, all quitted the room, to enable the priest to 
 fulfil the other, and more solemn rites of his church, 
 to which I have before alluded. 
 
 1 never saw Aline again. I kept, purposely, aloof, 
 as — being an heretic, as they would say — I would 
 not, for the world, have given the least jar to their 
 slightest prejudice, at such a moment — I did not 
 finally leave the house, however, till all was over. 
 
 About two hours after the marriage ceremony was 
 over, the surgeon told me. Aline breathed her last — 
 a gentle sigh — upon her husband's bosom. I "accom- 
 panied him on his way homeward. " I have, of 
 course, sir," he said, " witnessed, in the discharge of 
 my professional duties, many scenes of most poignant 
 sorrow. Death-beds, of every shade and description 
 of distress, are familiar to me. I only hope I may 
 never witness such another wedding! The bridal 
 flowers will be, stiU, fresh, to be woven into garlands 
 for the bride's grave !" 
 
[xrjiVBRsiTrl 
 
..WtstaH R-A-del. 
 
 Edw^Finden sculp 
 
 f HH IPl.m'JfES^ifc. 
 
THE PARTING. 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 The night is lowering, dull and dark, 
 
 He holds her to his heavy heart ; 
 
 Her eye is on the fatal bark, — 
 
 And must they— must they part ! 
 
 Oh ! that a wish could chain the gales, 
 
 How long that dreary calm should last, 
 
 Or ere a breath should swell the sails, 
 
 That flap around the mast ! 
 
 Oh ! that no ray might ever rise. 
 
 To light her latest sacrifice ! 
 
 There are they met — the young and fond — 
 That such should ever meet to part I 
 One hour is theirs, and all beyond 
 A chaos of the heart : — 
 She hears him yet —his softest sigh — 
 The breathing of his lowest word- 
 Sounds that, by her, beneath the sky. 
 Shall never more be heard ; 
 Form, voice, that hour — all, save its sorrow 
 Shall be but memories on the morrow ! 
 
 He is her all who bends above. 
 
 Her hope — the brightest, and the last ; — 
 
24 THE PARTING. 
 
 Oh ! that the days life gives to love 
 
 Should ever be the past ! 
 
 What gleam upon their startled eyes 
 
 Breaks, like the flash from angry heaven ? 
 
 Lo, where the clouds, in yonder skies. 
 
 Before the gale are driven ! 
 
 And, o'er their spirits, all grows night. 
 
 Beneath that burst of life and light. 
 
 The moon is forth, — but sad and pale. 
 
 As though she wept, and waited, still. 
 
 For him she never more shall hail. 
 
 Upon the Latnios hill : 
 
 The breeze is up, — the sail unfurled ; — 
 
 Oh ! for one hour of respite, yet ! 
 
 In vain ! — 'Tis moonlight in the world. 
 
 But Ellen's light is set ; 
 
 The bark is tossing in the bay, — 
 
 The streamers point away — away I 
 
 One kiss — of lips as wan and cold 
 
 As life to them shall, henceforth, be ; 
 
 One glance — the glance that makes us old. 
 
 Of utter agony ; 
 
 One throb —the bitterest and the last. 
 
 Awaking, but to deaden, pain, 
 
 In hearts that, when that pai)g is past. 
 
 Shall never ache again ; — 
 
 And the loosed cord, — the broken bowl^ 
 
 Lie at hope's fountain, in th^ souL 
 

 .^^ 
 
 o*" 
 
 ii 
 
 in^ 
 
 i& 
 
Ik-sim ly a.Corboald . 
 
 FROM A. CROUP Br WZSTIUCOTT . 
 
HINDOO GIRL, BY AN URN. 
 
 FROM A GROUP, BY WESTMACOTT. 
 BY L. £. L. 
 
 She leant beneath an alma tree, which flung 
 A shower of leaves and blossoms o'er her head, — 
 But faded all of them : this made the place 
 A fitting temple for her ; like her joys. 
 The fresh sweet flowers grew far above her reach ; 
 But, like her griefs, the withered ones were strewed 
 Beneath her feet, and mingled with her hair. 
 Her long black hair, which swept round like a cloud, 
 And had no other wreath than those sad leaves. 
 Her brow was bowed upon a marble urn. 
 Pale as its cold, white pillow ; on her cheek 
 Lingered the grace which beauty ever leaves. 
 Although herself be gone ; her large dark eye 
 Wasas a picture's, fixed and motionless. 
 With only one expression. — There are griefs 
 That hunt, like, hounds, our happiness away ; 
 And cares that, ivy-like, fix on our hopes. 
 But these are nothing — though they waste the heart- 
 To when one single sorrow, like the rod. 
 The serpent rod, has swallowed up the rest. 
 
 Her history was on every lip ; they told. 
 
26 THE HINDOO GIRL. 
 
 At first, a common tale ; — she loved, was loved. 
 
 And love was destiny and happiness. 
 
 But red war was abroad ; and there are charms 
 
 In the bright sabre, flashing to the sun. 
 
 The banner, crimson as the morning sky 
 
 It seems to meet, the thunder of the drum, 
 
 The clashing atabal, the haughty steed 
 
 Impatient for the battle, and the ranks, 
 
 Glittering and glorious in their armed array : 
 
 Aye, these have charms — but not for woman's dreams. 
 
 The youth went to the warfare, where he fell. 
 
 Unknown, unnamed, uumissed; — it is the fate 
 
 Of thousands, swept away like autumn leaves. 
 
 Young, brave, with heart and hand, and all that makes 
 
 The hero, — but in vain. And where is she. 
 
 His lovely, lonely one ? Not in her bower. 
 
 Not in her father's hall ; no more they see 
 
 Her white veil floating on the evening air. 
 
 The moon-light shining on the mystic bark 
 
 She watched so anxiously. Again she came ; 
 
 But not the same, as when, with summer flowers 
 
 And scented lamp, she sought the river side ; 
 
 But pale and silent, like a shadowy thing 
 
 That has looked on the other world, and known 
 
 The secrets of the grave, but forced, awhile. 
 
 To linger on the earth it loathes. She held 
 
 Within her arms an urn ; beneath the shade 
 
 Of the tree which had been the favourite haunt 
 
 Of her young lover, at the twilight hour — 
 
 For then they met — she placed her treasure down. 
 
THE HINDOO GIRL. 2^ 
 
 It was a tale of wonder, and soon spread. 
 She had been to the distant battle field. 
 And wandered 'mid the dying and the dead, 
 Gazing on many a ghastly face ; at last. 
 She found her lover, and this was his urn. — 
 And leaning on that urn is her employ : 
 And still, at the lone hour, when the first star 
 Rises o'er the blue Ganges, will she sing 
 A low and plaining melancholy song. 
 At other times, she leans beside the urn, 
 As she were but a statue placed by grief 
 In memory of love ! 
 
TIMANTHE. 
 
 A DRAMATIC SCENE, 
 
 In the manner of Dryden, 
 
 BY LAURENCE YOUNG, ESQ. 
 
 LINDA. MONTALTO. 
 
 Linda. O, rare philosophy ! — 
 Eyes— nose— and mouth ! — Tut, thou dost pay more 
 
 honour 
 Unto the house's walls, than to its master. 
 Bating the outside fashioning of form, 
 Timanthe stands a wonder among women ! 
 A mass of excellence — a cunning piece-work 
 Of divers virtues woven into one ! 
 And yet, no sexless angel she, I ween ; 
 She hath a loving spirit, and a loveable ; 
 She hath her beauty in her soul, Montalto I 
 
 Montalto. Go to, go to — I never saw her soiri, 
 The gate to the heart's mansion is the eye ; 
 Love must he born of beauty, my fair coz ! 
 No fable that makes Cupid Venus' son. 
 
 Linda, Are there not answering fires then — love for 
 love? 
 A flame can ne'er be wanting a reflexion : 
 Oh ! could you see Timauthe's mighty anguish, — 
 The unsung, unpictured battle of the bosom. 
 Where weakness is the strongest in the fight,— 
 
TIMANTHE. 29 
 
 Mark all the gradual mastery of passion I 
 
 — For woman's heart has throbbings of its own ; 
 
 Feelings, man's sterner nature never felt ; 
 
 Pulses of pain that beat without an echo ! — 
 
 Read, here, this scroll, obtained from 'neath her pillow. 
 
 Love rages fiercest in the bravest minds ^ 
 As trees are shaken most that dare the winds; 
 Ah ! who can guess, or who, by guessing, know 
 What toomarCs pride, unthroned, must undergo ! 
 
 Montalto. Thunder and storm ! — 1 hate these coming 
 
 women, 
 Their saucy passion rings a bell before it ; 
 Give me the maid whose soul sits still within her. 
 Less full of life, than full of consciousness ; 
 Her love shall seem a night-mare of the heart ; 
 Her voice compose the ear in measured murmurs. 
 Like distant ocean's breathing, in its sleep ; 
 Her cheek a pale transparency, revealing 
 The fitful flashing of the light within ; 
 Her broad blue eye the drowsy lid shall curtain — 
 Linda. No more of this ! — Say of my suit — ^Ti- 
 
 manthe ; 
 Her wit — her worth — her wealth — her boundless 
 
 riches ! 
 Montalto. Ay, that's a story worth the listening to ; 
 A wealthy widow is a beggar's bargain. 
 And many a thriftless wight shall court her coffers ; 
 But for me, — 
 
30 TIMAKIHE. 
 
 Whose all of fortune's gifts have been her graces. 
 Lord only of my loving looking-glass, — 
 Nor woman's wit nor wealth will I pursue ; 
 For when the maid is coy — your hint to woo — 
 Turn from her, and she'll, sure, turn after you : 
 My sweet-mouthed moralist ! art answer'd now ? 
 Nay, never frown — farewell, my pretty coz ! Eivit. 
 
 Linda. Oh, why will woman condescend to love ! 
 Enter Timanthe. 
 Hah ! how is this ? — ^Timanthe here ! — my friend! 
 
 Timanthe. Aye, Linda, I am here ! — 
 Shall I confess my shame ? 
 Unwittingly, yet scarce against my will, 
 I've overheard it all — ^heard all he said — 
 And, think ye not 'twas bitter sweet to hear ? 
 But, I will be revenged — I'll doat upon him, — 
 Forsake, renounce myself — be mad with love ; 
 Reason shall, henceforth, have no part in me. 
 Take, take your prey — passion, cry havock here ! 
 And, as the captive, for his liberty. 
 Demolishes his prison-house, by fire, 
 My eager soul, that cannot kill itself. 
 Shall scorch and fret its fleshy cage, with fever. 
 Till it fall scathed to earth, and set me free ! 
 
 Linda. Be more advised — I pray — soft, sweet Ti- 
 manthe ! 
 And time may win ye to forget Montalto. 
 
 Timanthe. Time '. — and forget !— a calendar for 
 woe ! 
 Bid my heart suffer by an almanack ! 
 
TIMANTHE. 31 
 
 Thou dost deride me. Oh, unkind Montalto ! 
 
 What though these eyes shall never more behold him ! 
 
 My spirit, still, shall cleave unto his being, 
 
 Shall drink his sorrow— taste his eveiy joy ; — 
 
 He shall not dream a dream but I'll perceive it ! — 
 
 I'll hover round his path, and o'er his bed ; 
 
 As he but smiles or frowns, be grave or gay ; — 
 
 My soul shall be the sensitive acacia. 
 
 That trembles to the passing of a shadow ! — 
 
 Filling the avenue of every sense, 
 
 All I shall see, or hear, or touch, or taste, 
 
 Shall seem Montalto ! 
 
 I'll hate his hate, and whom he deigns to love, 
 
 Hear it, all heaven and earth ! — I'll love her too ! 
 
 Ah, Linda, Linda ! whaf s the despair that kills ? 
 
 The torment of the damned most sm-ely lies 
 
 In viewing heaven, afar, with hopeless eyes ! 
 
 Rmhes oiU. 
 
SONG. 
 
 " here's to thee, my SCOTTISH LASSIE." 
 BY JOHN MOULTRIE, ESQ. 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie I here's a hearty 
 
 health to thee, 
 For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step 
 
 so firm and free ; 
 For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace. 
 For the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine 
 
 of thy face ; 
 For thy guileless look and speech sincere, yet sweet 
 
 as speech can be. 
 Here's a health, my Scottish lassie I here's a hearty 
 
 health to thee ! 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — though my glow 
 of youth is o'er. 
 
 And I, as once I felt and dreamed, must feel and dream 
 no more ; 
 
 Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has 
 chilled my soul at last, 
 
 And genius, with the foodful looks of youthful friend- 
 ship past ; 
 
 Though my path is dark and lonely, now, o'er this 
 world's dreary sea, — 
 
 Here's a health, my Scottish lassie ! liere's a hearty 
 healtli to thee ! 
 
SCOTTISH SONG. 33' 
 
 Here*s to thee, my Scottish lassie ! — though I know 
 
 that not for nie 
 Is thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step 
 
 so firm and free ; 
 Though thou, with cold and careless looks, wilt often 
 
 pass me by. 
 Unconscious of my swelling heart, and of my wistful 
 
 eye; 
 Though thou wilt wed some Highland love, nor waste 
 
 one thought on me, — 
 Here's a health, my Scottish lassie ! — here's a hearty 
 
 health to thee ! 
 
 Here's to thee, ray Scottish lassie ! — when I meet thee 
 
 in the throng 
 Of merry youths and maidens, dancing lightsomely 
 
 along, 
 I'll dream away an hour or twain, still gazing on thy 
 
 form. 
 As it flashes through the baser crowd, like lightning 
 
 through a storm ; 
 And I, perhaps, shall touch thy hand, and share thy 
 
 looks of glee. 
 And for once, my Scottish lassie I dance a giddy dance 
 
 with thee. 
 
 Here's to thee, ray Scottish lassie !— I shall think of 
 
 thee at even, 
 When I see its first and fairest star come smiling up 
 
 through Heaven ; 
 
 D 
 
34 SCOTTISH SONG. 
 
 I shall hear thy sweet and touching voice, in every wind 
 
 that grieves. 
 As it whirls from the abandoned oak its withered 
 
 autumn leaves ; 
 In the gloom of the wild forest, in the stillness of the 
 
 sea, 
 I shall think, my Scottish lassie ! I shall often think of 
 
 thee. 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie I — in my sad and 
 
 lonely hours. 
 The thought of thee comes o'er me, like the breath of 
 
 distant flowers ; 
 Like the music that enchants mine ear, the sights that 
 
 bless mine eye. 
 Like the verdure of the meadow, like the azure of the 
 
 sky, 
 Like the rainbow in the evening, like the blossom on 
 
 the tree. 
 Is the thought, my Scottish lassie ! is the lonely thought 
 
 of thee. 
 
 Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !— though my muse 
 
 must soon be dumb, 
 (For graver thoughts and duties, with my graver years, 
 
 are come,) 
 Though my soul must burst the bonds of earth, and 
 
 learn to soar on high. 
 And to look on this world's follies with a calm and 
 
 sober eye. 
 
SCOTTISH SONG. 36 
 
 niough the merry wine must seldom flow, the revel 
 
 cease for me, — 
 Still to thee, my Scottish lassie ! still I'll drink a health 
 
 to thee. 
 
 Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a parting 
 
 health to thee ; 
 May thine be still a cloudless lot, though it be far from 
 
 me! 
 May still thy laughing eye be bright, and open still thy 
 
 brow. 
 Thy thoughts as pure, thy speech as free, thy heart as 
 
 light as now 1 
 And, whatsoe'er my after fate, my dearest toast sliall 
 
 be, — 
 Still a health, my Scottish lassie ! still a hearty health 
 
 to thee ! 
 
STAGE-COACH PHYSIOGNOMISTS. 
 
 BY THE LATE RICHARD LOVELL EDGEWORTH, ESQ. 
 
 I LIVE upon the edge of a small common, through 
 which a great road leads to the metropolis. Nearly 
 twenty stage coaches pass near my door, every day 
 and it is one of my favourite amusements, when I 
 have leisure, to get into one of these vehicles, if I 
 like the looks of the passengers, and to proceed with 
 them, as long as I find any thing in their conversa- 
 tion that is either new or agreeable. I have, some- 
 times, changed my coach ten times in one day, 
 without meeting a single person that afforded any 
 materials for observation, or any circumstances 
 worth remembering. I was, however, uncommonly 
 fortunate in one of my late excursions. 
 
 On a fine day, in the beginning of summer, when 
 the weather was neither too hot nor too cold, when 
 the glasses on both sides of the coach were, by tacit 
 consent, left open, and when neither the weather 
 nor the roads were such as to occupy the attention 
 of my fellow travellers, they, by degrees, entered 
 into conversation, and, amongst various subjects, at 
 last, we fell upon that of physiognomy. A thin, pale 
 
STAGE-COACH PHYSIOGNOMISTS. 37 
 
 man, who had the air of a traveller, told us that he 
 had lately been at Zurich, where he had been well 
 acquainted with the famous Lavater. He spoke of 
 him, and of his art, with so much warmth that I, at 
 first, began to suspect that we had got Lavater, him- 
 self, in the coach. I, however, soon perceived, by 
 the accent with which he pronounced French, that 
 he was an Englishman. He mentioned various 
 strange opinions, which his master had not ventured 
 to put in his book, but, which were still more absurd 
 than his attributing a character to a dish of tea, and 
 physiognomy to a cockchafFer. At these ridiculous 
 fancies, a fat, fair lady, who sat in one corner of the 
 coach, laughed most heartily. " How is it possible," 
 Said she, " that a dish of tea can have a character ? 
 I have heard say that a cup of coffee may have vir- 
 tue in fortune-telling — indeed I, once, had a cup of 
 coffee turned upon myself, and it, certainly, was 
 not much out as to my fortune ; — and then, a cock- 
 chaffer ! Lord bless me ! who ever looked at the 
 features of a cockchafFer ! — for my part, I can't tell 
 whether he has eyes, nose, and mouth, or not." 
 
 " Ma'am," replied the traveller, " the cockchaffer 
 is a species of beetle ; you have, I suppose, ma'am, 
 seen a beetle ?" — " Surely, sir." — " And, ma'am, as 
 the immortal Shakespeare says, 
 
 ' The poor beetle, that we tread upon. 
 In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great 
 As when a giant dies !' 
 
38 STAGE-COACH PHYSIOGNOMISTS. 
 
 Now, madam, don't you think when this poor 
 beetle feels this corporeal pang, he shews his feelings 
 in his countenance, like any other creature ?" This 
 speech was uttered with much emphasis, and with 
 such an air of triumph as plainly shewed that the 
 speaker was much pleased with his own eloquence. 
 A corpulent gentleman, dressed in a snuff-coloured 
 coat, with gilt buttons, with a well-combed bob-wig 
 on his head, and a gold-headed cane in his hand, 
 who sat in the corner of the coach, diagonally op- 
 posite to the lady, exclaimed, with much vehemence, 
 " the countenance of a cockchaffer !" As I hap- 
 pened to sit opposite to this sententious disputant, 
 my foot narrowly escaped feeling the full force of 
 his argument ; for, as he spoke, he struck his gold- 
 headed cane, with great violence, against the bottom 
 of the coach, between my feet, which were not half 
 an inch asunder. From this moment of the debate, 
 whenever the red cheeks of my opposite neighbour 
 began to puff, I kept my eye, steadily, upon his cane, 
 that I might escape the blow with which he, regu- 
 larly, finished his argument. I could not help ob- 
 serving to the company, that the extraordinary pre- 
 tensions of Dr. Lavater and his followers were 
 highly prejudicial to the art which they wished to 
 recommend — that the reasonable claims of true phy- 
 siognomists had, by these means, lost their just cre- 
 dit — and that, when a man now talked of forming an 
 opinion of the characters of strangers from their 
 countenances and manners, he was, immediately, 
 
STAGE-COACH PHYSIOGNOMISTS. 39 
 
 suspected of belonging to a school which he dis- 
 claimed. 
 
 A middle-sized, middle-aged officer, now, for the 
 first time, opened his lips : " I agree with you, en- 
 tirely," said he ; "a man who has seen the world, 
 necessarily, learns those marks, by which the occu- 
 pations and characters of individuals may, with some 
 certainty, be discovered." A young gentleman of 
 genteel appearance, who was the fifth passenger, 
 and who was wedged in between the traveller and 
 the gentleman with the cane, smiled such a dissent 
 to the assertions of the last speaker, that, without 
 waiting for a direct answer, the officer confirmed 
 his own opinion, by offering to put it to immediate 
 trial, if the company would give him leave, provided 
 the gentleman who was Lavater's pupil would give 
 a previous specimen of his skill. 
 
 Our fellow-travellers, with great good humour, 
 agreed to this proposal ; and we all promised that 
 we would, without disguise, acknowledge the truth 
 of any successful discovery which either of the phy- 
 siognomists should make. The traveller, as I call 
 him, very gravely requested the lady to throw aside 
 her handsome silk cloak, and let him see the shape 
 of the olicranon^ or tip of her elbow : to this she, 
 cheerfiiUy, consented ; but, upon his desiring to see 
 the bones of her head, beyond the precincts of her 
 nice laced cap, she became refractory, and it was 
 with much difficulty that she was persuaded to show 
 a glimpse of the os temporum. The owner of the 
 
40 STAGE-COACH PHYSIOGNOMISTS. 
 
 gold-headed cane was next persuaded to push back 
 his wig, a couple of inches, to shew the configuration 
 of his skull. The gentleman who sat between the 
 traveller and this important person, turned his head 
 all manner of ways, to satisfy the anatomical curi- 
 osity of the disciple of I^avater — and I, also, sub- 
 mitted my occiput and sinciput to every investigation 
 that he required. But in no one instance did he give 
 satisfaction. He determined, from the conformation 
 of the lady's elbow a«id temples, that she was of West 
 Indian extraction; — that the well-bred sensible young 
 man, who sat next him, had a most choleric disposi- 
 tion, indicated by the ossa hregmatis ; — and that, from 
 my osteology, I must, necessarily, be of the most pro- 
 foundly melancholy temperament. 
 
 After having laughed heartily at the failure of 
 this physiognomist of bones, the officer, with a mild 
 countenance, free from aU the airs of superior wis- 
 dom, addressed himself to the lady, whose sex re- 
 quired his first attentions. " Madam," said he, " I 
 don't pretend to make any discovery, when I say 
 that you are of a good-humoured and good-natured 
 disposition ; that every child could immediately per- 
 ceive, in your countenance. I pretend to know, only, 
 what have been your ordinary occupations, and what 
 has been the general course of your life ; but, in 
 doing so, I fear to offend. If you will promise to 
 forgive me, with your usual good-nature, if I guess 
 right, I will submit to be upbraided as much as 
 you please if I am wrong." The lady having pro- 
 
STAGE-COACH PHYSIOGNOMISTS. 41 
 
 mised all that was required, the officer told her that 
 she had been the mistress of some public-house, — whe- 
 ther of a coflPee-house, inn, or tavern, he could not 
 precisely tell, but he supposed the former. " Well, 
 sir," says she, " and suppose I have ! I hope there 
 is no harm in that ! I don't see why people should 
 be so curious about other people's affairs. I suppose, 
 sir, you took care to inquire who we all were, before 
 you got into the coach." From this, the gentleman 
 readily exculpated himself, by calling to our recol- 
 lection his having been taken up at Kensington 
 turnpike. The lady continued to vent her displea- 
 sure, in angry tones, notwithstanding we all re- 
 minded her of our unanimous engagement not to be 
 offended with the truth. At length, the comely 
 landlady, whose costly clothes and genteel address 
 entitled her to pass at least for the wife of a justice 
 of the peace, consented to be pacified, on condition 
 that the officer should tell the means by which he 
 had discovered her occupation. 
 
 " Why, madam, I formed my opinion from a very 
 trifling circumstance : I observed that, whenever 
 you began to speak, your right hand immediately 
 applied itself to one particular spot, near your pocket- 
 hole, upon which place your fingers moved, inces- 
 santly, during your discourse. I perceived that 
 your fingers, from habit, moved as if they were 
 fumbling amongst a bunch of keys." 
 
 " Sir," says the lady, recovering her good hu- 
 mour, " I acknowledge that you are right ; I, for 
 
 V^ Of TEHR^^ 
 
 DTiriyERsiTr] 
 
42 STAGE-COACH PHYSIOGNOMISTS. 
 
 many years, carried a bunch of keys under my 
 apron, (when aprons were the fashion,) and it is 
 likely enough that I should get the custom of feel- 
 ing for the key that would, probably, be wanted." 
 
 We were, all, pleased with this successful effort 
 of rational physiognomy ; particularly, the gentle- 
 man with the cane, who seemed deUghted at the 
 discomfiture of the landlady. " I will be hanged," 
 says he, " if you discover who I am ; I think 1 am 
 a bit of a judge upon these subjects, and 1 do not 
 know a single point, about me, from which you could 
 make a good hit." 
 
 " Sir," says the officer, "what you have, first, said 
 would make me suspect that you were upon the 
 turf, notwithstanding your dress and deportment, 
 which would lead me to think that you were a rich 
 merchant, or perhaps an alderman ; but, a physiog- 
 nomist depends more upon the category of accident 
 than that of dress. If my art does not deceive me, 
 sir, you are an auctioneer." 
 
 " And so I am, sir ; but how, the devil ! did you 
 find that out ? you have not heard me utter twenty 
 sentences, since we met, and not one word in my way 
 has escaped my fips." 
 
 " That is very true," repHed the officer ; " but, 
 whenever yoii thought you had a conclusive argu- 
 ment, you, always, knocked down the prize in dispute 
 to yourself, with your cane, instead of the usual 
 hammer of business. I appeal to the gentleman op- 
 posite to you, who has parried many of your blows 
 
STAGE-COACH PHYSIOGNOMISTS. 43 
 
 with great dexterity." This observation I, readily, 
 confirmed ; and the company joined with me in ad- 
 miring the sagacity of our fellow-traveller. He 
 passed me over, very slightly, observing that, like 
 most idle gentlemen, there was nothing peculiar in 
 my manners. The genteel young man, whom I have 
 described as the fifth passenger, smiled at this 
 remark, and, offering himself to the inquiring 
 eyes of his judge, demanded what he supposed him 
 to be. 
 
 " Sir," said the wary officer, " I acknowledge that, 
 for a long time, I was at fault with respect to you ; 
 your knowledge of literature, and easy deportment, 
 led me to believe that you were a gentleman of for- 
 tune, who lived in the best company ; but, I am in- 
 clined to pronounce that you are a haberdasher or 
 silk-mercer." 
 
 " I am, most certainly," said the young man, 
 
 blushing, " son to Mr. , the silk-mercer, on 
 
 Ludgate-hill ; and I shall, now, be much obliged to 
 you, if you will let me know by what signs and to- 
 kens you discovered my occupation." 
 
 " Sir," said our hero, " whenever you talked ea- 
 gerly, you drew the slight switch that is in your 
 hands, through your fingers and thumb, precisely to 
 the length of a yard ; and the accuracy with which 
 this motion was repeated convinced me that long 
 practice, alone, could have made you so expert." 
 
 The young mercer was much pleased with this 
 explanation ; he was more flattered by being known 
 
44 STAGE-COACH PHYSIOGNOMISTS. 
 
 to be a merchant, and, at the same time, to be taken 
 notice of for good manners and good sense, than to 
 pass for a man of the <on, without being supposed to 
 have cultivated his mind. The anatomical physi- 
 ognomist was the only person, in the company, who 
 felt mortification : by pretending to knowledge be- 
 yond the true bounds of his art, he over-looked the 
 obvious indications of character which would have 
 occurred to a common Observer; and, though he 
 might not have discovered the occupations of the 
 landlady, the mercer, and the auctioneer, by a 
 bunch of keys, a switch, and a gold-headed cane, he 
 might have divined that the lady was not a West 
 Indian, that the mercer was not remarkably cho- 
 leric, and that I was not of the melancholic tempe- 
 rament. 
 
 I am aware that what I have written may appear 
 extravagant and improbable — a fate that often befals 
 the relation of real incidents, in works of entertain- 
 ment. The physiognomical anecdotes which are 
 preserved in the foregoing pages are, however, true. 
 
OLD LITHUANIAN SONG. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY JOHN BOWRING, ESQ. 
 
 Przcz lasy iodf owe 
 Przcz lasy swierkowe. 
 
 Through the pine trees' darksome woods, 
 
 Through the fir groves* solitudes, 
 
 On my piebald steed, I come, 
 
 Hurrying to her mother's home. 
 
 " Mother, hail !" — *' Thou 'rt welcome, now, 
 
 To my cottage, lone and low." 
 
 " Tell me, mother ! tell me where 
 
 I may seek my cherished fair ?" 
 
 ** In yon chamber, dark and still. 
 
 Lies thy lovely maiden, ill, 
 
 Restless on the green -robed bed — 
 
 Hapless youth !" With gentle tread, 
 
 O'er the yard I swiftly glide. 
 
 Lingering on the threshold side. 
 
 Here I wiped my tears, and took 
 
 Her white hand, with gentlest look: — 
 
 '* Lovely sufferer! flower of spring! 
 
 Time sweet remedy shall bring." 
 
46 OLD LITHUANIAN SONG. 
 
 *' Call me, call me thine no more. 
 Soon life's short remains are o'er; 
 I within my grave shall lie. 
 Thou these flowing tears must dry :- 
 Thou wilt come and see me home. 
 To my solitary tomb. 
 Crowds of maidens shall be there. 
 Feeling joy, but feigning care : 
 One, with rosy cheeks, shall be. 
 Even then, beloved by thee ; 
 She shall bear away thy kiss, — 
 What a bliss ! oh, what a bliss !" 
 
"AM I, TOO, IN ARCADIA?" 
 
 1!Y BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 What niinstrers glance could coldly view 
 A scene which, to the poet's eye 
 
 And vivid fancy, might renew 
 The vanished dream of Arcady ! 
 
 To me, with so much pastoral grace 
 
 This delicate creation teems, 
 That, while each varied charm I trace. 
 
 The golden age no vision seems. 
 
 Imagination's airy flight 
 
 Transports me far, to distant times. 
 Bearing my thoughts, on pinions bright. 
 
 To simpler manners sunnier climes. 
 
 Methinks, amid such scenes as this. 
 Must they have dwelt — the bards of old, 
 
 Whose numbers, of Arcadian bliss. 
 And Tempe's beauteous vale, have told. 
 
 In whose immortal song is shown. 
 Graceful of form, and fresh of dye, 
 
 What pencils such as Claude's alone, 
 From charms like nature's, can supply. 
 
48 " AM I, TOO, IN ARCADIA?" 
 
 Delightful painter ! though I feel 
 
 No envy of thy noble art. 
 Grateful, J own the proud appeal 
 
 Its glorious triumphs can impart. 
 
 Appeal— which, unto outward sense. 
 Speaks in a language so refined ; 
 
 Triumphs— whose deeper eloquence 
 Proclaim their mastery o'er the mind. 
 
 And, what could genius win from fate. 
 Which thine to thee has failed to give ? 
 
 Living — such beauty to create ! 
 And, dying — m thy works to live! 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 *' Well, Senhors ! what say you ? Is not this a 
 fortunate termination of our day's adventure ?" ex- 
 claimed young Siegendorf, to his travelling compa- 
 nions. " A night spent in the pine-wood, on the 
 summit of Melibocus, or upon the Felsen Meer, ' Sea 
 of Rocks,' in the valley below, would have been 
 cheerless enough, after our fatiguing scramble over 
 steep cliffs and rugged mountains. Push round the 
 bottle, gallants, and do honour to the toast — 
 
 ' The Rhine ! the Rhine ! be blessings on the Rhine ! 
 Saint Rochus bless the land of love and wine !' " 
 
 Percy Fitzallan, the only Englishman of the 
 party, had never visited the Continent before. 
 Young, enthusiastic, and deeply read in German 
 literature, his excursion to the Odenwold had been 
 productive of the highest degree of gratification. 
 From the heights of the Berg Strasse hills, his eyes 
 had drank in a wide and lovely prospect, rendered 
 doubly interesting from the associations connected 
 
50 THE DREAM. 
 
 with it. The laughing Rhine rolled its blue waves 
 through an extensive plain, and washed the bases of 
 the dark walls of successive cities, in its course. 
 The Gothic towers of Spires first caught the eye ; 
 then Manheim, and the lofty point of the ancient 
 cathedral of Worms ; lower down, Mentz, dear to 
 those who have luxuriated over the strange legends 
 of the mightiest master of the forbidden art, Faust ; 
 Strasbourg was visible in the distance ; whilst, 
 stretching far to the west, beyond spreading corn- 
 fields, gemmed with villages, and dimly seen through 
 a veil of silvery mist, the view was bounded by the 
 Vosges mountains, — the fair and fertile hills of jo- 
 cund France. Immediately beneath, to the east- 
 ward, lay the limtastic regions of the Odenwold, 
 girt with the granite ribs of mother earth, with its 
 wild rocks vine-garlanded, its towering castles, and 
 deep umbrageous woods. 
 
 Nearly benighted, one of Percy's companions 
 had, luckily, met with a chasseur, belonging to the 
 keeper of the forest, and he had conducted them to 
 the shelter of the Baron's hunting lodge. An ex- 
 cellent supper, accompanied by numerous flaggons 
 of choice wine, fi-om Hockheira and the Rhinegau, 
 greeted the fatigued and hungry party. Percy did 
 ample justice to the repast, but, though usually in 
 gay spirits, he spoke little : wholly engrossed in the 
 novelty of his situation, the sprightly conversation 
 of the hilai'ious party could not awaken him from 
 the reverie in which he indulged. 
 
THE DREAM. 61 
 
 The ancient and pictorial apartment, wherein lie 
 was seated, engaged his attention. The polished oak 
 wainscot was hung with paintings of subjects con- 
 nected with the chace; each surmounted with the 
 grinning head of the wild boar, or the wolf, or 
 crowned with the stately antlers of the stag. The 
 flaring pine-torches threw deep and fantastic shadows 
 on the walls ; and, familiar with all the supersti- 
 tions of the north, as the black phantoms danced 
 to and fro, he could almost imagine that the Forst 
 geister^ forest fiends, had joined the company. 
 The birth-place of the mighty Odin, the spot still 
 supposed to be haunted by the wild huntsman of 
 the popular ballad, and the theatre wherein that 
 dark mysterious tribunal, the Frei Gericht^ was first 
 established, — a thousand fearful legends crowded to 
 his mind. He thought of Faust and Mephistopheles, 
 and their unholy league ; of the wehr wolves, and 
 wild jagers ; Holtz Konig, the wood king ; and all 
 the demons with which tradition peopled the deep 
 woods and cavernous recesses of a district only infe- 
 rior to the Hartz, in the multitude of its evil spirits. 
 
 When the assembly broke up, Percy was shewn 
 into a spacious bed-chamber. Somewhat weary with 
 the day's excursion, he sought his couch, and soon 
 fell asleep. Too highly excited, however, to sink 
 into undisturbed repose, the subject of his waking 
 thoughts haunted him, in feverish visions, through 
 the night. He dreamed of wandering amidst the 
 pine-covered vaUey of the Odenwold. Bewildered in 
 
52 THE DREAM. 
 
 the intricacies of darksome glens, he was some time 
 in finding a path ; but succeeding at last, he emerged 
 from a wood of linden trees, into a broad road, 
 which swept round a green hill, on whose slope 
 lay a quiet village church-yard, crowned with its holy 
 edifice. He entered the burial ground, and amused 
 himself with examining the rude memorials which had 
 been reared over the grass-grown receptacles of the 
 dead. Looking up, from his desultory employment, 
 he perceived a figure, at a little distance, earnestly 
 engaged in digging a grave. His form was gaunt and 
 bony, surpassing the common height ; he was clad 
 in uncouth garments, of a duU grey ; and his long 
 haggard face, and lean spectral fingers, were of the 
 same leaden hue, — a shocking contrast with his blood- 
 shot eyes, which, ever restless, seemed to emit red 
 flames, as they rolled around. The grave, already, 
 exceeded all reasonable dimensions, but still this 
 fearful creature continued to enlarge it ; and, as he 
 threw up the mould, which came mingled with 
 skulls and other hideous fragments of mortality, he 
 laughed. Percy felt his blood creep through his 
 veins, as the fiend-like, super-human sound smote 
 on his ear ; and he marked the diabolical expres- 
 sion of the malignant countenance. He thought 
 that his path lay upon the other side of the grave ; 
 and, however unwilling, he felt compelled to pass 
 it. On drawing nearer, the hateful wretch, till now 
 apparently engrossed with his work, looked up, and, 
 pointing to the horrid chasm which yawned below, 
 
^ THE DREAM. 63 
 
 said, in a deep unearthly voice, whilst a bitter laugh 
 distorted his grim features, " You will fill it" Percy 
 started, — and awoke. 
 
 It was not until the first grey light of dawn 
 gleamed upon his bed, that he could again compose 
 himself to sleep. At length, the sweet oblivion stole 
 over his senses ; he closed his eyes, and dreamed no 
 more. The sun's vivid beams aroused him from his 
 second slumber ; he hastily arose, and, walking to 
 the window, was struck with surprise and conster- 
 nation, on perceiving that it looked out upon the 
 scene of his last night's vision. To the left lay the 
 wood of linden trees, and the broad road swept 
 round a green hill, the site of the village church- 
 yard ; and, to make the resemblance still more 
 alarmingly exact, a wide and deep grave opened its 
 dark jaws immediately opposite the place in which 
 he stood. Percy shuddered : though pleased with 
 the perusal of superstitious tales, he was not him- 
 self superstitious ; but, nevertheless, he could not 
 help feeling, that it was a disagreeable coincidence. 
 He tried to adopt the persuasion that he must have 
 looked upon the landscape, previous to retiring to 
 bed, and that his dream had merely reflected the 
 impression on his mind ; but he did not recollect 
 having approached the window, and he could not 
 have seen it on entering the house, as the great 
 gate opened in a contrary direction. 
 
 Uncomfortable, and anxious to quit a spot which, 
 notwithstanding its beauty, now filled him with 
 
54 THE DREAM. 
 
 melancholy ideas, Percy dressed ; and, joining his 
 friends below, was only consoled with the hope that, 
 in the space of a very few hours, he should be far 
 out of the reach of the horrible prediction of the 
 church-yard phantom. He felt ashamed to mention 
 his dream; but, unable to dismiss it from his 
 thoughts, he inquired for whom the grave was in- 
 tended, which he had beheld from his window. He 
 was told that it had been dug, in the night, by the 
 friends of a family of heretics, swept away by a pes- 
 tilential disease, to whom the priests had, subse- 
 quently, however, refused admission into consecrated 
 ground ; and that a prejudice existed amongst the 
 common people, which prevented its being closed, 
 until some of the inhabitants should die. 
 
 Little satisfied with this explanation, Percy felt 
 relieved when the horses were ordered, and the 
 party set forth. The sun shone brightly ; every leaf 
 was musical with the joyful song of the feathered 
 tribe, and the cheerfulness around him soon dissi- 
 pated his uneasy sensations. Pressing forwards, at a 
 quick pace, the animal on which he rode, stumbled, and 
 threw him ; he strove to rise, but sunk, insensible, on 
 the ground. It was some time ere he recovered his 
 recollection ; and when sight and sense returned, he 
 found himself in bed, in a strange apartment, and 
 still weak from the violence of the falL 
 
 The accident had occurred in the close vicinity of the 
 chateau of the Baron de Riesbach ; and, when Percy was 
 able to quit his cl^^mber, he was attended, with assi- 
 
THE DREAM. 55 
 
 duous care, by the two young and lovely daughters of 
 his host. Had there only been one^ the heart of the 
 Englishman must have surrendered ; but it was diffi- 
 cult to make a choice between these two. The pensive 
 charms of Ermance counteracted the effects of Gene- 
 vieve's bright eyes and joyous smile. It was delightful 
 to the convalescent to roam amid the flowery laby- 
 rinths of the romantic land, with such sweet compa- 
 nions. They sang the splendid compositions of their 
 gifted countrymen, with melody which lapt the soul 
 in Elysium ; they danced, too ; and, though his weak- 
 ness would not permit him to join in the amusement, 
 he watched their graceful evolutions, in the circling 
 waltz, with admiring eyes. 
 
 Hospitably pressed to prolong his visit, he wanted 
 little persuasion to induce him to remain in society 
 so congenial to his taste. During the heat of the 
 day, he sate, with Genevieve and Ermance, under a 
 rich canopy of the mantling vine, and beguiled the 
 sultry hours with poetic legends; or, he related, to 
 his fascinated auditors, strange tales of eastern 
 climes. In the evening, they sought some gentle 
 eminence, and listened to the rustic pipe and shep- 
 herd's roundelay, as the peasants, returning from 
 their daily toil, hastened to the sequestered villages 
 which nestled in the sloping vales, beneath. Thus, 
 the fervid noon, the soft twilight, and the star- 
 enamelled night, brought new pleasures and fresh 
 enjoyments to their unsophisticated minds. 
 
 These witching hours might be tasted, by Percy, 
 
56 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 without danger ; but to the sensitive and inexperienced 
 sisters, they were fraught with peril. Already, their 
 cheerfulness had vanished ; the expectation of their 
 new firiend's departure hung, like a cloud, upon them. 
 He was but too well calculated to realize the ideas, 
 which their youthful fancies had cherished, of all that 
 was amiable and excellent in man ; and, though un- 
 conscious of the passion, both were deeply, de- 
 votedly, irrevocably attached to one, who, if he 
 should return the affection of either, must doom a 
 faithful and trusting heart to despair. Percy was 
 not a vain man, and he did not even guess the mis- 
 chief which his protracted sojourn at Riesbach had 
 occasioned. The heir of a noble house, he was too 
 certain that a foreign alliance would be distasteful 
 to his parents, to think of marriage ; and, though en- 
 tertaining tender friendship for each of the baron's 
 fair daughters, his admiration of both was so nicely 
 balanced, that not the slightest preference for one 
 above the other ever arose in his mind. " How 
 would Genevieve enjoy this lovely prospect !" he 
 would say, to Ermance, if, perchance, her sister were 
 absent ; and, when alone with Genevieve, if he found 
 one flower more beautiful than the rest, he would 
 lay it aside for Ermance. But, though he was so 
 blind and unconscious, other eyes were open ; and 
 idle tongues were busy, in speculating upon the pro- 
 bable consequences of his high favour with two 
 young creatures, who had no mother to warn them 
 against the arts of the libertine sex. liOdowic 
 
THE DREAM. 5/ 
 
 Riesbach, the baron's son, a fiery, impetuous young 
 man, returned suddenly to the Odenwold. A day 
 was sufficient to convince him that the peace of one, 
 or both, of his sisters was, irretrievably, wrecked. He 
 questioned the visitor, somewhat roughly, respecting 
 the nature of his intentions. Percy, rather sur- 
 prised, answered, at first, mildly ; but, provoked by 
 the rude soldier's menaces, indignantly refused to 
 give any explanation of his conduct ; and, unwiUing 
 to disturb the domestic repose of an estimable family, 
 prepared for his immediate departure. He left a 
 gratefiil and affectionate farewell to his fair friends, 
 in a letter, and took the road to the village. 
 
 His path lay through a pine wood, and, in one of 
 the most secluded spots, he found Lodowic. As- 
 sailed by gross and irritating language, Percy, for a 
 time, endeavoured to conciliate his enraged com- 
 panion ; his courtesy only excited fresh insult. At 
 last, the word coward smote his ear. He felt 
 that his reluctance to meet the combat had, in some 
 degree, justified the appellation; he seized the 
 offered weapon, and, in a moment, the wild wood 
 rang with the clash of swords. Exasperated beyond 
 all endurance, stung to the very soul, Percy only 
 recovered his self-possession at the instant that his 
 adversary dropped, bleeding, at his feet. He would 
 have given worlds for the recal of the last few 
 minutes, but it was impossible ; Lodowic Riesbach 
 lay a corse before him. He called, loudly, for assist- 
 ance ; a few peasants drew near, and, hastily forming 
 
68 THE DREAM. 
 
 a rude litter, with the boughs of the trees, they raised 
 the body upon their shoulders. 
 
 The melancholy procession had not left the wood, 
 ere it was encountered by the bereaved father. It 
 was a fearful spectacle, to see the horror-struck old 
 man gaze upon the stiffening corse of his only son. 
 His white locks stood upright, his limbs shook, and 
 every feature quivered ; he wrung his hands in agony, 
 and shrieks burst from his tortured heart. Madness 
 and death seemed struggling in his frame. Again, 
 every muscle was distorted, his fingers were clenched, 
 his glazed eye-balls seemed startingfrom their sockets. 
 It was the last pang; he staggered, and, falling upon 
 the earth, the wounded spirit fled. But, even more 
 heart-rending was the grief of the orphan sisters. 
 Speechless and aghast, they were stunned by tne 
 shock, without being able to comprehend the frill 
 extent of their misery. It was their first misfor- 
 tune, and it overwhelmed them. The author of all 
 their wretchedness dared not offer a single word of 
 consolation. Surrendering himself to the civil 
 authorities, he was detained in confinement, which 
 promised to be of short duration: the threats of 
 Lodowic were sufficient to prove that his antagonist 
 had killed him in self-defence. But such considera- 
 tions could not bring peace to Percy's mind; life was 
 altogether valueless, in the certainty that he had, 
 irreparably, destroyed the happiness of two innocent 
 beings. 
 
 Genevieve and Ermance were aroused from their 
 
THE DREAM. 59 
 
 mute despair, by the cruel reports which obtained 
 circulation throughout the district. Attacked by 
 slander of the most injurious kind, at the moment 
 when they were suffering an accumulation of evils, 
 they had not fortitude to sustain this new calamity. 
 Stricken to the soul, by the dreadful fate of their father 
 and brother, — aggravated, as it was, by the cause, — 
 they were not, entirely, aware of the extent and the 
 hopelessness of their unhappy attachment, until they 
 heard the malicious comments of the neighbourhood. 
 Then it rushed full upon them — they must see the 
 cherished object of their hearts' idolatry no more ! 
 Shame and misery would follow their re-union, and 
 what was the world to them ! With blighted pros- 
 pects, ruined hopes, their fair fame tarnished by the 
 breath of calumny, why should they drag forth a 
 miserable existence, when there was a refuge to be 
 found ! Alas, these unfortunate sisters possessed 
 not a single friend to soothe their sorrows, and lead 
 them to a better hope. They filled a chalice with 
 the juice of poisonous drugs; — both drank, and died. 
 Percy Fitzallan, released from his confinement, 
 dejected, and sick at heart, commenced his journey 
 from the Odenwold. Obliged to pass the church- 
 yard, his dream occurred to his mind, and thriUed 
 him with horror. He shut his eyes, but the mental 
 picture was, if possible, more shocking than the 
 reality. He turned a hurried glance to the green 
 sward — the grave was full. 
 
 Emma R. 
 
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 
 
 BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ. 
 
 Q. Flowers, wherefore do ye bloom ? 
 A. We strew thy pathway to the tomb. 
 
 Q. Stars, wherefore do yc rise ? 
 A. To light thy spirit to the skies. 
 
 Q. Fair moon, why dost thou wane ? 
 A. That I may wax again. 
 
 Q. O sun, what makes thy beams so bright } 
 A. The Word that said—" Let there be light." 
 
 Q. Time, whither dost thou flee ? 
 A. I travel to eternity. 
 
 Q. Eternity, what art thou, say ? 
 
 A. I was, am, will be ever more, tO'day. 
 
 Q. Nature, whence sprang thy glorious frame ? 
 A. My Maker called me, and I came. 
 
 Q. Winds, whence and whither do ye blow ? 
 A. Thou must be *' born again," to know. 
 
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 61 
 
 Q. Ocean, what rules thy swell and fall ? 
 A. The might of Him that rUleth all. 
 
 Q. Planets, what guides you in your course ? 
 A. Unseen, unfelt, unfailing force. 
 
 Q. O life, what is thy breath ? 
 A. A vapour, vanishing in death. 
 
 Q. O death, where ends thy strife ? 
 A. In everlasting life. 
 
 Q. O grave, where is thy victory ? 
 A. Ask Him who rose again from me. 
 
DISCRETION THE BETTER PART OF 
 VALOUR. 
 
 A NEW SONG OF ANCIENT PISTOL's. 
 
 BY HORATIO SMITH, ESQ. 
 One of the Authors of the " Rejected Addresses" 
 
 One day, as I was strutting, with my customary swagger, 
 A puppy cried out, — " Pistol ! you're a coward, though 
 
 a bragger :" 
 Now, this was an indignity no gentleman could take. 
 
 Sir! 
 So I told him, pat and plump, — *' you lie ! under 
 
 a mistake. Sir 1" 
 Fools may be fool-hardy, still, but men like me are 
 
 wiser. 
 And if we get a fighting fame, it is for fighting shy. Sir ! 
 
 Said I, ** Sir, if you take the wall, you take it to your 
 
 ruin ;" 
 Then forth he popped his knuckles, and he gave my 
 
 nose a screwing: 
 *' Zounds and fury !" bellows I, " there's no bearing 
 
 this, at all. Sir 1" 
 So I lifted up my cane, and I gave the rogue the 
 
 wall, Sir 1 
 
DISCRETION THE BETTER PART OF VALOUR. 63 
 
 Fools may be fool-hardy still, but men like me are 
 
 wiser. 
 And if we get a fighting fame, it is for fighting shy. Sir ! 
 
 I told him, for his insolence I must have satisfaction. 
 When he gave me such a kick that it drove me to dis- 
 traction ; 
 My patience now was overcome, so nobody will wonder 
 
 That I doubled up my fist, and immediately knocked 
 
 under ! 
 Fools may be fool-hai-dy still, but men like me are 
 
 wiser, 
 And if we get a fighting fame, it is for fighting shy, Sir ! 
 
GLASTONBURY ABBEY AND WELLS 
 CATHEDRAL. 
 
 Written after viewing the Ruins of the one, and hearing the 
 Church Service, in the other. 
 
 BY THE REV. W. LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 Glory and boast of Avalon's fair vale, 
 How beautiful thy ancient turrets rose ! 
 
 Fancy yet sees them, in the sunshine pale 
 Gleaming, or more majestic in repose, — 
 
 When, w^est-away, the crimson landscape glows, — 
 Casting their shadows on the waters wide,* 
 
 How sweet the sounds, that, at still day-light's 
 close, 
 
 * The Vale of Avalon was surrounded by waters at the 
 time. King Arthur is described as buried in the Island of 
 Avalon. Part of a sculptured lion remains ; and it may be 
 observed, that Leland, in his Itinerary, speaks of " Duo 
 Leones sub pedibus Arthuri." The masonry over the sacred 
 well, discovered by Mr. Warner, is eminently beautiful. 
 
 It is a singular fact, that the last meeting of the Bible 
 Society was held amidst the august desolation of Glastonbury 
 Abbey. 
 
GLASTONBURY ABBEY, &C. 65 
 
 Came, blended with the airs of eventide. 
 When, through the glimmering aisle, faint " misere- 
 res" died ! 
 
 But all is silent now !— silent the bell 
 
 That, heard from yonder ivied turret high. 
 Warned the cowled brother from his midnight 
 cell ;— 
 
 Silent the vesper-chaunt — the litany 
 Responsive to the organ ! — scattered lie 
 
 The wrecks of the proud pile, 'mid arches grey, — 
 Whilst hollow winds, through mantling ivy, sigh! 
 
 And e'en the mouldering shrine is rent away. 
 Where, in his warrior weeds, the British Arthur lay. 
 
 Now, look upon the sister fane of Wells !— 
 
 It lifts its forehead ia the lucid air ; — 
 Sweet, o'er the champain, sound its sabbath bells, — 
 
 Its roof rolls back the chaunt, or voice of prayer. 
 Anxious we ask, will heaven that temple spare. 
 
 Or mortal tempest sweep it from its state ? 
 Oh ! say, — shall time revere the fabric fair. 
 
 Or shall it meet, in distant years, thy fate. 
 Shattered, proud pile, like thee, and left as desolate ? 
 
 No ! to subdue or elevate the soul. 
 Our best, our purest feelings to refine, 
 
 Still shall the solemn diapasons roll 
 Through that high fane! still hues, reflected, 
 shine 
 
66 A woman's pride. 
 
 From the tall windows, on the sculptured shrine, 
 Tinging the pavement ! for He shall aiford— 
 
 He who directs the storm — His aid divine, 
 Because its Sion has not left thy word. 
 Nor sought for other guide than thee, Almighty Lord ! 
 
 A AVOMAN'S PRIDE. 
 
 The pride that I feel is the violet's pride, 
 
 Which sleepily droops o'er the blue water's side. 
 
 But opens its eye, at the day-god's kiss, 
 
 To pride in his love, though death followed the bliss. 
 
 The pride that I feel is the pride of the rose, 
 Which, at evening tide, with a deeper blush glows. 
 When all is hushed, that her lover may sigh, — 
 Oh ! is she not proud of his minstrelsy ! 
 
 The pride that I feel is the pride of the maid 
 Whose lover ne'er came, but at evening shade, 
 When, with perfumed taper, she softly trod. 
 And found that her fair arm had cradled a god ! 
 
 Then chide me not for my pride in thee. 
 
 Thou earth-boni spirit of melody ! 
 
 Oh ! blame not the heart that is all thine own, — 
 
 If love forged its fetters — pride fastened them on ! 
 
 MONA. 
 
TO THE DEPARTED. 
 
 BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE. 
 
 Sleep on — for thou art calm at last ; 
 And all the wrongs, and all the woes 
 That marked thy weary wanderings past, 
 Have left thee to thy long repose. — 
 Thy sun of life midst tempests rose. 
 In storms and darkness hath it set ; 
 Yet rays of glory, at its close. 
 Burst forth, whose lustre, lingering yet, 
 Reveals, to faith's uplifted eye. 
 How blest thine immortality ! 
 
 Yes ! — thine is now a brighter doom, 
 A bliss unchanging as divine ; 
 While he who shared thine hours of gloom, 
 Whose tears were ever mixed with thine. 
 
 Is left to suffer and repine - 
 
 Oh not repine! — sad heart, be still! 
 And let it teach thee to resign. 
 And bend thee to thy Father's will. 
 That she, whose sorrows were thine own. 
 Is blest at length— though blest alone ! 
 
68 TO THE DEPARTED. 
 
 I will not mourn thee, dearest— no '.— 
 As one whose hope is quenched for aye; 
 The tears, unceasing, shall not flow 
 Which earth nor heaven can wipe away. 
 Rather, from realms of cloudless day, 
 A light shall pierce the circling gloom. 
 To cheer me on my weary way, 
 And guide the wantltTLT to his home ;— 
 A home, where all that grieved before 
 Is known— or is deplored— no more ! 
 
STANZAS TO A LADY. 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 Across the waves — away and far, 
 
 My spirit turns to thee ; 
 
 I love thee as men love a star. 
 
 The brightest where a thousand are. 
 
 Sadly and silently ; 
 
 With love unstained by hopes or fears. 
 
 Too deep for words, too pure for tears ! 
 
 My heart is tutored not to weep ; 
 
 Calm, like the calm of even. 
 
 Where grief lies hushed, but not asleep, 
 
 Hallows the hours I love to keep 
 
 For only thee and heaven ; 
 
 Too far and fair to aid the birth 
 
 Of thoughts that have a taint of earth ! 
 
 And yet, the days for ever gone. 
 When thou wert as a bird. 
 Living 'mid flowers and leaves alone. 
 And singing in so soft a tone 
 As I never since have heard, 
 
70 STANZAS TO A LADY. 
 
 Will make me grieve that birds, and things 
 So beautiful, have ever wings I 
 
 And there are hours in the lonely night, 
 
 When I seem to hear thy calls. 
 
 Faint as the echos of far delight. 
 
 And dreamy and sad as the sighing flight 
 
 Of distant waterfalls ; — 
 
 And then my vow is hard to keep. 
 
 For it were a joy, indeed, to weep ! 
 
 For I feel, as men feel when moonlight falls 
 - Amid old cathedral aisles ; 
 Or the vdnd plays, sadly, along the walls 
 Of lonely and forsaken halls, 
 That we knew in their day of smiles ; 
 Or as one who hears, amid foreign flowers, 
 A tune he had learnt in his mother's bowers. 
 
 But I may not, and I dare not weep. 
 
 Lest the vision pass away. 
 
 And the vigils that I love to keep 
 
 Be broken up, by the fevered sleep 
 
 That leaves me — with the day — 
 
 Like one who has travelled far, to the spot 
 
 Where his home should be — and finds it not ! 
 
 Yet then, like the incense of many flowers. 
 Rise pleasant thoughts to me j 
 
STANZAS TO A LADY. 71 
 
 For I know, from thy dwelling in eastern bowers. 
 
 That thy spirit has come, in those silent hours. 
 
 To meet me over the sea ; 
 
 And I feel, in my soul, the fadeless truth 
 
 Of her whom I loved in early youth. 
 
 Like hidden streams,— whose quiet tone 
 
 Is unheard in the garish day, 
 
 That utter a music all their own. 
 
 When the night-dew falls, and the lady moon 
 
 Looks out to hear them play, — 
 
 I knew not half thy gentle worth. 
 
 Till grief drew all its music forth. 
 
 We shall not meet on eai-th again I — 
 
 And I would have it so ; 
 
 For, they tell me that the cloud of pain 
 
 Has flung its shadow o'er thy brain. 
 
 And touched thy looks with woe ; 
 
 And I have heard that storm and shower 
 
 Have dimmed thy loveliness, my flower ! 
 
 I would not look upon thy tears, — 
 
 For I have thee in my heart. 
 
 Just as thou wert, in those blessed years 
 
 When we were, both, too young for fears 
 
 That we should ever part ; 
 
 And I would not aught should mar the spell, 
 
 The picture nursed so long and well ! 
 
72 STANZAS TO A LADY. 
 
 I love to think on thee, as one 
 
 With whom the strife is o'er ; 
 
 And feel that I am journeying on. 
 
 Wasted, and weary, and alone, 
 
 To join thee on that shore 
 
 Where thou — I know — wilt look for me. 
 
 And I, for ever, be with thee! 
 
1Jiri7BRSIT 
 
RAPHAEL'S DEATH-BED. 
 
 BY L. i;. L. 
 
 How can the grare be terrible to those 
 
 Whose spirits walk the earth, even after death. 
 
 And have an influence on humanity. 
 
 In their undying glory. L. E. L. 
 
 'TwAS a twilight of Italy and spring, 
 With those pale colours that the sunsets fling, 
 Of shadowy rose, — or ever they are bright 
 With the rich purple of their summer light ! 
 A vaulted chamber was it,— where the day 
 Lingered, as it were loth to pass away. 
 Fainter and fiiinter falling, till the glare 
 Of taper, torch, and lamp, alone, were there. 
 Shining o'er glorious pictures, which were fraught 
 With aU the immortality of thought, — 
 And o'er a couch's canopy, where gold 
 Broidered and clasped the curtain's purple fold. 
 
 And is that silken pillow thus bespread 
 
 For those who cannot feel its down — the dead ! 
 
74 Raphael's death-bed. 
 
 Around that couch gathers a princely train, 
 And swells the holy anthem's funeral strain ; 
 Sweeps the rich incense round it, like a cloud, 
 While the arch prelate's hand uplifts the shroud, — 
 Flings, from the silver cup, the sacred wave, ' 
 Which sains and smooths the passage to the grave. 
 
 Aye, one sleeps there, — if sleep it can be named, 
 
 By which one half of waking life is shamed. 
 
 Is that death, where the spirit stays behind. 
 
 With much as ever influence on its kind ! 
 
 How can he die, — he who has left his soul 
 
 On the rich canvass, or the breathing scroU ! 
 
 What is our life— our being — but the spirit, 
 
 All of our native heaven we inherit ! 
 
 How can we die,— yet leave behind us all 
 
 The intellect that lit our earthly thrall ! 
 
 That seems like death, which leaves behind it 
 
 nought ; 
 No void in nature, — no remembering thought ; 
 Or, but the tenderness affection keeps. 
 Frail as itself — forgetting while it weeps ! 
 That seems like death, the many thousands die, 
 Their sole memorials, a tear — a sigh ! 
 But thus it is not to the mighty name. 
 Whose death was as the seal affixed to fame ; — 
 And he who sleeps there, dust returned to dust, 
 Paler and colder than the marble bust 
 Beside— now strangely like the face of death, 
 As rigid as itself, unwarmed by breath, — 
 
Raphael's death-bed. 75 
 
 It hath death's semblance ; — but, how can depart 
 The soul, yet leave its influence on the heart ! 
 
 No ! when the timid prayer for heaven's grace 
 Shall warm its zeal no more, at the sweet face 
 Of thy Madonnas ; nor the patient tear 
 Shall faU before thy Magdalen, with less fear ; 
 When never more a saint's pure brow shall speak 
 Hope to the trembling, — mercy to the weak ; 
 When the last hue is from thy canvass fled, 
 Their memory past, — then, Raphael, thou art dead ! 
 
THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 A MOUKTAIN ADVENTURE. 
 
 Last year, I made a tour through the Highlands. 
 One day, I set forth, without any other companion 
 than a large Newfoundland dog, to explore a new 
 scene in the immediate vicinity of my own tempo- 
 rary dwelling-place. I found fresh materials for my 
 mind to work upon, at every step; but, though nature 
 here presented her most savage aspect, my sensations 
 were altogether joyous. Mine was the firm step of 
 youth and health ; and — as I rudely dashed the dew 
 from the blossoming heath on which I trod, followed 
 by my dumb friend, as he took rash leaps over many 
 a dangerous precipice, — I felt a pleasure for which 
 1 could find no sufficient reason in my philosophy. 
 
 Man is but a miserable animal, and shrinks into 
 mere nothingness when contrasted with the magnifi- 
 cence of nature. He is part of the earth he treads 
 upon — part of the machinery of the universe ; but 
 less grand, less beautiftil, and less powerful than 
 all else around him. Who can gaze on the countless 
 myriads of stars that deck the deep-blue firmament,— 
 
THE IDIOT BOY. ']^ 
 
 or on the gorgeous sun-rising, or glowing sun-set, — on 
 moon-light, — on twilight, — a cloud, — a tree, — a 
 flower, — and not yield, to what we call inanimate na- 
 ture, the palm of beauty ! And is there one presump- 
 tuous slave among us who can strive with the proud 
 ocean,— who can endure like the rock and mountain, 
 warring with time itself! I knew this ; I had often, 
 with deep humility, pondered on the insignificance of 
 our species, on the degradation of our nature. But, 
 on this morning, my sensations were all pleasurable. 
 I was alone, yet I experienced no sensation of lone- 
 liness. I seemed lord of the grand creation around 
 me. My heart swelled with proud emotions ; and I, 
 willingly, forgot that another being of my nature was 
 in existence. I was out of sight of any human habi- 
 tation — out of the hearing of any human being. My 
 eye could not reach the blue misty tops of the 
 mountains which half encircled me. My ears were 
 stunned with the roar of mingling waters. Their 
 loud and angry noise, as they dashed over the 
 jutting rocks that retarded — not obstructed — their 
 progress, would have aroused a Morpheus from his 
 deepest sleep, had he imprudently chosen such a 
 resting place. 
 
 I stood on a rock that overhung the sea, full of 
 glad thoughts. I had, heedlessly, advanced too far, 
 on an insecure foundation ; — for the piece on which I 
 was standing trembled beneath my light pressure, 
 and threatened, with the slightest movement, to 
 ingulph me in the waters of oblivion. Shall I be 
 
78 THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 accredited when I assert that this conviction was 
 received into my mind, unaccompanied by fear ! I 
 felt, — I know not why,— an undefined joy, in the idea 
 of diving suddenly, and without waiting for the 
 gradual decay of nature, into the secrets of eternity ; 
 — or, at the worst, of obtaining annihilation, while yet 
 my strength was unexhausted, my mind undecayed, 
 and my gay spirit untouched by affliction. For a 
 moment — and a moment only — I thought of hastening 
 the event that seemed inevitable. But circumstance, 
 all-powerful circumstance, — as a good or evil genius 
 time will determine, — intervened to mar my purpose. 
 An old man appeared on the summit rock above my 
 head, carefully descending to my assistance. In a 
 single instant, what a mighty revolution was effected 
 in my thoughts, hopes, and wishes ! He advanced 
 nearer and nearer. — The hope — mingled with the un- 
 certainty — of escaping death, encreased the action of 
 my heart, even to agony. I seized the end of a pole 
 which he extended towards me, and, in a few brief 
 instants, was out of danger ;— and, but for my deli- 
 verer still remaining near me, do verily believe the 
 recollection of it would also have passed away. 
 
 I had recompensed him, as I thought, generously ; 
 and could not conceive the cause of his following me 
 thus pertinaciously. My gratitude — in man so short- 
 lived—had already given place to anger at his deter- 
 mined and continued intrusion. I turned round upon 
 him abruptly ; but the words of reproach died in si- 
 lence on my lips, as I observed the untaught majesty 
 
THE IDIOT BOY. 79 
 
 of his deportment, and the fine old English face which 
 he presented to my view. I wondered at my pre- 
 vious blindness, and politely begged of him to accept 
 the assistance of my arm, in leading him over the 
 rugged path ; but this he smilingly declined. And, in- 
 deed, — despite the springiness of my nature, and the 
 elasticity of my figure,— I found cause to marvel at, 
 and admire, a vigour which I could not reach; — yet 
 he was sixty years of age, and I had but just attained 
 my one-and-twentieth year. 
 
 We were soon on an intimate footing. My spon- 
 taneous respect at once touched and delighted him ; 
 and, in any circumstances, I could wish for no better 
 companion to beguile the way. He seemed to be 
 perfectly acquainted with the country ; at which I 
 marvelled, for, by ^ his bearing and accent, he -was 
 evidently an Englishman. He told me old legends 
 of the places which we passed ; and, though I should 
 have been better pleased to have heard his own 
 history, — so powerfully did he interest all my sym- 
 pathies, — yet I listened, with deep attention and 
 unfeigned pleasure, to his narrations, which were 
 sometimes marvellous, and always affecting. 
 
 " You see yonder hut !" said he, pointing to a lowly 
 and solitary building. " Last year, it contained two be- 
 ings who once sheltered me during a tedious and dan- 
 gerous illness. They are now in heaven !" continued 
 he, devoutly raising his eyes thither ; from which, 
 however, fell tears of regret, to prove the impotence 
 of the consolation with which he would fain have 
 
80 THE IDIOT BOy. 
 
 cheated himself. "Yes, sir, a poor old man and 
 his idiot boy once dwelt in that cottage. Many a 
 time has my heart been wrung, by the affecting 
 attentions of the unconscious youth ; who, — never 
 having witnessed any acts but of nature and be- 
 nevolence,— performed all the gentle' offices of hu- 
 manity, from the mere sense of imitation. Great 
 God ! spare me the recollection of his cold unmean- 
 ing laugh, — that laughter without joy ; — his tears 
 without sorrow ; — his mute kindness ;— his watchful 
 assiduity ; — his patient endurance, without the 
 thought or wish of doing service ! He would sit at 
 his father's feet, looking up innocentlj'^ into his fece, 
 an unmeaning smile playing round his lips ; and, in 
 the attitude of listening attention, would pull hand- 
 fulb from out his fair and sunny ringlets, as if the 
 perception of feeling was also denied him. 
 
 " The father loved this boy, — I think he loved him 
 the better because intelligence was denied him. And, 
 indeed, though it was but seldom I could visit the 
 cottage, after my recovery, I loved him too ; — he 
 was so beautifiil, so fragile, so innocent and guile- 
 less, so gentle, and his every movement so touch- 
 ing from its very unconsciousness, that I could 
 well pardon the doting, mournful, yet deep and con- 
 centrated affection with which he contemplated this 
 fair sample of unintelligent humanity. Poor child ! 
 It might, perhaps, be questioned if he was not a 
 gainer in wanting that understanding, on which 
 proud man so prides himself, and with which he so 
 
THE IDIOT BOY. 81 
 
 disgraces himself: — at least, he was thus spared much 
 suffering. 
 
 " The poor little fellow did not live long after I saw 
 him, they tell me,— for I was in England at the 
 time ; — and the shock I felt, on my return, to find 
 the hut without its inmates, pressed a sense of de- 
 solation on my heart that I cannot well describe. 
 You see, sir, that, like my countrymen, I am 
 fonder of dwelling on feelings than events, — on what 
 I think, rather than what I see ; and — you may 
 smile, sir— but I cannot help fancying that this makes 
 the great difference between the English and all 
 other nations." I returned no answer, and he conti- 
 nued his story — 
 
 " The simple child would follow his father about 
 the house ; and, from the constant habit of imitation, 
 was useful in working at their little garden. But, one 
 day, he seemed ill and feverish, and refused to follow 
 his anxious father to their usual place of occupation. 
 He hung his drooping head, as though in pain ; and 
 his utter inability to relate his ailment roused the 
 sensitive feelings of the parent to uncontroulable 
 
 agony. He paused, in dreadful indecision Should 
 
 he remain near his boy, to soothe him by acts of 
 endearment ; or leave him, to go to the village, nine 
 miles distant, for more efficient assistance ? As he 
 watched the varying colour of his child, — his short 
 quick breathing,— and listened to the low moaning 
 tones in which he spoke the pain that he had no more 
 distinctive method of relating, this indecision gra- 
 
82 THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 dually gave place to resolution ; and, pressing the 
 boy convulsively to his breast, he endeavoured to 
 explain that he would soon return. But he received 
 no answering signs of intelligence. The glazed eye 
 of his child was raised, for a moment, to his speaking 
 and agitated countenance, with stupid wonder ; and 
 was then heavily weighed down — it seemed by suf- 
 fering. The father could bear no more ; — he rushed 
 from the door, and said, raising his clasped hands to 
 heaven, ' I appeal to thee, oh God ! to spare my 
 child ! If a life devoted to thee and to my boy— thy 
 gift— has found favour in thy sight, oh, spare him ! 
 and how immeasurably shall I be repaid !' For a 
 moment, something like conviction that his prayer 
 was heard crossed his mind. Then he recurred to 
 the helpless state of his poor idiot, and despair took 
 place of hope. 
 
 " It was a cold December evening — He returned 
 to the cottage, to put his shivering child to bed ; and 
 then set off on his anxious journey. — And what 
 prayers did he put up to the throne of the Almighty, 
 that his endeavours to procure medical aid might 
 prove successful and effectual ! He walked fast, but 
 the road seemed to lengthen before him. The night 
 had now set in; and Allan pursued his way, in 
 breathless suspense and agony. He felt cold at heart ; 
 and his anxiety, instead of hastening, seemed to re- 
 tard his progress. He, first, felt a rigidity about the 
 muscles of his legs, — then intense pain. His walk 
 became languid, — more languid — At last, the power 
 
THE IDIOT BOf . 83 
 
 of motion was utterlj denied him ; — he sunk down 
 upon the snow, — a burning fever at his heart. He 
 would scarcely have heeded phj'sical pain, had he 
 experienced it ; but it had passed away — and his agi- 
 tated heart, contrasted frightfull}', with its frenzied 
 beatings, the torpidity of his frozen limbs. Let men 
 boast of their power of volition ! Here was a wretch 
 stretched upon the earth, to whom it was many 
 deaths to lie there, — who, had he possessed one par- 
 ticle of the free-will with which man's pride hath 
 sought to robe his weakness, would instantly have 
 returned to the bed-side of his loved, unconscious 
 one, who might be dying for want of aid ! 
 
 " Three hours after Allan had left his home, he was 
 
 lying, still, in the same posture, — apparently stiffened 
 
 into a corpse. But he was no longer alone. — A face, 
 
 —soft as those Italian skies smile upon — was pressed 
 
 close to the hard and marble lineaments of the worn 
 
 Scotsman. A fond hand patted his rough head, and 
 
 urged him to awake. — It was his idiot boy; who 
 
 had followed, at a distance, the only guide he had 
 
 ever known, tracing his steps, in the snow, with 
 
 that instinct which seems so like intelligence. 
 
 The father, though speechless and motionless, yet 
 
 saw and heard his child, — saw and heard him with 
 
 his heart !— for all outward avenues to thought and 
 
 feeling were locked up, in a spell of ice. The poor 
 
 innocent rubbed his hands ; and sought, by every 
 
 method, to impart some of his own warmth to the 
 
 father of his own life, — but all in vain ! — The gentle 
 
84 THE IDIOT BOY. 
 
 boy imbibed the parent coldness, instead of impart- 
 ing his own heat ; and, gradually declining his lovely 
 head, — that head so sweetly shadowed with its own 
 beauty, — his arm around his father's neck,— died, 
 calmly and sweetly, in that attitude of love. 
 
 " Allan was found, on the following morning, con- 
 scious of all that had passed. But the cold preyed 
 upon his vitals ; and he only told the story of his 
 feelings that dreadful night,— then hastened to his 
 boy, as if, in death, he still needed his watchful ten- 
 derness. 
 
 " They were laid in the same grave !" 
 
 MONA. 
 
THE COMET. 
 
 BY HENRY NEELE, ESQ. 
 
 O'er the blue heavens — majestic and alone — . 
 
 He treads, as treads a mouarch towards his throne ! 
 
 Darkness her leaden sceptre lifts, in vain. 
 
 Crushed and consumed beneath his fiery wain ; 
 
 And night's swarth cheeks, pained by his gazing eye. 
 
 Blush, like Aurora's, as he passes by ! 
 
 See, how the countless hosts of heaven turn pale, — 
 
 The blood-red cheek of Mars begins to fail. 
 
 Bright Berenice's shining locks grow dim, 
 
 Orion changes as he looks on him. 
 
 And the stern Gorgon on his brightness rests 
 
 Her stony eyes, and lowers her snaky crests ! 
 
 In breathless wonder hushed, the starry choir 
 
 Listen, in silence, to his one bold lyre j 
 
 Save when its lingering echoes they prolong, 
 
 And tell, to distant worlds, the wonderous song! — 
 
 — And what that song, whose numbers fill the ears. 
 
 With admiration, of surrounding spheres ? 
 
 " Honour and adoration, power and praise 
 
 To Him who tracks the comet's pathless ways ; 
 
86 THE COMET. 
 
 Who, to the stars, has their bright courses given. 
 And, to the sun, appoints his place in heaven ; 
 And rears, for man, a mansion more sublime. 
 Not built with hands, nor doomed to stoop to time. 
 Whose strong foundations, unimpaired, shall stay. 
 When suns, and stars, and worlds,— and all things pass 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 When lone, by day's declining light. 
 Thou slumberest in the silent grove. 
 
 Should some fond vision woo thy sight, 
 And o'er thee bend, in watchful love,— 
 
 Mine is that guardian form confest. 
 
 Whose vows of rapture soothe thy rest. 
 
 When, by the moon's uncertain ray. 
 The dream of love thy senses seals. 
 
 And — where the cypress branches sway — 
 A voice of aerial music steals, 
 
 And heaves the heart, in pleasing fear, — 
 
 'Tis then my spirit hovers near. 
 
FROM THE GERMAN. 87 
 
 Or if, while wandering fancy weaves 
 
 Her fairy spells of faded bliss, 
 Thy hand— thy lip a touch receives, 
 
 Light as the zephyr's whispered kiss, 
 And the pale lanip gleams fitful by, — 
 Oh ! doubt not then my shade is nigh. 
 
 Or, — heard by evening's silver star, 
 
 \Vhile sleep's light wreaths thy temples twine,— 
 Breathes— like the harp's wild tones afar — 
 
 The plighted vow—" For ever thine!" — 
 Then calmly sleep— for o'er thy breast 
 My spirit breathes its raptured rest ! 
 
 P. 
 
A MOTHER'S GRIEF. 
 
 A Sketch from Life. 
 BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE. 
 
 To mark the sufferings of the habe 
 lliat cannot apeak its woe ; 
 To see the infant tears gush forth, 
 Yet know not why they flow ; 
 To meet the meek uplifted eye. 
 That fain would ask relief, 
 Yet can but tell of agony, — 
 This is a mother's grief ! 
 
 Thro' dreary days and darker nights. 
 
 To trace the march of death ; 
 
 To hear the faint and frequent sigh, 
 
 The quick and shortened breath ; 
 
 To watch the last dread strife draw near. 
 
 And pray that struggle brief. 
 
 Though all is ended with its close,— 
 
 This is a mother's grief! 
 
 To see, in one short hour, decayed 
 The hope of future years ; 
 
A MOTHER'S GRIEF. 89 
 
 To feel how vain a father's prayers, 
 
 How vain a mother's tears ; 
 
 To think the cold grave now must close 
 
 O'er what was, once, the chief 
 
 Of all the treasured joys of earth, — 
 
 This is a mother's grief ! 
 
 Yet, when the first wild throb is past 
 Of anguish and despair. 
 To lift the eye of faith to heaven. 
 And think, " my child is there" — 
 This best can dry the gushing tears. 
 This yields the heait relief; 
 Until the Christian's pious hope 
 O'ercomes a mother's grief ! 
 
 UNIVERSITT] 
 
ON AN HOUR-GLASS, 
 
 Mark the golden grains that pass, 
 Brightly, through this channeled glass ; 
 Measuring, by their ceaseless fall. 
 Heaven's most precious gift to all ! 
 Pauseless — tiU its sand be done — 
 See the shining current run ; 
 Till, its inward treasure shed, 
 (Lo ! another hour has fled !) 
 Its task performed, — its travail past, — 
 Like mortal man, it rests at last ! 
 
 Yet, let some hand invert its frame, 
 And all its powers return the same ; 
 For all the golden grains remain, 
 To work their little hour again ! 
 
 But who shaU turn the glass for man, 
 Prom which the golden current ran ; 
 CoUect again the precious sand. 
 Which time has scattered with his hand ; 
 Bring back life's stream, with vital power, 
 And bid it run another hour ? — 
 -^A thousand years of toil were vain. 
 To gather up a single grain ! 
 
 J. M'C. 
 
THE LADY OF BEECHGROVE. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 BY MISS MITFORD, 
 Author of " Our Village." 
 
 Those who live in a thickly inhabited and very 
 pretty country, close to a large town, — within a 
 morning's ride of London, and an easy distance from 
 Bath, Cheltenham, and the sea, — must lay their ac- 
 count, (especially if there be also excellent roads and 
 a capital pack of fox hounds,) on some of the evils 
 which are generally found to counterbalance so 
 many conveniences ; — such as a most unusual dear- 
 ness and scarcity of milk, cream, butter, eggs, and 
 poultry — luxuries held proper to rural life, — a gene- 
 ral corruption of domestics, and — above all — a perpe- 
 tual change and fluctuation of neighbours. The people 
 in this pretty H * * shire country are as mutable as 
 the six-months denizens of Richmond or Hamp- 
 stead ; —mere birds of passage, who " come like sha- 
 dows, so depart." If a resident of ten years ago 
 were, by any chance, to come here now, he would be 
 in great luck if he found three faces of gentility that 
 he could recognise. I do not mean to insinuate that 
 faces, in our parts, wax old or ugly sooner than else- 
 
92 THE LADY OF BEECHGROVE. 
 
 where ; but, simply, that they do not stay amongst us 
 long enough to become old, — that, one after another, — 
 they vanish. All our mansions are let, or to be let. 
 The old fashioned manorial Hall, — where squire suc- 
 ceeded to squire from generation to generation, — is 
 cut down into a villa or a hunting lodge, and trans- 
 ferred, season after season, from tenant to tenant, 
 with as little remorse as if it were a lodging-house at 
 Brighton. The lords of the soil are almost as uni- 
 versally absentees as if our fair county were part 
 and parcel of the sister kingdom. The spirit of 
 migration possesses the land. Nobody, of any note, 
 even talks of staying amongst us, that I have heard, 
 — except a speculating candidate for the next bo- 
 rough ; and he is said to have given pretty intelli- 
 gible hints that he shall certainly be off unless he 
 be elected. — In short, we, H * • shire people, are a 
 generation of runaways ! 
 
 As " out of evil cometh good," one pleasant con- 
 sequence of this incessant mutation has been the ab- 
 sence of that sort of prying and observation, of which 
 country neighbours used to be accused. No street even 
 in London was free from small gossiping. With us 
 they who were moving, or thinking of moving, had 
 something else to do ; and we, — the few dull laggards, 
 who remained fixed in our places, as stationary as di- 
 recting posts, and pretty nearly as useless, — were too 
 much accustomed to the whirl to take any great note 
 of the passers by. 
 Yet, even amidst the general flitting, one abode 
 
THE LADY OF BEECHGROVE. 93 
 
 gradually forced itself into notice, for the unrivalled 
 rapidity of succession with which tenant followed 
 tenant, — the most admired and the most changeable 
 of all. It was an exceedingly pretty, inconvenient 
 cottage,— a picture of a place;— with its French 
 windows and verandahs, its treUis and porch covered 
 with clematis and jessamine, its baby-house conser- 
 vatory, and its miniature lawn. It was situated in 
 the midst of woody, winding lanes,— lost, as it were, 
 in the labyrinths of one rich and intricate country ; 
 with an open grove of noble beeches on one side of 
 it, and a clear stream, crossed by a winding bridge, 
 on the other. In short, Beechgrove, with all its 
 pretty rusticities, — its violets and primroses, and 
 nightingales and turtle doves, — was the very place in 
 which to spend the honeymoon. It seemed a spot 
 made, expressly, for brides and bridegrooms, — doomed, 
 by the inexorable laws of fashion, to four weeks of - 
 connubial felicity, to get creditably weary of solitude 
 and of each other. 
 
 Accordingly, couple after couple repaired to Beech- 
 grove. The very postillions, — whether from south or 
 north, or east or west, — knew, instinctively, where to 
 deposit a new married pair. There was not so pretty 
 a dove-cote within twenty miles. Here they came, in 
 quick succession, and we had great amusement in 
 watching them. A bridal party is, generally, very 
 pleasant to look at,— all white satin, and white lace, 
 and white favours, and finery and gaiety ! One likes 
 every thing about it;— the horses, so sleek and 
 
94 TUE LADY OF BEECHGROVE. 
 
 prancing;— the carriages, so ostentatiously new and 
 grand ; — the servants, so full of conscious importance, 
 parading and bustHng ; as proud of their master's 
 splendour as if they belonged to a sheriff on Lord 
 Mayor's day, or to a winning candidate at an election 
 time ! "Well, they came, and they went,— the fashion- 
 able, the titled, the wealthy, and the plain ;— glad, as 
 it seemed, to come,— and, certainly, glad to go. One 
 couple, only, remained a little beyond the allotted 
 time. — (N. B. That bride was remarkably pretty.) — 
 They lingered on; she was charmed with Beech- 
 grove, and they talked of wintering there, and re- 
 engaged the house. But,— I don't know how it was, 
 — she was a sweet pretty woman to be sure, but did 
 not look over wise ; and it happened to her as to 
 Cowley's Beauty in his " Chronicle," — her reign was 
 short 
 
 " One month, three days, and half an hour, 
 
 Judith held the sovereign power." 
 
 Her husband whisked her off to Paris, at the end of 
 five weeks. 
 
 They were succeeded by a man in the prime of 
 life, and a woman in its very morning ; — an elegant, 
 but most melancholy pair, who brought with them 
 no bridal favours, no gay carriages, no proud ser- 
 vants, no titles, no name. He was of a person 
 splendidly beautiful, — tall, stately, commanding,— of 
 a regality of port, and a haughtiness of aspect almost 
 defying, as if expecting enquiry, and determined to 
 look it down. It was only when gazing on his fair 
 
THE LADY OF BEECHGROVE. 95 
 
 companion, that his proud bright eye softened, and 
 his demeanour changed into the most gentle expres- 
 sion of tenderness and submission. He appeared 
 devoted to her ; and would read to her, on the lawn, 
 ride with her, or drive her in a little open chaise, for 
 hours together. She, on the other hand, although 
 receiving his attentions with unalterable sweetness, 
 seemed best pleased to glide away alone, given up to 
 her own thoughts— sad thoughts, alas ! I fear they 
 were — cheerless prospects and mournful recollec- 
 tions ! She would walk, with her bonnet in her hand, 
 and her beautiful curls put back from her white 
 temples, as if air were necessary to still their throb- 
 bing ; — and she would so sigh ! Poor thing ! poor 
 thing ! once she came to church, closely veiled, 
 downcast, and trembling. She had forgotten the key 
 of her own pew, and was invited, by the vicar's lady, 
 into hers. And she went in, and knelt in the lowest 
 place, and sate out great part of the service. But the 
 sermon was aflfecting ;— it spake of female frailty, — of 
 the woman taken in adultery, — of sin and of forgive- 
 ness. Slie could not bear it, and left the church. 
 She never entered it afterwards. Poor thing ! guilt 
 was there ; but shame and repentance were there, 
 also. She was born for better things, — and shrank 
 from the eye, as if looks were swords. 
 
 Without any intention of watching this lovely, 
 downcast penitent, — for most lovely she was ! — it so 
 happened that I met her frequently ; and, although 
 we never spoke, she grew so far familiarized to my 
 
96 THE LADY OF BEECHGROVE. 
 
 passing her in the lanes as not to start and tremble, 
 at my appearance, like a fluttered dove, — as was usual 
 with her, on the sight of strangers. She would even 
 stoop to fondle a beautiful little spaniel, which gene- 
 rally walked with me ; and which, with the extraordi- 
 nary instinct of his kind, had been attracted by her 
 sweet countenance, and never failed to fawn on her 
 Dash and she were quite acquainted ;— she had even 
 learnt his name. We used to meet almost every 
 day, — especially in one spot, which soon became as 
 much her favourite as it had long been mine. 
 
 About half a mile to the right of Beechgrove, a 
 shady lane leads to a^beautiful patch of woodland 
 scenery,— the lingering remains of an ancient chase. 
 Turfy sheep walks intersect thick brakes of fern and 
 holly, mingled with rich old thorns and the light 
 feathery birch, and surmounted by noble oaks and 
 beeches— the growth of centuries. In one of the re- 
 cesses of the wood,— just opposite the deep, clear pond 
 which lets the light so finely into this forest-picture, 
 — stands a real cottage, rough, rude, irregular, mis- 
 shapen ; with its hedged-in garden, and its well-stocked 
 orchard, — aU, evidently, cribbed from the waste, and 
 sufficiently spacious to give an air of unusual comfort 
 to the rustic dwelling. The cart-shed, too, and the 
 aggot-pile, and the old horse grazing before the door, 
 indicate a considerable degree of rural prosperity. 
 
 In fact, they are a thriving famUy. Charles North, 
 the head of the house, is a jobbing gardener, — whose 
 services are in such request that they are accorded 
 
THE LADY OF BEECHGROVE. 97 
 
 somewhat in the manner of favours, and must be be- 
 spoken as long beforehand as the attendance of a 
 first singer, at a musical party. He is a fine, athletic 
 man ; whose firm, upright form, and bold, hale, lively 
 visage contrast, rather strangely, the premature grey 
 locks that hang around the latter. In manner, he is 
 singularly agreeable,— full of shrewdness and good hu- 
 mour, very merry, and a little arch,— perceiving, in- 
 stantly, the weaknesses of those with whom he con- 
 verses, and humouring them, as much from pliability 
 of temper and a natural sympathy as from views of 
 interest. The rogue is my factotum ; and sees, at a 
 glance, which hyacinth to prefer, and which geranium 
 to admire. Good gardener as he is, I doubt if this be 
 not the great secret of Charles North's popularity. 
 Popular he is, that is certain, — perhaps the most po- 
 pular person of my acquaintance ; quite good enough 
 to please the wise, and not too good to alarm the 
 gay ; for the rest, an excellent husband and excel- 
 lent father, a thoroughly sober and industrious man, 
 except — now and then — an out-break at tide times, 
 which commonly lasts for a day or two, and leaves 
 him more ardently laborious than ever. One of the 
 most enviable peisons whom I have ever encoun- 
 tered is Charles North, in his blue apron. 
 
 He, however, is very seldom seen at his pleasant 
 home. He trudges forth, whistling, at four o'clock 
 every morning, and comes back, still whistling, about 
 seven at night. The cottage at the wood side is 
 quite populous enough, without him. To say nothing 
 
98 THE LADY OF BEECHGROVE. 
 
 «f hi8 ailing wife, — who is what in a lady would 
 be called nervous, — there were, at the time of 
 which I speak, thirteen goodly children, from 
 twenty years old to eight months. ShaU I give 
 a catal(^ue ? Yes. First, an eldest son, a baker, 
 (for one of the protuberances which make the 
 dwelling so picturesque is a huge oven,) Charles 
 North, junior, — tall and vigorous as his father, 
 —a staid, sober youth, who, by dint of the small- 
 pox and ft miraculous gravity, might pass for 
 the father of the family himself. Then, an eldest 
 sister,— stout and steady, — a home-keeping Martha 
 North, acting as regent during her mother's illnesses, 
 which know no pause, — deputy mistress and deputy 
 servant of the whole house. Then, a fine open coun- 
 tenanced girl, her father in petticoats, parcel pickle 
 and parcel coquette,- -who puts her hair in curl papers, 
 and flirts with one half of the parish, and romps with 
 the other, as she carries her brother's bread round 
 the country, — sole driver of the old white horse: — we 
 hare not a prettier black-eyed lass in the village 
 than Sally North. Then, Tom, — who goes to work 
 with his father, and is, at a word, Sally in breeches. 
 Then there were four or five urchins—names un- 
 known — who attended various seminaries, some for 
 charity, some for pay. Then three or four others — 
 sex unknown— imps in tattered frocks,— dirty, noisy, 
 healthy, and happy,— who dabbled, by the side of the 
 pond, with the ducks and geese, or helped the pigs 
 to find acorns, in the wood. Last of all, the baby 
 
THE LADY OF BEBCHGROVI. 99 
 
 —-a rosy, smiling brat, — clean amidst aU the dirt, 
 and placid amidst all the uproar,— who lived out of 
 doors like a gipsy, and might be seen in its little 
 pink frock, stretching its round, hardy limbs on the 
 tur^ or sitting, in infantine state, with its back 
 propped against a tree, from morning to night,— 'the 
 general pet and plaything of the family. 
 
 This infant was, evidently, the attraction which 
 drew the Lady of Beechgrove to this secluded spot. 
 Dash and I used to drive into the recesses of the 
 wood,— scenery where you may almost realize the de- 
 licious creations of " Comus," and " As you like it ;" 
 but she always paused at the cottage,— always as near 
 as possible to the baby. It was a child that, for mere 
 childish beauty, would have been remarked amongst 
 thousands. The square vigorous form — the dimpled 
 hands and feet and elbows, so firm, so mottled, of so 
 pure a carnation—the fair open forehead, with little 
 rings of brown hair curling around it — the large, 
 bright, blue eye — the delicate features— and the 
 sweet look of content, the passionless composure 
 which give a dignity to infant loveliness — would have 
 made little Mary North a model for Sir Jodiua. 
 No one ever passed, without admiring the child; but 
 on no one did her beauty produce such an effect as 
 on this unhappy lady. She could not pass; — she 
 seemed to intend it, sometimes,— but always stopped, 
 and returned to her old station near the cottage. 
 
 Her object was, evidently, Mary. At first, she 
 tried to talk to Mrs. North— to Martha— to the little 
 
100 THE LADY OF BEECHGROVE. 
 
 ones that dabbled round the pond : — but the effort 
 was, visibly, painful; and she soon desisted from it, 
 content to hang over the little girl, or to sit on the 
 grass at her side, — sometimes crying, — and sometimes 
 with a heart-broken look, as if her tears were gone. 
 The child's name, if accidentally pronounced, always 
 occasioned a convulsive shuddering ; and, one day, 
 Mrs. North, — unable to resist the curiosity excited 
 by these extraordinary proceedings, — said to her, 
 " I fency, ma'am, for so young as you look, that 
 you must have had a little Mary of your own !" — 
 " Once !" was the answer, with a burst of bitter 
 grief, " once !" — "It's a sad affliction," pursued Mrs. 
 North, " to bury a baby,— especially the first. I 
 lost mine, poor innocent ! but I have thought, since, 
 how much happier she is than my little Mary would 
 be, if I was to die now, and leave her motherless 
 in the wide world."—" Oh, my Mary ! my Mary ! 
 my child ! my child !" cried the unhappy lady ; and 
 fell to the ground, in strong and obstinate convulsive 
 fits. 
 
 She was conveyed home, — and came no more 
 to the cottage by the wood side. In a few days, 
 Beechgrove was again vacant, and she was gone,— 
 leaving, for Mrs. North, a little green purse, con- 
 taining eighteen guineas and some silver, and a 
 small slip of paper, on which was written, "For 
 your Mary, from a mother who left her child!" 
 —Poor thing ! poor thing ! we have never heard of 
 her since. 
 
THE LADY OF BEECHGROVE. 101 
 
 .Mary North is now a rosy prattler, — the life and 
 joy of her humble home, — the loveliest and gayest 
 creature that ever Uved. But, better than playing 
 with her doU — better even than baseball, or sliding 
 or romping, does she like to creep, of an even- 
 ing, to her father's knee, and look at the well 
 hoarded purse, — (not a shilling has been taken out)— 
 and gaze, — with a mysterious feeling of awe at her 
 little heart — on the slip of uneven writing ; and hear, 
 for the hundredth time, the story of the poor lady 
 who was so good to Mary, when she was a baby,— 
 the beautiful lady of Beechgrove. 
 
STANZAS 
 
 To her who best co« understand them. 
 BY THE LATE RIGHT HON. LORD BYRON. 
 
 Be it 80 I— \Ve part for ev6f ! 
 Let the past as nothing be : — 
 Had I only loved thee, never 
 Hadst thou been thus dear to me. 
 
 Had I loved, and thus been slighted. 
 That I better could have borne : — 
 Love is quelled — when unrequited — 
 By the rising pulse of scorn. 
 
 Pride may cool what passion heated, 
 Time will tame the wayward will; — 
 But the heart in friendship cheated 
 Throbs with woe's most maddening thrillf 
 
 Had I loved — I now might hate thee, 
 In that hatred solace seek. 
 Might exult to execrate thee. 
 And, in words, my vengeance wreak. 
 
STANZAS. 103 
 
 But there is a silent sorrow, 
 Which can find no TCHt in speech. 
 Which disdains relief to borrow 
 From the heights that song can reach. 
 
 Like a clankless chain entihralling,— 
 Like the sleepless dreams that mock,— 
 Like the frigid ice-drops fadliog 
 From the surf-sarrounded rock ; — 
 
 Such the cold and gicbeaing feeling 
 Thou hast caused this heart to know, 
 — Stabbed the deeper, by concealing. 
 From the world, its bitter woe 1 
 
 Once it fondly -proudly^ deemed 4i»ee 
 All that fancy's self cowld paint; 
 Once it hojioured and esteemed IteCj 
 As its idol and iits saint I 
 
 More than woman thou wast to me ; — 
 Not as man I looked <m -thee ; — 
 Why, like waman, then undo mei 
 Why heap man's w^'st curse on we I 
 
 Wast thou bat a fiend, assumwg 
 Friendship's smile and womtrn's art. 
 And, in borrowed Ijeauty blwrnimg. 
 Trifling with a *r«Btin^ heart *. 
 
104 STANZAS. 
 
 By that eye which once could glisten 
 With opposing glance to me ; — 
 By that ear which once could listen 
 To each tale I told to thee : — 
 
 By that lip, its smile bestowing. 
 Which could soften sorrow's gush ; — 
 By that cheek, once brightly glowing 
 With pure friendship's well-feign'd blush j- 
 
 By all those false charms united, — 
 Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, 
 And, without compunction, blighted 
 What thou would'st not kindly kUl ? 
 
 Yet I curse thee not, in sadness, — 
 Still I feel how dear thou wert ; 
 Oh ! I could not — e'en in madness — 
 Doom thee to thy just desert ! 
 
 Live ! — and, when my life Is over, . 
 Should thine own be lengthened long. 
 Thou may'st then, too late, discover. 
 By thy feelings— all my wrong! 
 
 When thy beauties all are faded,^ — 
 When thy flatterers fawn no more, — 
 Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded 
 Some regardless reptile's store, — 
 
STANZAS. ' 106 
 
 Ere that hour,— false syren, hear me ! — 
 Thou may' St feel what I do now. 
 While ray spirit, hovering near thee. 
 Whispers friendship's broken vow ! 
 
 But— 'tis useless to upbraid thee 
 With thy past or present state j — 
 What thou wast— my fancy made thee ! 
 What thou art — I know too late I 
 
TO THE OWL. 
 
 the following splendid lines were written in reference to a 
 murder, whose details, somewhat disgustingly, occupied the pub- 
 lic mind, two years ago. We regret that we are not at liberty to 
 attach to them the name of the author. 
 
 Owl ! that lovest the hoding sky ! 
 
 In the murky air, — 
 
 What sawest thou there .'— 
 For 1 heard, through the fog, thy screaming cry! 
 
 " The maple's head 
 
 Was glowing red. 
 And red were the wings of the autumn sky ; 
 
 But a redder gleam 
 
 Rose from the stream 
 That dabbled my feet, as I glided by 1" 
 
TO THE OMTL. 107 
 
 Owl ! that lovest the stormy sky ! 
 
 Speak, oh ! speak ! — 
 
 What crimsoned thy beak, 
 And hung on the lids of thy staring eye ? 
 
 " 'Twas blood, 'twas blood 1 
 
 And it rose like a flood,— 
 And for this I screamed, as I glided by ! " 
 
 Owl ! that lovest the midnight sky ! 
 
 Again, again. 
 
 Where are the twain ? 
 Look ! while the moon is hurrying by ! 
 
 ** In the thicket's shade 
 
 The one is laid ; — 
 You may see, through the boughs, his moveless eye !" 
 
 Owl! that lovest the darkened sky ! 
 
 A step beyond. 
 
 From the silent pond 
 There rose a low and a murmuring cry: — 
 
 *' On the water's edge. 
 
 Through the trampled sedge, 
 A bubble burst, and gurgled by 5 
 
 My eyes were dim. 
 
 But I looked from the Witti, 
 And I saw, in the weeds, a dead tnan He !'* 
 
 Owl ! that lovest the moonless sky ! 
 Where the casements blaze 
 With the faggot's rays, 
 
108 
 
 TO THE OWL. 
 
 Look! oh, look! what see' st thou there? 
 
 Owl ! whaf s this, 
 
 That snort and hiss. 
 And why do thy feathers shiver and stare ?- 
 
 " 'Tishe! 'tis he! 
 
 He sits 'mid the three, 
 And a breathless woman is on the stair !" 
 
 Owl ! that lovest the cloudy sky ! 
 Where clank the chains 
 Through the prison panes. 
 
 What there thou hearest tell to me ? — 
 '* In her midnight dream, 
 'Tis a woman's scream. 
 
 And she calls on one— on one of Three !" 
 Look in once more, 
 Through the grated door : — 
 
 •* *Tis a Soul that prays, in agony !" 
 
 Owl ! that hatest the morning sky ! 
 
 On thy pinions gray, 
 
 Away, — away ! — 
 I must pray, in charity. 
 
 From midnight chime. 
 
 To morning prime, — 
 Miserere, Domine! 
 
taUIVBHSITT] 
 
^_-i».j: .r"»-T' t.v 
 
 RWejlsJl R.A.a<a' 
 
 ■SIBIIS 3LAlDr<S3H2IW& ffi I 
 
THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 What a strange creature is a laughing fool ! 
 As if man were created to no use. 
 But only to shew his teeth. 
 
 Webster. 
 
 " Where was the body found ?" said the parish 
 clerk. 
 
 " In the Deadman's Clough," replied the landlord' 
 " close under the roots of the big black elm." 
 
 " It is the strangest thing of the kind," — said the 
 clerk, 
 
 " That has happened in England, in my time," 
 added the landlord. 
 
 There was a dead pause. No one else thought fit 
 to join in the conversation of the two worthies, who 
 were, in a manner, the secondary oracles of the 
 parish. But the bystanders filled the yard of the 
 Crow and Teapot, and peeped over each other's 
 shoulders, and under their arms, with a shuddering 
 curiosity, to catch a glimpse of the corse. At times, 
 a half-suppressed whisper would rise among the 
 crowd; and, occasionally, a scuffle took place, as 
 those behind pushed forward those in the front ranks, 
 
110 THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 who, as vehemently, resisted the suggestion. For, 
 anxious as all were to see the mangled and hideous 
 spectacle, none were willing to approach beyond a 
 certain degree of appropinquity, seemingly marked 
 out, by common consent, as the extremity of their 
 advances. 
 
 " Lost for three weeks !" ejaculated the landlord, 
 " and found in such a state !" 
 
 " Most unfit," said the clerk, " for a Christian 
 body, under an old tree; and might have lain time 
 unknown, without beU or book ; — what of his im- 
 mortal soul!" 
 
 " True, true ! and such a life as he led, drinking 
 at home — never spent a penny at a public; and 
 gambling abroad, and getting money, the Lord knows 
 how, and, yet, never a farthing to a starving body." 
 
 " Nor a penny in the poor's box ; but, as to that, 
 he never came within ten graves' length of a church 
 door," said the clerk. 
 
 " Never, since the day that we first heard of his 
 winning three hundred guineas from Will Codicil, 
 the rich lawyer's son ; and that was the first winning 
 Gripe Gibbons ever made, one way or other," added 
 the host. 
 
 " Aye, but he made many a one after ; never rat- 
 tled a dice-box, or chucked a guinea, or dealt a card, 
 but sure it was, great or small, the sweepings always 
 came to one pocket," said the landlord's plump wife, 
 who began to feel impatient at the long silence 
 under which she had remained. 
 
THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. Ill 
 
 " Even so," replied the clerk : " it is to be prayed 
 for, that he may not have lost more than he gaineti. 
 It ever seemed strange to me, the run of luck he had. 
 I never knew of a gambler that always won, — not 
 one ; saving, always, when it might be with the help, 
 with the abetting of — of him — of one that's not to 
 be named." 
 
 The insinuation, conveyed by these words, was 
 not lost on the audience. Those who had been most 
 eager in pressing forward towards the centre, now 
 shrunk back a rank. The whole assembly presented 
 a galaxy of faces, most unduly exaggerated in length; 
 and looked at the speaker, as if eager to devour the 
 words of strange import that fell from a man, who, 
 according to his station, spake with authority. 
 
 " And 1 would fain know," continued the speaker, 
 lowering his voice, and assuming a more mysterious 
 tone, " I would fain know the meaning of that bauble 
 that never left him when living, and hangs to his 
 neck, now that he lies there, a mangled corse." 
 
 When the rising horror, which the sayings of the 
 clerk had given birth to, had a little subsided, a 
 woman, one of the bystanders, ventured to offer an 
 answer to the implied query. 
 
 " I have heard Sukey Barnes, his old housekeeper, 
 when she was well and hearty, — as blythesome an 
 old woman as one would see on a summer's day,— ^ 
 say her belief, that it was a charm against Him that 
 we know of, and that he prized it more than all his 
 ill-gotten winnings; and often, after his riotings, 
 
112 THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 when those fearful fits came on him, he would grasp 
 it with his clasped hands, and cry to it to save him. 
 Morning and night, sleeping and waking, he had it 
 on him; but why, or for what, a Christian soul 
 should put such a faith in a senseless thing o' metal. 
 He only knows." 
 
 An oracular " humph !" accompanied with a look 
 from under the bent ej^ebrows of the clerk, beto- 
 kened his deep consideration of Meg Symonds' ac- 
 count ; which increased so much the terror of the 
 crowd, (and crowds were not by far so enlightened 
 in those times, as in our own,) that, although it was 
 yet day-light, many a one looked, fearfully, over the 
 left shoulder, and seemed only to wait an example 
 to depart, with aU possible speed, from the vicinity 
 of the fearful thing. At length, the landlord re- 
 volved his circumference, and, leading the way with 
 the clerk into the house, was followed by the whole 
 assembly, man, woman, and child, emulously dis- 
 puting the priority of entrance, and alike desirous of 
 being the last to quit the yard in which lay the un- 
 fortunate object of their anxiety. 
 
 The approaching gloom of the evening was dis- 
 pelled by the fire of larch faggots, that roared, and 
 fumed, and flustered, in the huge chimney of the 
 inn-kitchen, a cheering defiance to the chiUs of Feb- 
 ruary. A capacious semicircle, widely expanding 
 around this welcome point of attraction, was speedily 
 formed; within which, divers round and square 
 tables were laden with earthen jugs, brown as the 
 
THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 113 
 
 English barleycorn juice wherewith they were re- 
 plete. As the contents of the measures diminished, 
 the courage of the inmates waxed higher; and stories, 
 dark and mysterious, were dealt out in lavish profti- 
 sion. The atmosphere seemed infected with the 
 contagion of the strange and the supernatural ; no 
 subject was broached but savoured of more than 
 earthly interest : none listened to but what spake of 
 the grave, and its fearful scenery, or the still more 
 exciting theme of the delusions and machinations of 
 the enemy of man. The old ran through the me- 
 mory of their days, and the days of their fathers, to 
 cull from the traditions of the murdered and the 
 slayer. The swollen corpse of the water-fiend's 
 victim — the black damning marks of the strangled — 
 the rattling of the gibbet chains — and the noiseless 
 step of the things that mortal eye may hardly look 
 upon and live, were, by turns, presented to the thirst- 
 ing and fevered imagination ; whilst the young 
 drank in, with greedy ears, the sleep-destroying his- 
 tories, till not a soul in the room but was saturated 
 with the dreadful topic that thrilled their blood, with 
 the nervous excitement of an irresistible stimulant. 
 
 One of the company, in particular, was chained in 
 attention to these narratives. The subject seemed, 
 by a sort of enchantment or fascination, to enwrap 
 liis soul, and chain down every faculty ; yet, to look 
 a him, no one would have selected him as an object 
 likely to be affected, in any peculiar degree, by 
 
114 THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 supernatural terrors. He was a young man, appa- 
 rently not more than five and twenty; his hale 
 frame, and ruddy cheeks, indicated bodily health, as 
 well as freedom from any burthensome excess of 
 care; and he seemed well able to defend himself 
 from such foes as might be overcome by dint of 
 strength : but, under the influence of the fears which 
 at present assailed, he became like Samson, weak, 
 not indeed, ' as another man,' but chicken-hearted as 
 a child. Never was man so translated by terror. 
 
 He of the timorous mind sat on a pedlar's box, 
 which, at once, denoted his profession, and inclosed 
 the chief of his worldly substance. Though not im- 
 moderate in its dimensions, it, on this occasion, 
 carried double ; for, squatted upon it, close by the 
 owner, sat a favoured she, the faultless Phyllis of the 
 perambulant Corydon, whose left arm half sur- 
 rounded her reluctant waste, while the right in part 
 supported its owner, as he leaned against the huge 
 chimney-piece into whose comfortable vicinity he 
 had drawn. It was a moot point, whether the occa- 
 sional squeezes which the pedlar bestowed on the ob- 
 ject of his affections, were, in fact, the designations 
 of love or of fear ; whether produced by an ebuUition 
 of tender feeling, or by a desire of being certified 
 that he was in the immediate companionship of tan- 
 gible creatures of flesh and blood — things of his own 
 nature. And so he sat and listened, and listened 
 and sat, till his blood curdled cold in his veins, and 
 
THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 115 
 
 his naturally curled locks began to assume an incli- 
 nation to perpendicularity. Briefly, he was frigh- 
 tened to death, as near as a man might be. 
 
 Time passed on. It had grown quite dark — with- 
 out a light you could not have seen your hand. 
 Moon and stars were as effectually be-clouded, as if 
 they had ceased to exist. The broad blaze flickered 
 in the chimney, jollil}'^, and gleamed on the little 
 snug diamond window-panes^ with infinite gaiety. 
 The ghosts and goblins became familiar ; and this, 
 added to the cheery look of the apartment, with, here 
 and there, glimpses anticipatory of the wherewith 
 preparing for supper, — taking into consideration, too, 
 the ennobling powers of the stout ale, — raised up the 
 hearts of the wondering company. We must except, 
 however, the pedlar ; he, nerveless to shake away 
 his fear, still clung to Cicely Simkins ; — and peep- 
 ing, now over his right, now over his left shoulder, 
 quivered inwardly at his own shadow, as it rose and 
 fell, with the waving of the flame. 
 
 The conversation was suddenly interrupted. A 
 loud calling at the outer door of the inn betokened 
 the traveller impatient to deliver his horse to the care 
 of the ostler, and himself to the shelter of the house. 
 The landlord was, extempore, on his legs ; and, in a 
 few moments, ushered in, with the customary phrases 
 of hospitiary welcome, the new-comer. 
 
 The traveller, though a good-looking man in the 
 main, had something odd about him, — so much so, 
 that his appearance, for a time, put an end to the 
 
116 THE LAfGHING HOftSEMAN. 
 
 converse, and a dead blank ensued. He gazed about 
 him, carelessly ; marched, with great slinging steps, 
 to the hearth ; and, rubbing his hands briskly over 
 the flame, took the seat by the pedlar's Dulcinea, 
 which the landlord had recently deserted, and called 
 for a pint of usquebaugh. 
 
 Now, there was nothing strange in all this: — you 
 or I, or any other traveller, on a cold night, and after 
 a ride, it may be of thirty miles, would have done 
 the same. Yet so it was, that the guests stared, 
 first at each other, and then at the stranger, as if at 
 a loss what to make of it. They looked at the tra- 
 veller, and scrutinized, as if they would have seen 
 through him, — which they certainly would, had he 
 been transparent, or only semi-oipSLque. But his 
 frame was too dense to admit of such researches ; and 
 he lolled as he sat, and stretched his legs to the fire, 
 and sipped his liquor, like a man of middle earth. 
 
 Stay ! — We have given no account of his personal 
 appearance; which, as before hinted, was a little 
 queer. He was a tall man, not corpulent, his legs 
 degenerating to spindle ; but what they wanted in 
 natural coatings, was made up by a prodigy of jack- 
 boots, with huge spurs, that jingled and jaunted like 
 a whole company of the tenth hussars. His coat 
 and light pantaloons of a parson's grey, were worse 
 for wear, and began to rustify. A prim small ruff 
 betokened him of the old school, and accorded well 
 with a steeple-crowned beaver, with superlative 
 brims ; when laid aside, this disclosed a head of un- 
 
THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 117 
 
 combed grizzly hair, black as soot. His countenance 
 was of a dark dingy hue, penetrating in expression ; 
 he had great beetle brows, and his eyes pierced into 
 you, as if they shot needles. His age might be some 
 fifty — fifty-five, perhaps. There was nothing more 
 in his person worthy of note, except that his fea- 
 tures, from time to time, were distorted with an in- 
 tolerable inclination to laugh. 
 
 The landlord interrupted the gathering silence. 
 " Master Thummins !" said he, " that was a good 
 story you told us awhile ago : can nobody match it? 
 Adzooks ! that a can of good ale should pass away, 
 without a song or a tale to bear company. Rob 
 Saunders, man ! tell us the tale of Old Bess Baudlin 
 and the EvU One. There's many a one, here, has 
 never heard it ; and it's a good tale, well worth the 
 listening." 
 
 " Aye, what was that ?" said the stranger, joining 
 in the conversation, " what was that tale, landlord?" 
 
 " A tale, sir ! — and, as I said, a good tale — of an 
 old woman that cheated the — the — " 
 
 " The Devil, you mean to say," said the traveller. 
 
 " The very same," said the landlord. 
 
 " Do you know any thing of this tale ?" said the 
 traveller, suddenly turning round, and addressing 
 himself to the pedlar, who was almost struck dumb 
 at this unexpected address ; but he recovered him- 
 seli^ and made answer, — 
 
 " An' please you, sir ! I know nothing at all about 
 it — a thing wholly out of my line of business; but I 
 
118 THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 think, may it please you, that he must he a long- 
 headed lad that cheats the Devil." 
 
 " Or a pedlar," answered the other, drily ; " both 
 of them hard to deal with, as I am informed." 
 
 There was something irresistibly comical in the 
 stranger's manner, though not in his words. He 
 looked around the apartment, and no one could with- 
 stand it. Even the gravity of the parish-clerk gave 
 way. An universal laughter pervaded; and yet 
 there were many who, though unable to resist the 
 impulse, felt the laughter was strange and fearful. 
 Amid the hubbub, the stranger himself, rising from 
 his seat, and sticking his hands in his pockets, burst 
 into a peal of merriment that immediately silenced 
 the rest. So loud, so long, so prodigious a laugh was 
 never before heard in a mortal change-house. The 
 very rafters trembled, and the soot fell down the 
 chimney, out of sheer amazement. 
 
 When the paroxysm was past, the stranger walked 
 out into the yard. Clink — clink — clink — his huge 
 spurs sounded as he went, and every jingle went to 
 the hearts of the hearers, and, at each, their visages 
 grew paler. The stout-hearted landlord quavered, 
 the parish-clerk was dumb-foundered with conster- 
 nation. What was strange, the faint pedlar seemed 
 the least affected by the stranger's appearance and 
 demeanour. When the traveller shut the door upon 
 the company, they respired more easily ; but they 
 recovered courage only to disperse, and, in two 
 minutes, every guest but the clerk and the pedlar 
 
THE LAL'GHING HORSEMAN. I 19 
 
 were gone. They stood their ground, with the land- 
 lord, in the spacious kitchen. The cook, barmaid, 
 waiter, and scullion had all disappeared, in the per* 
 son of a stout lass, Nancy Swindells by name ; and, 
 with her, had vanished the host's niece and pedlar*s 
 mistress. Cicely Simkins. 
 
 " This will never do," said the landlord ; — " to 
 have my customers laughed away, in such a style, is 
 no joke; and who ever heard such a roaring hyena !" 
 
 " The bells often parish-churches could not, I opinej, 
 have clanged out such a rattling," said the clerk. 
 
 " And such a strange looking man, too ! One 
 must take all customers, and be thankful, Mr. Pass- 
 over ! but, to my thinking, I never saw such an out- 
 landish man in my days. I should not be very ex- 
 tremely astonished if he be a Papist, for no good 
 Protestant ever indulged, as I may say, in such a 
 merriment ; and then his raiment, Mr. Passover ! 
 was hardly the comely dress of a Christian man. 
 For myself, on a holiday, — when one can rest, in a 
 manner, from the cares and labors of the world, and 
 appear in a decent attire, something better than or- 
 dinary, — I, mainly, wear a coat of good blue, of a 
 respectable cut, with bright buttons, that corre- 
 sponds gaily with my best red flush waistcoat, and 
 other things conformable, which — " 
 
 Longer had he spoken, had not Giles Passover 
 gently laid his hand upon the open mouth. 
 
 " With submission, Master Simkins ! I doubt 
 whether a dress similar to the one you describe, and 
 
120 THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 which, as my eyes can testify, becomes you well, 
 would sit gaily upon the merry gentleman, your 
 guest. I doubt, too, whether this — ^you are a man of 
 discretion, Mr. Simkins ! — I doubt whether he be a 
 Papist." 
 
 He assumed, as he spoke, the attitude of doubt, his 
 fore-finger dubiously keeping time to his words; 
 then, drawing the landlord still closer to him, he 
 hemmed, looked round suspiciously, and gasping 
 thrice, as if to take his breath, ejaculated to the 
 host's ear, in a hurried and fearful whisper, " I 
 doubt, sir ! — I doubt he's something worse." He 
 had no sooner spoken, than he fell extended upon 
 the floor, senseless and motionless, to the astonish- 
 ment of his companions ; who, ignorant of the cause 
 of this sudden prostration, were like to follow, invo- 
 luntarily, the example thus set them, — so great were 
 the fears to which it gave birth ; for none, save the 
 clerk, had seen the cold shining eyes which, through 
 the window that adjoined the yard, had glared upon 
 him as he spoke, with a concentration of malice and 
 sneering triumph, too fearful for the endurance of 
 mortality. 
 
 On recovering from his fit, the clerk staid no 
 longer question, but ran for his life, leaving, behind 
 him, his hat and mull; he even forgot his ivory- 
 headed cane, — a companion whose society he was 
 never before known to quit, no, not since he was 
 elected clerk to the parish-church of Crowdundle. 
 
 " What can be the matter with Mr. Passover ?" 
 
THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 121 
 
 said the pedlar, when, after sundry jfruitless efforts, 
 he, at length, regained the faculty of speech. 
 
 " The Lord of Heaven only knows," replied the 
 bewildered man of liquors ; " I think the house is 
 bewitched, and all that's in it. Another such a stir, 
 and my wits are clean gone. Jack !" continued he, 
 addressing himself to the ostler, who, at that mo- 
 ment, entered from the yard, " have ye seen ought 
 of the gentleman ?" 
 
 " What he in the queer hat and boots ? Sure I 
 have." 
 
 " Where — where is he ?" inquired the host and 
 the pedlar, in one breath. 
 
 " I left him in the yard, staring at old Gibbons, 
 yonder, by the light of the stable lamp. Every man 
 to his taste ! say I ; or else, it's a queer amusement 
 to be gaping at a dead body, at this time o' night, 
 by the light o' a stable-lamp. Indeed, you mun 
 know, master ! that when he first came in, — for I 
 was cleaning his worship's horse" — 
 
 " What ! — oh, aye, I remember now, he came o' 
 horseback ; but what sort of cattle may it be ? more 
 bones than beauty, I'll warrant." 
 
 " Never saw, never will see again, such a piece of 
 flesh : the bravest black ever wore a tail, and a 
 swinging one he has. Stands eighteen hands if an 
 inch ; such flanks — such joints — such eyes ! but, as 
 I was saying, in comes my gentleman, as I was 
 combing his horse. Now, d'ye see, my mind mis- 
 gave me ; for, seeing such a codger come in, and a 
 
122 THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 dead man lying, may be, some ten yards off, and a 
 dark night too, and no light but a farthing rush in 
 a horn lanthom, my heart jumped into my mouth, in 
 a moment ; but, howsomever, I put a bold face on the 
 thing ; — I were woundily frightened though ; and so, 
 says I, ' Good night to you, friend.' — ' Good night,' 
 says he. My God ! such a voice ; it was like — it 
 was like — let me see : splice me if I know what it 
 were like ! but it made me drop my comb, and turn 
 round with a flisker. ' Take care of my horse, my 
 lad !' quoth he. ' Your horse,' says I to myself; 
 ' you're a rum customer, too : — carry that tale a step 
 farther, my dear !' By the holy ! he might have 
 heard every word I had thought ; for he cocks up 
 his glim at me, — such a blinker ! — I shook, like a 
 leaf in a March wind, and kept my tongue safe 
 from that time. So, he takes no more notice, but 
 marches up to the corpse, as it was lying there, on 
 Tim Shunter's old barn door, that they pulled down 
 to carry it on. And I looked slily, with half an eye, 
 — ^for I didn't care that he should spy me noting 
 him, — and, as I live, he was grinning and laughing 
 to himself, like, and snuffing up the air ; though one 
 would think he might have found somewhat more 
 pleasing to his eyes and his nose." 
 
 Further communication was prevented, by the en- 
 try of the object of the discourse; who requested to 
 be shewn to his lodging for the night. With great 
 internal reluctance, the landlord complied. The 
 stranger courteously bade the pedlar a good night, 
 
THE LAUGHIKG HORSEMAN. 123 
 
 and departed, without removing his boots, the clank 
 of which rang in the ears of every inmate of the 
 dwelling. The landlord returned, looked at his 
 doors, and retired to rest. The pedlar crept, with 
 hesitation and doubt, to his chamber, and the ostler 
 withdrew to his den. 
 
 It was long ere the pedlar slept ; and then, his 
 dreams were troublous and strange. He awoke 
 again, and lay tossing on his hard couch, — his 
 thoughts full of the stranger horseman and his 
 marvellous laugh. Though the stranger had shewn 
 himself more complaisant to him than to the rest, 
 and this had, in some degree, emboldened him, yet, 
 to divest himself of fear was impossible. He lay 
 long, panting and wishing for the morning light, to 
 deliver him from the horrors that assailed him, till 
 at length, a doubtful lethargy stole over his senses. 
 
 He had lain thus — to his conception the time ap- 
 peared infinity — when a sudden sound seemed to 
 drop upon his ear, and he shivered, as he recognized 
 in it the creak of the stranger's boot, and the clank 
 of his spur, suppressed, as if by the cautious and 
 stealthy step of the owner : he shrunk under the 
 bedclothes — he listened — the step approached — his 
 nightcap, perforce, abandoned his head — he felt, he 
 knew that the stranger was in his room ! Every 
 nerve was unhinged ; a cold sweat burst from him ; 
 the bed shook audibly under his tremblings ; all was 
 silent, till a voice, which the pedlar's fears instantly 
 
124 THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 acknowledged, called him by his name, "Peter 
 Tapeyard, shew thy face, man !" 
 
 The miserable pedlar, thus invoked, raised his 
 countenance above the bed-linen, and beheld, gazing 
 upon him, the traveller, attired as before. There 
 was the same complacence in his looks that had 
 before been manifested in his demeanour towards 
 the man of goods; but, when the latter essaying to 
 speak, ejaculated, "For the love of God !" — his ex- 
 ordium was cut short, by the stranger's altered look ; 
 the hue of his face deepened almost to blackness, 
 and his brows contracted hideously, over eyes that 
 suddenly gleamed like plates of fire, with a cold 
 and shining light. The pedlar's faculties were sus- 
 pended, until the voice of his visitor, jarring on his 
 ear, recalled him from his trance of horror. 
 
 " Peter Tapeyard ! listen to me, — to thy friend : 
 thou art poor as the poorest of thy trade. Is it not 
 so?" 
 
 A deep groan, from the pedlar, announced a wo- 
 ful affirmative. 
 
 " Yes, thou art poor : I know thee well, though 
 thou knowest not me, Peter! and — but look up, 
 man ! and fear not." 
 
 . The pedlar obeyed. The fearfulness of the tra~ 
 veller's aspect had passed away. 
 
 " Thou would'st wed Mistress Simkins, the land- 
 lord's niece. Thou need'st not say aye ; thy looks 
 speak for thee, and the girl would have thee." 
 
THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 125 
 
 " Surely she would," replied the pedlar, " if—" 
 
 " If, thou would'st say, thou wert richer. The 
 landlord is a prudent man, and will not trust his 
 chicken to a cold nest. Now, what would'st thou do 
 to get thee wherewith to obtain the damsel ?" 
 
 " I would, — " exclaimed the pedlar, then stopped 
 abruptly ; for all the stories he had recently heard of 
 the Evil One and his dealings, rushed upon his mind, 
 and he shuddered at the thought of consigning his 
 soul to perdition, even for Cicely Simkins. The 
 stranger laughed his intolerable laugh. " Fear not, 
 man ! thy soul is safe ; what have I to do with thy 
 soul ? or who would barter the cast of a bent six- 
 pence for a pedlar's soul, — worn threadbare, too, like 
 thine ? But time is short. Listen then ; there is 
 hung round the neck of yonder dead fool, a box of 
 gold." 
 
 "Of gold!" exclaimed the pedlar: " it seemed 
 but as mouldy brass." 
 
 " Peace, man !" said the other. " I tell thee it is 
 gold ; though, to the clowns that thronged hither, it 
 seemed the base thing thou speakest, — else, their re- 
 verence for the dead had not held out so long. I wish 
 the gold had been coined into red guineas, such as 
 thou mayest turn them to, if wise. Hesitate not : — 
 they call it a charm, to keep away him they call the 
 Evil One. Asses ! to think a metal box can guard 
 against his power ! Remove the box — take it to the 
 goldsmith of the next town — sell it him — marry 
 
126 THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 Cicely Simkins — thrive, and be happy! — What 
 sayest thou ?" 
 
 The temptations hung out dazzled the pedlar's 
 mind. He might acquire his Cicely — he need no 
 longer tramp about, with the huge box hanging on 
 his back — be might settle in a snug cottage — he 
 might even, in due season, succeed to Cicely's uncle, 
 in the lucrative supremacy of the Crow and Teapot. 
 And then, where was the harm of taking from the 
 dead what could so well avail the living ! besides, 
 here was no contract, supposing his vuiknown advi- 
 ser the being he was suspected ; there was no agree- 
 ment to give that gentleman the least controul over 
 the natural or spiritual man of Peter Tapeyard. 
 Why, then, should he delay in taking the benefit of 
 the mode pointed out to him of so easily making his 
 fortune ? 
 
 " Worthy sir !" said he, " I will gladly, and with 
 many thanks, accept your kind offer ; as soon as 
 daylight" — 
 
 " I know what thou would'st say," interrupted the 
 other, "but it may not be. Daylight will bring 
 hither the coroner, and the quacks of the law, and 
 where then will be thy opportunity ? The cock must 
 not crow before thy prize is won : hasten, then, for 
 the morning is coming ; — report to me at the break- 
 fast board thy success. Up, then, and be active ! — 
 the dead tell no tales." 
 
 He seized, as he concluded, the arm of the pedlar. 
 
THE LAU(5HING HORSEMAN. 12/ 
 
 as if with the purpose of enforcing his recommenda- 
 tion of a speedy completion of the undertaking. A 
 cry of horror burst from the tortured and terrified 
 man of wares, as he sprung from his trance, awakened 
 by the burning grasp of the stranger. He opened 
 his eyes, and, looking around, found himself alone. 
 The pain that had so acutely pierced him was va- 
 nished. He arose from his bed, and looked from 
 the narrow casement : — the moon was up, and shin- 
 ing broadly and brilliantly. He looked into the yard 
 —he gazed at the door of the stable, in an outer 
 part of which lay the corpse. Should he descend or 
 not ? — Was his dream a mere phanton of a disturbed 
 imagination, or an actual indication of a speedy way 
 to the acquisition of wealth ? He wavered — turned 
 towards his bed, — when, in so doing, his eye fell upon 
 the sleeve of his shirt. It was burnt, as if a band of 
 glowing iron had surrounded it ; and, on his arm, 
 was scorched the visible impress of a man's hand. 
 Here was a sufficing proof of the reality of the visit 
 with which he had been favoured. 
 
 He descended the stairs softly and fearfully, cast- 
 ing about him many a wistful look. Often did he 
 stop to tremble and to doubt, as the wind whistling 
 through some crevice, or the cough of a sleeper, ar- 
 rested his attention. Once, he thought some one 
 passed him ; — a cold sweat testified his terrors. More 
 than once, his fiesh quivered like a jelly ; for he 
 thought he saw glaring on him, through the dark- 
 ness, the cold blood-chilling light of eyes not mortal 
 
128 THE LAUGHING HOUSEMAN. 
 
 He gained the yard — he approached the stable- 
 door ; he would have lingered, but could not — sus- 
 pense was worse than all his fears could feshion. 
 He rushed in — he stood by the dead — seized the 
 box that hung suspended to the neck of the deceased. 
 Ere he could remove it, the cock sounded his tri- 
 umphing note — The traveller's steed, at the mo- 
 ment, neighed loud and shrill ! The pedlar snatched 
 away his prize, and darted, in an agony of terror, 
 from the spot. He thought the stranger passed him, 
 as he went, dark and frowning ; — and his eyes ! — at 
 last, he regained his chamber. 
 
 Early in the morning, as the stranger had pre- 
 dicted, came the officers of the law, to hold an in- 
 quest over the body of Gripe Gibbons, Esq. No- 
 thing satisfactory was elicited, as to the manner of 
 his death ; the verdict of ' accidental death' was re- 
 turned, and preparations had been made for interring 
 the deceased in the afternoon. 
 
 The stranger appeared not at breakfast ; nor had 
 any one seen him since the preceding evening, — the 
 pedlar excepted, who had reasons for not being com- 
 municative on the subject. Many were the debates 
 occasioned by the traveller's absence ; nor was the 
 disappearance of the amulet overlooked, which all. 
 connected with the strange guest. All who had 
 been terrified on the preceding evening, resorted to 
 the inn to satisfy their curiosity, bringing with them 
 multitudes of others, who knew, by hearsay only, 
 what had happened ; so that, if the landlord had pro- 
 
THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 129 
 
 fited little by Gripe Gibbons, Esq. in his life-time, 
 that gentleman proved a source of considerable emo- 
 lument to him, when dead. 
 
 The parish-clerk, too, called in, on his way to 
 church, — a double degree of mysterious importance 
 in his demeanour, from the events of the preceding 
 night. He spoke little — doubted not the Evil One 
 was looking after the soul of the dead — and intimated 
 the propriety of a watch being kept, that night, in 
 the church-yard. As usual on such occasions, his 
 advice was much approved, but not followed ; for no 
 one cared to put himself in peril, for the sake of Mr. 
 Gibbons' soul. 
 
 The only known relative of the deceased, the suc- 
 cessor to all his wealth, attended as mourner, in the 
 ceremony of interment, which was performed with- 
 out parade. The church was not more than a stone's 
 throw from the house ; but, from some reason, the 
 bearers thought proper to take a circuitous route, 
 running by the Deadman's Clough, the place where 
 the body had been discovered. They paused a mo- 
 ment, as they arrived there. It was a dismal spot — 
 a dark dreary hollow, whose rugged sides were thick 
 with brambles and wild shrubs. It was filled with 
 vapours, and the rank vegetation that grew there was 
 wet with pestilent dews. A solitary elm, whose 
 black and leafless arms were flung around with a 
 spectrous wildness, grew near the bottom of the 
 abyss. It was under the half-covered roots of this 
 tree, that a truant lad had been frightened, nigh out 
 
130 THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 of his senses, by discovering the body of the defunct ; 
 which, preserved by an intense frost, was, at the 
 end of three weeks' exposure, yet recognizable. All 
 gazed, with fearful interest, — ^but most the pedlar, 
 who sprung back with horror; for, through the 
 gloom which filled the place, it seemed to him that he 
 discerned, fixed upon him, the glaring eyes whose 
 cold light he too well remembered. They proceeded, 
 and the funeral was duly solemnized. 
 
 The pedlar seized the first opportunity, as they 
 returned, of escaping from the company ; he was 
 impatient to realize his golden dreams, and obtain a 
 remuneration for the sore squeeze the stranger had 
 given him. The money arising from the sale of the 
 golden box, he conceived, would ftimish a pleasing 
 salve for the scorched arm ; so, he trudged off with 
 more than usual celerity. 
 
 The company, meanwhile, adjourned to the Grow 
 and Teapot ; and the spacious kitchen was, again, 
 crowded with the guests who, the preceding night, 
 had been scattered away in dismay. Again, the ale 
 flowed — again, the subject of the unknown visitor 
 was resumed, and sundry ingenious conjectures pub- 
 lished, as to his identity with the arch foe of man. 
 The black horse came in for a share of the conversa- 
 tion ; and the visitors thronged to behold the stud of 
 the very Satan. They marvelled at his prodigious 
 size, and seeming strength ; and found, in his ajj- 
 pearance, numberless circumstances denoting his in- 
 fernal origin. Their curiosity satisfied, they slunk 
 
THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 131 
 
 back to their ale; and, as a huge fire blazed in 
 the grate, grew snug, and determined to make a night 
 of it. 
 
 The pedlar's absence was not unnoticed ; but the 
 more immediate and momentous subject oftheir dis- 
 quisitions was of a nature too exclusively engrossing 
 to admit of participation Avith another topic ; and 
 Peter Tapeyard's absence was speedily forgotten b}-^ 
 all, — save only the fair Miss Simkins, who, as she 
 busied about, cast many a glance around, to ascer- 
 tain if the truant swain had not yet appeared. 
 
 There is an easy, comfortable coziness in an inn — 
 especially if a country one — and prevailing mostly 
 in the kitchen, towards evening, that mellows the 
 temperament of a guest into a pleasing and indiffer- 
 ent indolence. There is a freedom from all controul 
 — a lolling leg-stretching liberty, that comes sweetly, 
 as the dimness of the latter winter grows into dark- 
 ness, and the chill descending frost gives zest to the 
 ruddy blaze of a roasting fire. There, between cup 
 and lip, there is no slip — no balk — no hindrance of 
 the passive luxury. There time ambles withal; 
 and the measured tick of the family clock comes, 
 with a friendly and home-breathing voice, to the ear. 
 Should the cold wind whistle without, with what 
 added delight does the guest cherish his palms, and 
 edge still more encroachingly on the hearth ! Or, if 
 one of a circle, how rejoices he in the kindly fellow- 
 ship and participation in the good things within his 
 power ! How gaily rises the song — how freely the 
 
132 THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 laugh ! How briskly the mantling cup pours forth 
 its contents, lending light to the eye, and smiles to 
 the lip ! The guests of the Crow and Teapot were 
 of a class peculiarly fitted to enjoy the pleasing de- 
 lirium of the spot, — men whose enjoyments were all 
 social, and qualified, neither by nature or education, 
 for refined pleasures. So, they ate, and drank, and 
 rejoiced, jollily ; and were, indeed, in the very riot 
 of their felicity, when the door opened, and the ped- 
 lar, with starting eyes, pale cheeks, perpendicular 
 hair, and quivering frame, fell flat on the ground, ex- 
 claiming, with a voice that was almost a shriek of 
 terror, " Brass, and not gold !" 
 
 When raised and interrogated, no answer could 
 be obtained from him but an iteration of those 
 words ; nor, from that hour to his dying day, could 
 any explanation be got fi*om him of the cause 
 which had so bereaved him of his faculties. It is 
 probable, from the short sentence he uttered, that 
 the box purloined from the dead was, in truth, of 
 base material ; and the representations held out by 
 the stranger designed only to answer some private 
 end of his own, in the removal of the amulet. The 
 further cause of the pedlar's violent agitation we 
 presume not to guess at ; nor does history afford any, 
 the remotest, light on the subject. However this 
 may be, a strong impression remained on the minds 
 of the spectators that all was not right with Petev 
 Tapeyard ; — one consequence of which was, that, in 
 the course of the following month. Miss Simkins re- 
 
THE LAUGHING HORSEMA]». 133 
 
 signed her hand and name to a substantial and God- 
 fearing dealer in small wares, in the neighbouring 
 town of Crowdundle. 
 
 That night, the landlord and parish-clerk deter- 
 mined to watch in the chamber of the former, which 
 commanded a prospect of the church-yard. The 
 stranger had not, yet, made his appearance; the 
 black steed, much to the host's annoyance, remained 
 in his stable, unclaimed. They sat patiently : at 
 last, they started, for both heard a noise, seemingly 
 proceeding from the stable. They were, yet, unde- 
 termined whether to descend the stairs or not, when 
 the hollow tramp of the horse was heard, under the 
 window ; and, looking forth, they beheld the 
 stranger, leading his steed in the direction of the 
 church-yard ! It was a bright, beamy, moonlight 
 night ; and the figures of the horse and his leader 
 seemed doubly dark and black, as they intercepted 
 the beams. Arrived at the church-yard, the stranger 
 abandoned his horse, and entered the place where 
 the grave-stones were shining in the light. 
 
 The gazers were cold with terror. 
 
 « There, there !" said the landlord, " he's at the 
 grave ! listen, hear him calling the dead !" And 
 they listened, and fancied they heard the summons 
 that was to break the bonds of death. 
 
 " See, see !" said the clerk, " the ground is moving, 
 like the burrow of a mouldy warp ! He's there ! — 
 he's there ! Gripe Gibbons himself! Fire, man ! — 
 fire the blunderbuss !" 
 
134 THE LAUGHING HORSEMAN. 
 
 Absurd as this suggestion was, the landlord in- 
 stantly complied. The echo was followed by the 
 deep, high, unnatural laughter of the stranger ; but 
 the recoil of the weapon prostrated both the host and 
 his companion, with a violence that left them, for a 
 moment, senseless. The thunder-beat of the strong 
 black horse aroused them — they rushed to the case- 
 ment : — far away, the horse sprung over hill and 
 hollow, under a double burthen ! 
 
 " Gripe Gibbons has paid his reckoning this 
 night !" said the clerk, at length. 
 
 " I wish," said the landlord, after a pause, " the 
 other had done so, too." — For, the horseman had for- 
 gotten to discharge his shot. 
 
TO THE PICTURE OF A DEAD GIRL, 
 
 ON FIRST SEEING IT. 
 BY T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 The same— and oh, how beautiful ! — the same 
 As memory meets thee through the mist of years ! — 
 Love's roses on thy cheek, and feeling's flame 
 Lighting an eye unchanged in all — but tears ! 
 Upon thy severed lips the very smile 
 Remembered well, the sunlight of my youth ; 
 But gone the shadow that would steal, the while, 
 To mar its brightness, and to mock its truth ! — 
 Once more I see thee, as I saw thee last. 
 The lost restored, — the vision of the past ! 
 
 How like to what thou wert — and art not now ! 
 Yet oh, how more resembling what thou art ! 
 There dwells no cloud upon that pictured brow. 
 As sorrow sits no longer in thy heart ; 
 Gone where its very wishes are at rest. 
 And all its throbbings hushed, and achings healed j- 
 I gaze, till half I deem thee to my breast, 
 In thine immortal loveliness, revealed. 
 
136 TO THE PICTURE OF A DEAD GIRL. 
 
 And see thee, as in some permitted dream, 
 
 There where thou art what here thou dost but seem 
 
 I loved thee passing well ;— thou wert a beam 
 
 Of pleasant beauty on this stormy sea. 
 
 With just so much of mirth as might redeem 
 
 Man from the musings of his misery ; 
 
 Yet ever pensive,— like a thing from home ! 
 
 Lovely and lonely as a single star ! 
 
 But kind and true to me, as thou hadst come 
 
 From thine own element— so very far. 
 
 Only to be a cynosure to eyes 
 
 Now sickening at the sunshine of the skies \ 
 
 It were a crime to weep !— 'tis none to kneel. 
 As now I kneel, before this type of thee. 
 And worship her, who taught my soul to feel 
 Such worship is no vain idolatry : — 
 Thou wert my spirit's spirit— and thou arty 
 Though this be all of thee time hath not reft. 
 Save the old thoughts that hang about the heart. 
 Like withered leaves that many storms have left ; 
 I turn from living looks— the cold, the dull. 
 To any trace of thee— the lost, the beautiful \ 
 
 Broken, and bowed, and wasted with regret, 
 I gaze, and weep— why do I weep alone ! 
 I would not— would not, if I could — forget. 
 But I am all remembrance— it hath grown 
 My very being ! — Will she never speak ? 
 The lips are part<;d, and the braided hair 
 
TO THE PICTURE OF A DEAD GIRL. 137 
 
 Seems as it waved upon her brightening cheek, 
 And smile, and every thing — but breath— are there ! 
 Oh, for the voice that I have stayed to hear, 
 — Only in dreams, — so many a lonely year ! 
 
 It will not be j — away, bright cheat, away ! 
 Cold, fai- too cold to love ! — thy look grows strange ; 
 I want the thousand thoughts that used to play. 
 Like lights and shadowings, in chequered change : 
 That smile !— I know thou art not like her, now, — 
 Within her land — where'er it be — of light, 
 She smiles not while a cloud is on my brow : — 
 When will it pass away—this heavy night! 
 Oh ! will the cool, clear morning never come. 
 And light me to her, in her spirit's home ! 
 
 
ROSAMUND GRAY. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 BY BARRY CORNWALL, ESQ. 
 
 Hers is a tale 
 Of dark pollution. Once — upon her cheek. 
 The story lived ; and you might plainly read 
 The burning characters : shrinking shame was there- 
 Beseeching looks — painful humility j — 
 And from her face was gone — hope, (save when she 
 Glanced, in petitioning beauty, to the skies. 
 Seeking relief or pardon.) But she died ; 
 And one still lives, to whom the tale was death — 
 Death for a time, — for the soul's light was dimmed, 
 And nothing but this visible clay remained, 
 A dull, base relic of mortality. 
 Defrauded of its brightness : — he hath risen 
 To life again, but in his frame are sown 
 The seeds of quick decay. — Another lives. 
 Self-exiled and abhorred— shut out from heaven. 
 Beneath whose thousand starry eyes, the deed 
 Was perpetrate :—he wanders here and there 
 In pain and peril ; and guilt— murderous guilt 
 Hath stamped that burning mark upon his front. 
 
 Which whoso wears is blasted ! 1 have told 
 
 The tale confusedly ; but, in truth, I meant 
 But to describe poor Rosamund. 
 
I 
 
 SAPPHICS FROM CASIMIR SARBIEVIUS. 
 
 BOOK IV. ODE XVIII. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY JOHN BOWRING, ESQ. 
 Siderum s.icros imitata vultus. 
 
 Rose of the morniug ! in thy glowing beauty. 
 Bright as the stars — and delicate, and lovely, — 
 Lift up thy head above thine earthly dwelling. 
 Daughter of heaven ! 
 
 Wake ! for the watery clouds are all dispersing ; 
 Zephyr invites thee ; — frosts and snows of winter 
 All are departed, audFavonian breezes 
 Welcome thee, smiling. 
 
 Rise in thy beauty ! Wilt thou form a garland 
 Round the fair brow of some beloved maiden ? 
 Pure though she be, no brow unconsecrated. 
 Floweret ! may wear thee. 
 
 Thou should'st be wreathed in coronal immortal. 
 Thou should'st be flung upon a shrine eternal. 
 
 Thou should'st be twined among the golden ringlets 
 Of the pure Virgin ! 
 
ODE TO THE TURTLE. 
 
 From the Spanish of Francisco de la Torre, 
 
 1. 
 
 Sad widowed dove ! who, njouniing thy past ease 
 And present pain, mak'st hoarse the shady wood, 
 And sooth'st thy melancholy soul with these 
 Sweet sorrowing dirges o'er departed good ! 
 If thou (slight comfort to a grief so deep !) 
 Wilt to the piteous plaints and tuneful tears 
 Of one whom slighted love compels to weep, 
 Incline thy gentle ears. 
 Each may, perhaps, derive relief benign — 
 I from thy sympathy, and thou from mine. 
 
 2. 
 
 The rigorous hand that separates, sharp and keen. 
 
 My soul, as well as thine, from comfort, goes 
 
 Filled with victorious spoils and garlands green ; 
 
 The wood, the stream, the conscious mountain knows 
 
 That it is tired with gathering, one by one. 
 
 The glorious flowers of my lejoicing morn ; 
 
 O, they were transient— nipt as soon as born : — 
 
 Enough, the mischief's done! 
 
 I would not look upon a heaven o'errun 
 
ODE TO THE TURTLE. 141 
 
 With turbid clouds, that shewed divinely blue 
 In my more prosperous hours ; they charmed, 'tis true. 
 But since their charm is gone, with them, too, go 
 The sad remembrance and the plaint of woe. 
 
 3. 
 
 It seems thou listenest as I sing — that I 
 
 Tell thee thy secret grief— that those hoarse tones 
 
 Are meant for him whose words accompany 
 
 Thy sorrows ; to the grieving heart that groans 
 
 To be relieved of its tormenting throes, 
 
 The more empassioned its emotion grows. 
 
 Its fruit the sweeter to the taste appears. 
 
 Till the full soul of sorrow overflows. 
 
 And bathes the eyes with its eternal tears ; — 
 
 Tears, that assuage, with their reviving rain, 
 
 The body's sickness and the spirit's pain. 
 
 4. 
 
 Hast thou not melted, with thy soft laments. 
 
 In solitary fields and woods, the skies — 
 
 Men, and fierce brutes ? the gracious Elements, 
 
 Hours, and sweet Seasons mourn thy doom, with sighs 
 
 And endless tears commended to the wind ; 
 
 Are not thy pleaded sentiments so sad. 
 
 Sweet, and pathetic, as to move the unkind. 
 
 Win the hard-hearted, aud subdue the bad, 
 
 That thou dost make what were but wild before. 
 
 Cruel to us, but to thyself much more ? 
 
 What hast thou done, unhappy! that distress 
 
 And fear, for ever, on thy footsteps press ? 
 
142 ODE TO THE TURTLE. 
 
 5. 
 
 To him who sees thee on the lonely hill. 
 
 Mournful and mute, and flying high in air, 
 
 The woods abandoned to the foes that still 
 
 Lead thee a life of suffering, pain, and care, 
 
 (A sign of dreadful omen,) still thine eyes 
 
 Seem clouded by the mists of pale despair !— 
 
 Mists raised by death, and by the shades of all 
 
 Thy summer pleasures, past beyond recal ; 
 
 Weep, mourner ! weep, till twilight shade the skies. 
 
 Till night shall wane, and fresh Aurora rise ! 
 
 6. 
 
 Weep, mourner ! weep, when earth is filled with joy. 
 And the rich sun renews his glorious rays ; 
 When his fair sister, to the shepherd boy 
 Chiding her slowness, shows her lovely face ; 
 With murmuring bill, too, to the night-stars tell 
 Thy sorrowful laments and fond alarms ; 
 They have loved tenderly, have mourned as well 
 Their glory stained, and suffered mortal harms ;* 
 Fear not that heaven will hide, in midnight dim, 
 The tuneful tear and melancholy hymn. 
 
 7. 
 Where dost thou go to, dear unhappy bird ! 
 Where canst thou be more melancholy ? speak ! 
 Hast thou not sympathy with every word 
 Of my lorn dirge ; or dost tnou see me seek 
 
 * Alluding, most probably, to tlie Metamorphoses of the 
 Greek Mythology. 
 
ODE TO THE TURTLE. 143 
 
 A change of life, in flight from the decree 
 Which persecutes us both so much ? behold 
 What pains I take to be 
 Like a pursuing sorrow ; fold, then, fold 
 Thy wings, and seek my sad society ; 
 Do not despise my mournfulnes, as less 
 A weary sickness than mine own distress ; 
 Only persuade thyself, and thou shalt live 
 On the sweet grief I still have power to give . 
 
 8. 
 
 Fly'st thou away at last ? and to the last 
 Go'st grieving ! heaven defend thee, and increase 
 The eternal grief and loneliness thou hast ! 
 Even where thou wilt, dear pilgrim of the wood ! 
 Bear thy perpetual cooing, unpursued ; 
 And when blue heaven speaks peace. 
 And seals thy weary eyes, may Philomel 
 Warble thy funeral knell ! 
 
 She owes thee this, she whom thy tuneful tongue 
 While'er consoled for her lamented young. 
 When the fierce hawk, flown forth on evil quest. 
 With murderous beak profaned her dulcet nest. 
 
 9. 
 Ode I on the bark of this so lonely oak, 
 Stript of green leaves, live gi-een ; and green rem^n, 
 O ye, dark ivies ! for stern Fate, whose stroke 
 Stript me of bliss, my lonely heart hath broke, 
 And given it me — memorial of my pain ! 
 
 W. 
 
FROM THE ITALIAN. 
 
 The sun was burning in his noon, 
 The breeze along the hills was dying. 
 The shepherd's flute had ceased its tune, 
 The sheep beneath the bouglis were lying ; 
 The whole wide world seemed sunk in sleep. 
 The day my eyes was fast forsaking. 
 Then slumber came — delicious, deep — 
 An hour well worth an age of waking. 
 
 Anon, I heard an infant's tread, — 
 The flowers blushed deeper, at his coming. 
 The air a richer odour shed. 
 The bees a sweeter song were humming ; 
 He stood before me, — bow and wing. 
 Blue eyes, red lips that shamed the roses ; 
 " Behold," said he, " the bosom's king! 
 Who looks on me, no more reposes. 
 
 But if you want to take your sleep," 
 (He tried, in vain, a laugh to smother,) 
 ** And smile as little as I weep, 
 I'll introduce you to my brother." 
 He stamped the ground ; a little knave. 
 Wrinkled and chained, the path was treading ; 
 ** Here, Hymen! Cupid scorns this slave, 
 Go, keep him for your gayest wedding." 
 
 R. S. 
 
09 xn 
 VII7BR5irTl 
 
S'f SE SIC ILKA. 
 
ST. CECILIA. 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 St. Cecilia was a beautiful and accomplished young Roman 
 lady, in the third century, whose music is said to have drawn 
 down a heavenly visitant. Her lover was a heretic, whose con- 
 version, after long and unsuccessful efforts on her part, was ef- 
 fected, — by the assistance of the angel, in one of his visits. 
 
 Her hair streams backward, — like a cloud 
 Before the sun-light of her eyes, 
 That seem to pierce the fleecy shroud 
 Of the far, blue, Italian skies ! — 
 Her hands amid the golden strings 
 Play, — like a spirit's wanderings ; 
 Still making music as they stray. 
 And scattering incense on their way ! — 
 And softest harpings float around. 
 That make the chamber hallowed ground ; 
 Till every breeze that wanders by 
 Seems holy with the maiden's sigh, 
 
J 46 ST, CECILIA. 
 
 And seraph-forms come stealing down 
 To hear a music like their own ! 
 
 Her robe is of the same pure white, 
 Whose silver skirts yon azure sky ; — 
 Her form is like a form of light, — 
 But all the woman dims her eye 
 With tears that dare to look to heaven, 
 And griefs that mount — and are forgiven !- 
 Deep in her warm and holy heart, 
 Are thoughts that play a mortal part. 
 And her young worship wafts above 
 The breathings of an earthly love ! 
 
 Of earth — yet not a love that flings 
 One clog upon her spirit's wings ; 
 Or, lilce a shadow, dimly lies 
 Upon her pure heart's sacrifice ! 
 — The lark may — like that spirit — ^play 
 In the blue heavens, the livelong day, 
 And He who gave that sunny thing 
 A mounting — yet a wearying — wing, 
 Will not refuse its morning flight 
 Because it stooped to earth by night ; — 
 Nor shall the maiden's offering rise 
 Less stainless to her native skies. 
 Because the youthful saint reveals 
 The throbbings which the woman feels, 
 And pours to heaven her worship, fraught 
 With passion which itself hath taught ! 
 
ST. CECILIA. 147 
 
 The notes fall fainter on the ear, 
 Yet, still, the seraph leans to hear; — 
 Though sorrow sighs along the lyre, 
 And woman's fears have dimmed her fire ; 
 And breathings meant for God alone, 
 Echo some pulses of her own ! — 
 The angel stays— and stays to bless 
 Love — which, itself, is holiness ! 
 
WELLINGTON. 
 
 BY THE LATE REV. C. R. MATURIN. 
 
 Son of proud sires, — whose patriot blood 
 
 Sent to thy heart its purest flood ! — 
 
 Son of the isle where souls of fire 
 
 The natives' glowing breasts inspire ! — 
 
 What land — what language may not raise 
 
 Its tribute to thy deathless praise ? 
 
 — Where India's burning day-stars shed 
 
 Their fervors o'er the fainting head — 
 
 Climes where the wondrous bower-tree weaves 
 
 Its shadowy wilderness of leaves ; — 
 
 Where purple peak, and mountain brow. 
 
 Warm with Elysian colouring glow. 
 
 And sparkling cliff's pavilioned height 
 
 Seems diamonded with fairy light ; — 
 
 Where wakes the war's discordant yell. 
 
 With deafening gong and tambour- knell, 
 
 And armed tower and curtained tent 
 
 Nod on the castled elephant ; 
 
 And silken bands — in barbarous pride — 
 
 Troop by the turbaned Rajah's side ; — 
 
 — Where Spain, amid her orange bowers, 
 
 Wasted her wild romantic hours. 
 
WELLINGTON- 149 
 
 And bid chivalric wars and loves 
 
 Sound from Granada's high alcoves ; — 
 
 Where, when the twilight- shadows steal 
 
 O'er thy grey turrets — old Seville ! 
 
 Beneath their shade full gaily met. 
 
 With light Rebec and Castanet, 
 
 The graceful youth and glowing maid \ 
 
 The glad Fandango's call obeyed, 
 
 'Till — clutched in Gallia's vulture grasp — 
 
 She burst indignant from the clasp, 
 
 Woke, like the strong man from his sleep, 
 
 Waved her bright brand's resistless sweep. 
 
 Shook her fair locks of freedom wide. 
 
 Summoned the faithful to her side. 
 
 Roused her sunk voice to patriot strain. 
 
 And called on Albion o'er the main ! 
 
 — On either clime, — when woke the sun. 
 
 His light has on thy glory shone ! 
 
 Where'er he saw thy flag unfurled, 
 
 It floated o'er a rescued world ! 
 
 Yet, oh ! — when Glory's trumpet-tone 
 Swells the full blast with thee alone, — 
 When round contending monarchs crowd. 
 To grace thy name with trophies proud, — 
 When kneeling Europe's sole acclaim 
 Is breathed to her deliverer's name, — 
 Scorn not thine own harp's humble tone. 
 Son of the green Isle — Wellington ! 
 
THE CONSCRIPT. 
 
 In the year 1808, in an obscure street, in Paris, 
 resided Paul Chaise, the hero of my tale. So hum- 
 ble an individual needs no proud historian to detail 
 the annals of his life. I collected my information 
 upon the spot ; for the truth of my narrative I can, 
 therefore, pledge myself, — and I am not ambitious 
 of higher praise. 
 
 He was, at the period I have mentioned, an 
 old man, — about sixty years of age ; but time had 
 dealt kindly with him, and his patriarchal head 
 and fine upright iron frame, seemed formed and 
 fitted for endurance, and as though a century 
 might roll on, without adding one furrow to his 
 marble cheek, or a curve to his muscular figure. 
 He had been an eye witness to some of the most 
 fidghtfiil events of the Revolution, and an actor in 
 many important ones : sometimes a leader, — often 
 a sufferer, — ^but always an honest independent man ; 
 enthusiastically attached to his country ; — by which 
 I mean, not that enlarged feeling of home which 
 is sometimes mistaken for patriotism, — nothing re- 
 lating to localities, — but love for his countrymen and 
 
i 
 
 THE CONSCRIPT. 151 
 
 jealousy of their rights, arising from the belief that 
 they possessed a better nature and finer character 
 than any other people in the known world. He had 
 seen them crushed and trampled upon, till their es- 
 sential characteristic — gay, philosophic light-hearted- 
 ness — seemed pressed from out their being. The 
 dejection was of momentary duration, but the re- 
 action it produced was of a more important and de- 
 terminate nature. Oppression taught them their 
 own power — ^the weight and value of their own 
 energies. They learned to question the justice of 
 the few governing the many; — they resisted ty- 
 ranny, and conquered. It was a war of mind ; and 
 truth — as in the end it, ever, must — obtained the 
 victory. But this is the bright side of the picture ; — 
 for men — the slaves of passion — work out no good but 
 through eviL It is a necessary ill, attendant on 
 humanity ; — and the relation of the crimes and hor- 
 rors that tarnished the lustre of the French Revolu- 
 tion, though it can raise no astonishment, must fill 
 the mind with sorrow and disgust. 
 
 He had served in several campaigns, under Buo- 
 naparte, — with such attachment and fidelity as that 
 extraordinary man alone, perhaps, was capable of 
 exciting. There was always personal love mixed 
 up with the feelings of the rudest soldiery towards 
 Napoleon. He was master of something beyond 
 graces of manner ; he spoke to the hearts of all 
 those with whom he had any communion, — and a 
 sense of this almost magic influence pervaded the 
 
152 THE CONSCRIPT. 
 
 whole army. In spite, however, of marks of honour 
 and favour received from Napoleon's own hand, the 
 moment Paul Chaise discovered — or fancied he disco- 
 vered — a falling from his high resolve, — a forgetful- 
 ness that the liberties of the people were placed in 
 his hands, only upon trust, — when satisfied that he 
 aimed at nothing less than despotic power — more 
 intellectual and enlightened, certainly, but stiU, 
 the same despotism that had before wrought its 
 own ruin, — when, at length, the conviction was 
 forced upon him that this ruler of kings and maker 
 of princes, lord of half the world, was a slave to the 
 imperial purple — himself the vassal of his own 
 pride, — he silenced the pleadings of his affections 
 — retired from the army — bought a small house in 
 Paris, (to which place he was attached, from its 
 having been the theatre of so many influential and 
 wonderful events,) — and, in the society of an affecti- 
 onate wife and promising child, tried to shut his 
 eyes to the increasing evil which his arm — lowly as 
 it was — had always been raised to prevent. 
 
 Some kindly emotions, long, lingered round their 
 old haunt ; but, one by one, they died away, with the 
 hope that fed them, — till, at last, contempt, made the 
 more bitter by disappointment, was the only sen- 
 timent with which he regarded the conqueror. StiD, 
 his portrait, — with folded arms, in his musing atti- 
 tude, — retained its place in the best parlour ; and 
 a certain tetchiness of manner, whenever he was 
 named, either in praise or censure, proved that 
 
THE CONSCRIPT. 153 
 
 indifference was not the feeling he excited. Anger 
 bom of love is easily displaced ; — and, had the em- 
 peror ever thought or cared about him, or his 
 opinions, he would have found little difficulty in 
 again enthroning himself upon the veteran's heart. 
 But years rolled on, marked only by the changes 
 he most dreaded ; and, just as his darling and only 
 child, Eugene, had attained his twentieth year, 
 (the conscriptive laws being in force,) Paul became 
 suddenly and alarmingly awake to the evils of war, 
 altogether. Its floating banners and inspiriting 
 music, its triumphs and rejoicings, faded from his 
 eye; and he saw only the desolation that follows- 
 it so closely, and so surely. 
 
 It is, yet, too early to analyse the merits of Napo- 
 leon, — either as a warrior, a statesman, or a man. 
 While the earth yet trembles beneath our feet, we 
 cannot coldly calculate on the causes and conse- 
 quences of an earthquake ; — much less can we judge 
 impartially of one, whose every step was an event 
 that involved the fortunes and lives of numbers, 
 in its action and developement, — while yet suffer- 
 ing or enjoying through him, who marched 
 through a country to alter its aspect. Change is a 
 changeless law of nature, — itself only immutable ! 
 But he seemed to take this power out of her 
 hands ; — for, as he willed it, there came plenty or 
 ruin — cultivation or barrenness. In detailing some 
 evil that resulted from the rigid enforcement of his 
 decrees, we, by no means, pretend, here, to ques- 
 
154 THE CONSCRIPT. 
 
 tion the policy of the Code of Conscription. It 
 was, undoubtedly, the finest nursery for the supply 
 of a perpetual army ever planted, since the time of 
 the Romans. But the utility of war — its necessity 
 even — we are not disposed to admit. Let any man, 
 in his senses, compare the different appearances of 
 a peaceful and a warlike nation, — the smiling vege- 
 tation of the one, with the sterility of the other, — 
 and deny, if he can, that strife, its causes and effects, 
 are all engendered of evil. 
 
 All Frenchmen, between the full age of twenty 
 and twenty -five complete, were liable to the Con- 
 scription. In the first instance, there were no ex- 
 ceptions allowed to the law of "active service;" 
 (see Code de la Canscription, Paris, 1806 ;) but, at 
 the period we have named, the eldest brother of an 
 orphan family, — the only son of a widow, or of a 
 labourer above the age of seventy, — or one who had 
 a brother in the active service, — might claim indul- 
 gence, and be transferred to the reserve, which was 
 to march only in case of emergency ; and, with so 
 great and successful a leader as Napoleon, who was 
 now pursuing his conquests on the banks of the 
 Vistula and the Niemen, such necessity was 
 scarcely to be apprehended. But Paul could not 
 
 ' claim exemption for his son, Eugene, — whose name 
 was early on the lists, — on any of these counts ; so gave 
 
 , himself up to his agony, at once affecting and uncon- 
 trollable. It was to him a great aggravation of dis- 
 tress that Eugene had no taste nor talents for 
 
THE CONSCRIPT. 155 
 
 the army. He was of a studious and reflective turn, 
 and of a very sensitive habit. His tall and eloquent, 
 though somewhat slight, figure was little fitted to 
 excel in athletic exercises, where endurance — not 
 skill — was required ; and his elegant mind was yet 
 less able to bear the rude jests of men, his inferiors 
 in every other respect. He felt a shrinking recoil 
 from collision with those who make a trade of blood- 
 shed ; — his religion, and nature, and principles inde- 
 pendent of religion, were alike averse to it ; and his 
 distaste for war rendered him as repugnant to com- 
 mand — the usual temptation — as he was physically 
 unfit for mechanical subordination. Besides, he loved 
 a young and beautiful girl, something his superior 
 in rank and habits of life, — just sufficiently so to 
 heighten his love, by giving it a touch of humility ; 
 not the humility of a slave, who intends, after- 
 wards, to become a tyrant, — but that prostration of 
 spirit, the worthiest and most acceptable incense 
 oflTered up by the noble-minded at the shrine of 
 womanly loveliness. 
 
 Ad^le was transported out of herself and of the 
 line of decorum which she had hitherto preserved, by 
 the information that her lover's name was in the list 
 of Conscription, and — her informer believed — one of 
 
 those who were soon to leave the country She, 
 
 at once, lost that maidenly reserve which, if it be 
 beautiful and natural when love is prosperous, is, 
 certainly, a cold and heartless mockery when dan- 
 ger is busy with the loved one. 
 
166 THE CONSCRIPT. 
 
 It was evening when the news was brought ; 
 and the cold raw atmosphere would, at any other 
 time, have chilled her. But she was, now, insensible 
 to the " skyey influences ;" and, tying on her straw 
 bonnet, and folding a shawl around her, though herself 
 unconscious that she availed herself of these precau- 
 tions, she bent her steps towards the house of Paul 
 Chaise. Unmindful of the observation her beauty 
 attracted, she hurried on, till some intoxicated 
 ruffian impeded her progress, by encircling her in 
 his arms ; and, even then she felt only that she was 
 retarded. Anger at the cause was too slight an 
 emotion to find place in a bosom filled, almost to 
 bursting, with love in sorrow. " Leave me, I be- 
 seech you," said she, clasping her hands together, 
 and looking up, pitifiilly, in his face ; " leave me, — 
 my lover is a Conscript !" At that word, which 
 found so painful an echo in the heart of every 
 Frenchman, he loosened his grasp ; and, partially reco- 
 vering to a sense of her distress, but not aware that 
 he could add to the full cup, said, " Poor girl ! and 
 they march to-morrow.''^ " They march to-morrow !" 
 was her frantic reiteration, repeated at intervals, till 
 she arrived at Eugene's dwelling. The man, — who 
 had been awakened from drunkenness, by the depth 
 of anguish felt by one so young and beautiful, — ^fol- 
 lowed her to the door, to preserve her from fiirther 
 molestation ; and silently bowed, as she gained ad- 
 mittance. 
 
 But his offence and repentant politeness were, 
 
THE CONSCRIPT. 
 
 167 
 
 equally, lost upon her; — she only remembered 
 that some stranger had said, "They march to- 
 morrow." So entirely had this one thought pos- 
 sessed her that, on entering the room where Paul 
 sat, with his despairing and sorrowing family, she 
 could only throw herself at the father's feet, and 
 repeat, again and again — what they, alas ! knew too 
 well, — " They march to-morrow !" 
 
 She had been, purposely, kept in ignorance, at 
 Eugene's request, of his having drawn from the urn 
 a fatal number. She remembered that, with a sor- 
 rowful playfulness, he had put her from her pur- 
 pose, when she entreated to know the cause of his me- 
 lancholy, on the very day on which he must have at- 
 tended the lottery that dealt out doom; and she now 
 marvelled, — as the evil, in its extent, flashed upon her 
 mind, — that the knowledge was yet new to her. Well 
 might Eugene be anxious to spare the lovely girl 
 any description of the scene : — its recollection, alone, 
 would have embittered all his future existence, had 
 he not, himself, been a personal sufferer. Those who 
 have seen fortunes lost and won, at the gaming table, 
 may form some inadequate idea of its horrors; — to 
 all others it must be unintelligible. Of the thou- 
 sands assembled at the balloting of a Conscription, 
 few, indeed, were merely spectators; — the Con- 
 scripts and their friends formed the large majority. 
 The prefect of the district and his subordinate col- 
 leagues, who comprised the council, were present on 
 the days of drawing, — they, and the military con- 
 
158 THE CONSCRIPT. 
 
 stables called gens d'ar.mes, the only persons unmoved, 
 amid the ravings of despair and hope that met their 
 ears, on every side. It is a sad and curious fact, that 
 all the humanities are, usually, little felt by those 
 in office. Whether their indulgence be incompatible 
 with the regular routine of duties prescribed them, — 
 or whether that very regularity has a tendency to 
 repress the kindlier feelings, by restraining their 
 exhibition, as indecorous, — we leave to nicer ca- 
 suists to determine ; but, the stem composure with 
 which the higher dignitaries seek to hide the no- 
 feeling beneath, — and the busy, bustling importance 
 of the lower emissaries of power, — sufficiently attest 
 the truth. 
 
 Paul had insisted on accompanying his son, to hear 
 his own death-knell, — in spite of his earnest and pro- 
 phetic remonstrances. Poor Eugene could have 
 borne, without outward murmur, all his own griefs, 
 heart-rending as they were ; but his firmness utterly 
 failed him when he contemplated a father*s sorrow, — 
 his heart shrunk from his touching expressions of 
 affection. While there was yet a glimmering of hope, 
 — though it was poisoned by suspense, — Paul bore 
 up surprisingly. He constrained himself to support 
 his son, whose calmness he believed that of despair. 
 " My boy, I cannot part with you ; — I will draw for 
 you ; — I will trust to a father's instinct to spare his 
 child, — a fond father cannot ruin his child's hap- 
 piness, and his own. Sunshine, and joy, and glad- 
 ness are not all mockery ; and God will not make 
 
THE CONSCRIPT. 159 
 
 me an instrulnent of destruction to my only child !" 
 Thus he strove with his fears on the way ; but 
 when arrived at the fatal spot, his agony gave 
 deeper expression to silence. He pressed his fin- 
 gers to his temples, to still the throbbing that 
 seemed louder than the tumult round him ; and 
 pushed forward, through the increasing crowd. 
 The obstacles, which its density offered to his pro- 
 gress, gave him an opportunity to take in all the 
 wretchedness which the execution of an arbitrary 
 law can inflict. 
 
 Anguish, in all its varieties, needs no interpreter. 
 In the whole, and in the detail, it was, indeed, a scene 
 of matchless misery. The wailings of women were 
 almost overpowered by the deep-breathed curses of 
 the men. Sometimes, burst forth a cry of exult- 
 ation, when one had drawn a number above the 
 quota^ and was free; — but, oftener, was heard the 
 yell of agony which told the death of hope to 
 many a fond and anxious friend. Now, a faint- 
 hearted wretch — a boy in age and mind — was 
 urged on to dip in the urn ; and found himself a 
 soldier, while yet he trembled at the sight of a 
 sword and the report of a cannon. And then fol- 
 lowed the braver spirit, who sought not only to 
 hide his own grief, but to raise a drooping mother 
 or a weeping sister, — the convulsive trembling of 
 his nether lip the only token that he felt, in his 
 heart's strong-hold, every gentle tear they shed, 
 like the falling of a weight of iron. There was the 
 
160 THE CONSCRIPT. 
 
 touching affliction of the lover and his betrothed | 
 —the young husband and his new-made bride, — sor- 
 row already cankering the roses upon her cheeks. 
 One mighty swell of sound proceeded from the 
 multitude ; — sound, big with the sense of suffering, 
 above which a piercing shriek was, often, distinctly 
 heard. 
 
 When Paul had reached the urn wherein were 
 deposited the tickets to be drawn thence, by the 
 unhappy Conscripts, or their more wretched friends, 
 he was told that all marked above the certain number 
 to be raised at this particular time, reprieved, for 
 the present, such as were fortunate enough to select 
 them. Those, on the contrary, who drew the lower 
 numbers were to march, immediately, to the fron- 
 tiers, there to be initiated in the military disci- 
 pline, till required to recruit the body of the army. 
 He answered this information by plunging his 
 hand into the vessel, and drew forth a number — 
 It was clenched in his grasp, — but he durst not look 
 at it ; and compassion for himself, for the first 
 time, made him conscious of the woe around him, 
 — written, as it was, in all its varied languages, upon 
 the victims' countenances, at this sacrifice. Some 
 by-stander, pitying the father, — whose nerves were 
 wound up to such extreme tension that the smallest 
 additional straining, it seemed, would burst his 
 frame-work, — relieved him from the moral death of 
 suspense, by making known the extent of his mi- 
 sery. It was one of the very lowest numbers ! 
 
THE CONSCRIPT. 161 
 
 Doubt was not permitted him, for a single moment ; 
 and he turned, with sickening soul, from the sympa- 
 thy which his venerable grief excited, even among 
 the most hardened and profligate of the wretches 
 near him, — to his child. " My poor boy !" was all 
 he said, as he grasped his hand ; but, oh ! the look 
 of mournful, unutterable tenderness with which 
 those words were accompanied — will Eugene ever 
 forget it ! No ! — amid the strife of war, — when the 
 tumult of battle is loudest about him, and he him- 
 self is an instrument of the destroyer, — he will 
 think on that father's aflFection ; and it shall be, to 
 him, as a spring of water to the traveller in the 
 desert, — refreshing his soul with the thoughts of 
 love and home, and all its kindred associations. 
 
 Something of this he endeavoured to express, — but 
 the words died ere they were shaped by sound ; and 
 he turned away, to hide the big tears that fell, hea- 
 vily, from his eyelid. HethoughtofAdele,— and they 
 flowed freer and faster. " She will forget me !" — his 
 bosom swelled proudly, as he continued, " and if it be 
 for her good that she should do so, God forbid that any 
 thought of me should mar, or even retard, her happi- 
 ness ! So young and lovely, — with such springiness of 
 being about her, — her song should be that of gladness, 
 her laughter that of joy. I would not have — I am not 
 utterly selfish — those blue eyes acquire a look of 
 thought or sadness, for one whose intensity of love 
 alone makes him worthy of her. She would then be 
 too fatally dear. Were she less bright and gay, — 
 
162 THE CONSCRIPT. 
 
 were those laughing lights dimmed, but for once, 
 with a tear for me, — I fear I should forget heaven 
 for her, and play the villain and the coward. But 
 this cannot be ;" and he sighed deeply ; " and, 
 doubtless, I should rejoice that I am freer to fulfil 
 my duties — so frightful as they are — unshackled by a 
 woman's love." 
 
 Could he cheat himself with the hope that in- 
 difference, on the part of Adele, would lighten his 
 load of suffering, — when memory's mirror would re- 
 flect her even brighter than she was before — 
 brightest, still, when unattainable ! Poor fellow ! — 
 at least he was spared this trial ; and it was well,— for 
 he was already bowed down beneath the bitterness of 
 his father's sorrow ; tvhich, perhaps, derived some 
 added venom from his believing it derogatory to the 
 character of an old soldier to give it vent, in use- 
 less tears and complainings. 
 
 From the hour when he knew that he must lose his 
 son, no other emotion ever displaced, for an instant, 
 the sternness of grief enthroned on his rough, but 
 fine, manly features. His wife wept, — and she was 
 comforted. She thought Eugene would look so 
 handsome in his uniform ; — then wept again, that he 
 was so soon leaving her. But there was no touch 
 of common-place about the fether's feelings ; and the 
 dignity of a great passion shut him out from all 
 sympathy, — and, in its mastery, alarmed the weaker 
 spirit from attempting consolation. 
 
 When Adele clung to his feet in her anguish, — her 
 
THE CONSCRIPT. 163 
 
 clustenng curls veiling her sorrows, like the dewy 
 violet covered with its own leaves, — her beautiful head 
 bent to the earth, as a white moss-rose drooping from 
 the storm, — even then, the asperity of expression 
 seemed scarcely softened on his rugged brow : but 
 his heart was evidently touched ; for he raised her in 
 his arms,— silently, with inward devotion, implored a 
 blessing on her innocent head, — and then, resigned her 
 almost senseless form to the arms of her lover, and 
 left them to each other, to live one night of parting 
 love. She recovered, only to vent passionate excla- 
 mations of love and -sorrow. It was in vain that 
 Eugene uttered protestations sacred as religion, -tnd 
 holy as his own heart, — that nor time, nor distance, 
 nor strong temptation, — in any climate, under any 
 sky, — should, for one breathing moment, displace his 
 idol from its altar. " You love me, — yet you march 
 to-morrow !" said Adele, wringing her hands ; " my 
 God, what will become of me ! " — Then, shocked at the 
 effect which her emotion produced upon her lover, she 
 tried to calm her own violence, to lessen his torturing 
 distress. But the attempt only rendered her expres- 
 sions more touching. " I am not well able to bear 
 sorrow yet, Eugene ! I knew nothing of it, but from 
 books tiU nmo ! I wept then^ but weeping was not 
 pain; — now tears seem to search up my heart. I 
 shall be much altered before I see you again. I am 
 very young ; but, by that time, I shall have grown 
 old — for I shall count my years by my unhappjness ; 
 —its marks are as indelible as those of time." This 
 
164 THE CONSCRIPT. 
 
 idea gave her a new channel for grief. " And will 
 you still prize Adele, when love for you has left her 
 nothing else to offer you ?— will you abandon her, 
 iv^hen hope deferred has faded all but her love ? That 
 day, Eugene ! I could not live to see. Death is dread- 
 ful — oh, how dreadful ! — at any time ; but it seems 
 cruel, indeed, that the bird just learning to trust its 
 wing — whose music makes early and joyous worship 
 to the sun, should be seized and devoured by the vul- 
 ture !" She paused, from deep emotion, and folded her 
 hand upon her heart ; — "the vulture is here, — begin- 
 ning its work of death ; your love only can save me !" 
 Eugene strained her to his bosom, but he could not 
 speak ; he could not, even to himself, give a name to 
 the sum of his sensations, — he felt only their depth 
 and power. It was so new to him to feel that ano- 
 ther's weal depended on his own, — a woman's ! — that 
 the fete of one so dear was in his hands. It was some- 
 thing he had dreamed of— something he had deemed 
 too delicious ever to be realized to him — a dove of 
 promise seen only in the far distance. Yet the boon 
 was his ; and j oy, at least, formed no part of the conflict- 
 ing passions, whose intensity now deprived him of 
 speech — almost of being. His feelings became 
 more definite, when their servant entered the 
 room, with his father's sword in its sheath, and 
 these few lines written hastily^ with a pencil, — 
 " TiU three o'clock, I shall pass the hours in prayer. 
 Head then — but not till then — the words which I 
 have engraved on the blade of my sword. I give it 
 
THE CONSCRIPT. 166 
 
 to you ;— let it descend to your children's children. It, 
 once, belonged to Napoleon, and it must never grace 
 a dastard's hand, — it would shiver in his grasp. The 
 blessing of a father rest upon you!"—" I will never 
 disgrace the gift, nor the giver !" said Eugene, so- 
 lemnly ; then striving at a gayer tone, continued, 
 " though I would so much rather love a fairer 
 bride." Adele's lip refused to put on an answering 
 smile ; — it would have mocked, too sadly, her heart's 
 desolation. " Let us pray," said she, " with your 
 father ; — we, also, have much need of comfort." 
 
 They knelt down, and prayed in sOence. They 
 were immediately opposite a window that let down 
 into a church-yard. A bright, full moon showed the 
 grey turrets of what had once been a monastery, 
 in strong relief— broad light, beautifully contrast- 
 ing depth of shadow, touching the brows and the 
 outline of the figures of these young enthusiasts, 
 with a light immediately from heaven ! Their hands 
 clasped in each other, — their eyes raised to their 
 God,— rno thought of self in the breast of either, — in 
 that light, — and pure as the love and devotion that 
 filled their being, — why did not some angel, wan- 
 dering here on an errand of love, bear them gently 
 into immortality, ere yet falsehood, and blight, and 
 wrong, could destroy innocence and beauty that 
 seemed so well to fit them for a purer dwelling ! 
 
 While yet praying, the heavy bell of the church 
 chimed the hour. — The sound was borne, sadly, along 
 the breeze. It was already three o'clock, — and Eu- 
 
166 THE CONSCRIPT. 
 
 gene remembered his father's injunction, to examine, 
 at that hour, what he had inscribed on the blade of 
 his sword. He rose and drew it from its sheath. 
 Adele bent over him. The words were distinctly 
 legible, — "Eugene is no longer a Conscript !— He 
 is the only son of a widow /" A conviction of the 
 truth flashed upon his mind, wholly unmixed with 
 doubt or hope. The duU heavy weight— the cer- 
 tainty — that he should be too late, chained his feet 
 to the earth, for a few seconds. He, then, rushed 
 to his father's chamber : — Paul was quite cold — he 
 had died by his own hand ! 
 
INSCRIPTION 
 
 FOR A TABLET AT BANAVIE, ON THE CALEDONIAN 
 CANAL. 
 
 BY ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. POET LAUREATE. 
 
 Where these capacious basins, by the laws 
 
 Of the subjacent element, receive 
 
 The ship, descending or upraised, — eight times 
 
 From stage to stage, with unfelt agency. 
 
 Translated, — fitliest may the marble here 
 
 Record the Architect's immortal name ! 
 
 Telford it was, by whose presiding mind 
 
 The whole great work was planned and perfected !- 
 
 Telford, — who, o'er the vale of Cambrian Dee, 
 
 Aloft in air, at giddy height upborne, 
 
 Carried his navigable road ; and hung 
 
 High o'er Menai's straits the bending bridge ! 
 
 Structures of more ambitious enterprise 
 
 Than minstrels, in the age of old romance. 
 
 To their own Merlin's magic lore ascribed* 
 
 Nor hath he for his native land performed 
 
 Less, in this proud design ; and where his piers. 
 
 Around her coast, from many a fisher's creek. 
 
 Unsheltered else, and many an ample port, 
 
168 PERSIAN SONG. 
 
 Repel the assailing storm ; — and where his roads. 
 
 In beautiful and sinuous line far seen. 
 
 Wind with the vale, and win the long ascent, 
 
 — Now o'er the deep morass sustained, — and now. 
 
 Across ravine, or glen, or estuary, 
 
 Opening a passage through the wilds subdued ! 
 
 PERSIAN SONG. 
 
 It reigns — the burning noon of night! 
 
 The wine is pouied — the harem train. 
 With eyes that bathe in liquid light. 
 
 Demand the minstrel's slumbering strain ! 
 
 How bright the theme those eyes inspire ! — 
 What kindling raptures grace the song. 
 
 When beauty wakes the breathing lyre, 
 And passion sighs its chords along ! 
 
 O'er the wide west the solar beam 
 A deep, dissolving glory throws ! — 
 
 But, in the goblet's crystal gleam. 
 With darker fires the ruby glows ! 
 
 Fount of the soul — the goblet, bring ! 
 Fill high the cup with rosy wine j 
 
PERSIAN SONG. 169 
 
 And raise the thought — and tune the string, 
 To charms that make this earth divine ! 
 
 Strike, strike the chords to notes of love ! — 
 The scene — the hour, invite — control. 
 
 While rises, beaming from above, 
 The moon of beauty on the soul I 
 
 Then strike the string in beauty's praise, 
 And lend thine aid, my gentle lute ! 
 
 — Alas ! my voice in vain essays. 
 The strain is hushed — the lyre is mute ! 
 
 So, — bending o'er his rose's breast, 
 His thousand songs the bulbul tries ; 
 
 Till, drunk with sweets — with love opprest. 
 Entranced the enamoured songster lies ! 
 
A PRAYER AND A PROMISE TO CUPID. 
 
 BY WILLIAM JEllDAN, ESQ. 
 
 Oh, lend me, Love ! a hundred hearts ; 
 
 On thy Exchange I'll use the store, 
 Forgotten all the anguish smarts, 
 
 The heart penurious nature gave. 
 Has been destroyed among the fair ; 
 
 To every beauteous face a slave, — 
 Giving to each fine form a share. — 
 
 Then lend me. Love ! a hundred hearts ; 
 
 On thy Exchange I'll use the store, 
 Forgotten all the anguish smarts. 
 
 Endured so long, — then felt no more. 
 
 Rich in the gift, I'll hoard not one. 
 But, still, from bliss to bliss will rove ; 
 
 And, when my hundred hearts are gone,— 
 Lend me another hundred, Love ! 
 
 Oh, lend me love, &c. 
 
A SEA-SIDE REVERIE. 
 
 BY BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 1. 
 
 It is a glorious summer eve ! — and in the glowing west. 
 Pillowed on clouds of rainbow hues, the broad sun 
 
 sinks to rest ; 
 From me his radiant disk is hid, behind the towering 
 
 cliff, 
 But brightly fall his parting beams on yonder sea-ward 
 
 skiff! 
 
 2. 
 
 And sweetly, still, the billows there, with borrowed 
 
 splendour shine. 
 Reflected from the westward pomp, that marks the day's 
 
 decline ; 
 But, eastward, wreaths of silvery mist — though distant, 
 
 dim, and pale, — 
 Begin to draw, around the scene, calm twilight's dusky 
 
 veil. 
 
172 A SEA-SIDE REVERIE. 
 
 3. 
 
 The wind, too, — save a gentle breeze, — hath softly died 
 
 away ; 
 Hushed is the sea-bird's harsher scream, — the skylark's 
 
 thrilling lay ; 
 No murmur — but the ceaseless dash of waves — is heard 
 
 around. 
 And these — so calm is ocean's breast, — ^have music in 
 
 their sound. 
 
 4. 
 
 It is an hour when he who treads the sandy shore, 
 alone, 
 
 May find his thoughts and feelings take the landscape's 
 gentle tone ; 
 
 Pensive — not mournful — is the mood such scenes and 
 hours impart, — 
 
 Grateful and soothing is their power upon the care- 
 worn heart ! 
 
 An hour it is when memory wakes, and turns to former 
 
 years, 
 And lives along the travelled line of parted hopes and 
 
 fears ! — 
 A time when buried joys and griefs revive, and live 
 
 again. 
 Those sobered in their brighter tints — these softened in 
 
 their pain t 
 
A SEA-SIDE REVERIE. 1/3 
 
 6. 
 
 Nor lacks this loved, familiar scene its own peculiar 
 ties, 
 
 With varying visions of the past, which now before me 
 rise ; — 
 
 The cliffs — the sea — the winding beach — unchanged, 
 alike, appear, 
 
 — Yet many changes have / known, since first I wan- 
 dered here ! 
 
 In early life, — a careless boy, — I trod this lonely beach. 
 And felt a thrill of transport strange, — too ardent, far, 
 
 for speech ! 
 'Twas freedom's throb— young joy's bright dream — and 
 
 wonder's silent awe, 
 Mingled, by nature's magic spell, with all I felt and 
 
 saw ! 
 
 8. 
 
 More dream-like, yet, appeared the scene, in manhood's 
 
 opening prime. 
 When here — in love's fond visions wrapt — I roved, a 
 
 second time ; 
 The landscape — wild and barren round — to me was 
 
 fairy laud. 
 And fancies of my own made glad the solitary strand. 
 
174 A SEA-SIDE REVERIE. 
 
 9. 
 
 . A few brief months ! — and then I sought this favourite 
 haunt once more, 
 
 Treading, with slow and mournful steps, the loved and 
 lonely shore, — 
 
 Loved it had been in youth's warm flush, — in boy- 
 hood's sanguine glee, — 
 
 But dearer far, in griefs dark hour, its loneliness to 
 
 10. 
 
 I wandered here, — and mused on hopes, once glorious 
 
 in their light, — 
 On disappointment's chilling clouds, which veiled those 
 
 hopes in night ; — 
 — Yet, with such musings, strength was given life's 
 
 needful ills to bear, 
 And glimpses of that purer bliss which sorrow must 
 
 prepare ! 
 
 11. 
 
 What marvel, then, if — loitering here, alone, at even- 
 tide, — 
 
 Alternate thoughts of joy and grief, by memory, are 
 supplied ! 
 
 What marvel that their light and shade should borrow, 
 from the scene, 
 
 A tone for thoughtless mirth too sad — for sorrow too 
 serene I 
 
A SEA-SIDE REVERIE. 175 
 
 12. 
 
 There is a mood of mind, whose sway can darkest 
 thoughts beguile. 
 
 Whose voiceless tear is brighter far than pleasure's 
 gayest smile ; 
 
 There is a feeling— chastened, calm as day's most gentle 
 close, — 
 
 Whose quiet influence seems to hush the spirit to re- 
 pose. 
 
 13. 
 
 And O! what gratitude is due to Him from whom, 
 
 alone. 
 This holy, tranquillizing powei* to man can be made 
 
 known ; 
 WTiose Word divine can bid the strife of earth-born 
 
 passions cease. 
 And give the mourner — tempest-tossed — the calm of 
 
 heart-felt peace ! 
 
IMPROMPTU, TO ORIANA. 
 
 On attending, with her, as Sponsors, at a Christening. 
 BY THOMAS GENT, ESQ. 
 
 Lady ! who didst, — with angel-look and smile, 
 And the pure lustre of those dear, dark eyes, — 
 Gracefully bend before the font of Christ, 
 In humble adoration, faith, and prayer ! 
 How,--as the infant pledge of friends beloved 
 Received, from thy. pure lips, its future name,— 
 Sweetly unconscious looked the baby boy ? 
 How beautifully helpless,— and how mild ! 
 — Methought, a seraph spread her sheltering wings 
 Over the solemn scene ; — and as the sun. 
 In its fuU splendour, on the altar came, 
 God's blessings seemed to sanctify the deed ! 
 
TO SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART 
 
 BY JOHN GALT, ESQ. 
 On the publication of Marmion. 
 
 O SURE, — when stretched on verdant knoll, 
 'Mid Ettrick's haunted scenery, 
 Viewing the vassal runnels roll. 
 To where the clear day summer beam. 
 On well-sung Tweed's baronial stream, 
 Held gay and flickering revelry ; 
 
 Some gentle fairy, resting nigh, 
 Beneath her daisy canopy. 
 Heard the entranced truant sigh 
 For deeds of bold and earnest toil. 
 The borderer's joy of speed and spoil. 
 And pomp of knightly panoply ! 
 
 And pleased a child so rare to find. 
 So meet for noble chivalry, 
 A spell of elfin art combined. 
 That gave thee all thy soul desired. 
 Whatever chief or champion fired. 
 In blest and blessing poesy ! 
 
EPITAPH ON A DOG, 
 
 Of the Hospice of the Great St. Bernard, — half tombed within 
 its Frozen Lake, by the Fall of an Avalanche. 
 
 BY WILLIAM SOTHEBY, ESQ. 
 
 Friend of mankind ! — thy service done. 
 Rise thou no more from troubled rest ! 
 
 Nor, watchM of the setting sun, 
 Where pilgrims wander, widely quest; — 
 
 As if their sufferings wer^ thine own. 
 
 And thou wert bom for man alone. 
 
 Thou never more, when raves the wind, 
 Shalt, o'er the Alps, thy master guide ; 
 
 No more, when drifting snow-flakes blind, 
 Shalt turn his step from death aside. 
 
 Hang on his hand, and woo him back. 
 
 While instinct yet retains the track ! 
 
 Thou ne'er again, beneath the snows, 
 Shalt search the cleft, and treacherous cave. 
 
EPITAPH ON A DOG. 1/^ 
 
 And, conscious of sleep's dread repose, 
 
 Arouse the slumberer from the grave ; 
 And o'er him breathe thy vital breath, 
 And, by thy warmth, reclaim from death ! 
 
 Thou ne'er again shalt gladly bear 
 The panier, yoked thy neck around. 
 
 Press to the famished lip its fare,* 
 And bring the band to close the wound ; 
 
 And, by thy healing tongue, supply 
 
 The balm that lessens agony ! 
 
 Ah ! thou no more shalt homeward bring 
 The infant through the frozen air ; 
 
 And — as with hand half-human — ring 
 The Convent beU — nor quit thy care, 
 
 TiU on the hearth, before the blaze. 
 
 Thou on his opening eyelids gaze ! 
 
 Long on thy loss that hearth shall dwell ;- 
 Friend of mankind ! ferewell ! — farewell ! 
 
TO IMS. 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 What shall I compare thee to ? 
 MoonligJit ?— that will never do ! 
 That is tranquil,— thou art never 
 Calm for one half hour ;— for ever 
 Restless, reckless, thoughtless, ranging,— 
 — ^The moon is one whole month in changing ! 
 
 What shall 1 compare thee to ? 
 
 Sunbeams ? — ^no ! — though one or two, 
 
 I grant thou hast stolen— heaven knows how !- 
 
 To diadem thy beauteous brow : — 
 
 But thou art not of them,— for they 
 
 Shine on our earth (sometimes) a day.' 
 
 What shall I compare thee to ?— 
 I have it !— yes!— alas, how true ! 
 Thou art that radiance on the sea 
 That, beautiful— but murderously— 
 Smiles and shines,— while snares and death 
 Lurk its brilliant rays beneath ! 
 

THE CHILD'S LAST SLEEP. 
 
 The lovely child is dead! 
 All, all his innocent thoughts, like rose-leaves, scattered. 
 And his glad childhood nothing but a dream ! 
 
 Wilson. 
 
 Thou sleepest! — but when wilt thou wake, fair child ! 
 When the fawn awakes, in the forest wild ? 
 When the lark's wing mounts, with the breeze of morn ? 
 When the first rich breath of the rose is born ? — 
 Lovely thou sleepest — ^yet something lies 
 Too deep and still on thy soft-sealed eyes ! 
 Mournful, though sweet, is thy rest to see ; 
 — When will the hour of thy rising be ? 
 
 Not when the fawn wakes, — not when the lark. 
 On the crimson cloud of the morn, floats dark ! 
 — Grief, with vain passionate tears, hath wet 
 The hair shedding gleams o'er thy pale brow, yet; 
 Love, with sad kisses — unfelt — hath prest 
 Thy meek drooped eyelids, and quiet breast ; — 
 And the glad spring, calling out bird and bee, 
 Shall colour all blossoms, fair child, but thee 1 
 
182 THE child's last sleep. 
 
 Tliou art gone from us, bright one! — ^that thou 
 
 should'st die. 
 And life be left to the butterfly ! 
 
 Thou art gone, as a dew-drop is blown from the bough, 
 —Oh ! for the world where thy home is now ! — 
 How may we love but in doubt and fear. 
 How may we anchor our fond hearts here. 
 How should even joy but a trembler be, 
 Beautiful dust I when we look on thee ! 
 
 F. H. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 How sweet to sleep where all is peace, 
 Where sorrow cannot reach the breast. 
 Where all life's idle throbbings cease, 
 And pain is lulled to rest ; — 
 Escaped o'er fortune's troubled wave, 
 To anchor in the silent grave ! 
 
 That quiet land where, peril past. 
 The weary win a long repose. 
 The bruised spirit finds, at last, 
 A balm for all its woes, 
 And lowly grief and lordly pride 
 Lie down, like brothers, side by side ! 
 
 The breath of slander cannot come 
 To break the calm that lingers there ; 
 There is no dreaming in the tomb. 
 Nor waking to despair ; 
 Unkindness cannot wound us more. 
 And all earth's bitterness is o'er. 
 
 There the maiden waits till her lover come — 
 They never more shall part ; — 
 And the stricken deer has gained. her home. 
 With the arrow in her heart; 
 
184 STANZAS. 
 
 And passion's pulse lies hushed and still. 
 Beyond the reach of the tempter's skill. 
 
 The mother— she is gone to sleep, 
 With her babe upon her breast, — 
 She has no weary watch to keep 
 Over her infant's rest ; 
 His slumbers on her bosom fair 
 Shall never more be broken — there! 
 
 For me— for me, whom all have left, 
 — The lovely, and the dearly loved,— 
 From whom the touch of time hath reft 
 ITie hearts that time had proved, 
 Whose guerdon was — and is — despair. 
 For all I bore — and all I bear ; 
 
 Why should I linger idly on. 
 
 Amid the selfish and the cold, 
 
 A dreamer — when such dreams are gone 
 
 As those I nursed of old ! 
 
 Why should the dead tree mock the spring, 
 
 A blighted and a withering thing ! 
 
 How blest— how blest that home to gain. 
 And slumber in that soothing sleep, 
 From which we never rise to pain. 
 Nor ever wake to weep 1 
 To win my way from the tempest's roar. 
 And lay me down on the golden shore ! 
 
THE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 BY L. E. L. 
 
 Oh Love ! oh Happiness ! is not your home 
 Far from the crowded street, the lighted hall ? 
 Are ye not dwellers in the vallies green, 
 In the white cottage ? is not your abode 
 Amid the fields, the rivers, and the hills ; 
 By ttie sea-shore — where, with its thousand waves. 
 The ocean casts its treasures of pink shells. 
 And makes its melancholy music ? 
 » * * • * 
 
 They dwelt amid the woods, where they had built 
 
 Themselves a home ; — it was almost a hut, 
 
 And rudely framed of logs and piled-up wood ; 
 
 But it was covered with sweet creeping shrubs, 
 
 And had a porch of evergreens : it stood 
 
 Beneath the shelter of a maple tree, 
 
 Whose boughs spread over it, like a green tent. 
 
 'Twas beautiful, in summer, with gay flowers, 
 
 Green leaves, and fragrant grass strewn on the floor ; 
 
 And, in the winter, cheerful with its hearth. 
 
 Where blazed the wood fire, and its tapestry 
 
 Of soft rich furs — each a memorial 
 
 Of some escape, some toil, some hunter's chance, — 
 
 And mixed with scarlet berries, and red plumes. 
 
 -y^ Of THB '^ 
 
 TJiriVBIlSITY] 
 
 ^lr.r»nt»^^ 
 
186 THE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 And glossy wings. There was one only thing 
 That spoke them strangers in the land, and told 
 The luxuries of other days : there hung 
 A Spanish maiden's ivory guitar. 
 With its rich fretting of gold ornament ; 
 And that was often waked, — as memory lived 
 Chiefly on its dear chords ; and she would sing. 
 That dark-eyed lady, sometimes when alone, — 
 And then her songs were sad : but when the eve 
 Came in the beauty of a June twilight, 
 With all its sleeping flowers, its dews, its clouds. 
 Touched with the sunset's crimson lingering, — 
 Or, when it came with its gay lighted hearth, 
 Sweet with the burning of the cedar wood. 
 Her voice was cheerful, as the sunny song 
 The lark pours to the morning and his mate j 
 For then her hunter sought his lonely bride. 
 And, like a victor, brought his trophies home. 
 
 It was a little nook, — as nature made, 
 
 In some gay mood, a solitude for love. 
 
 And, at her bidding, love had sought the place. 
 
 And made it paradise. On the west side. 
 
 Like a dark mountain, stood the forest old. 
 
 Guarding it from the wind, — which howled at night, 
 
 As if that wood were its chief treasure cave. 
 
 And, opposite, there was a clear small lake, 
 
 From whence the morning, like a beauty, came 
 
 Fresh from her bath j — ^the eye could span its breadth ; 
 
 And green savannahs, on the further bank. 
 
THE EMIGRANTS. 187 
 
 Were lost in the blue sky. Just where tlie trees 
 
 Met the bright waters, was a lighter space ; 
 
 And, like the pillars of a mighty temple. 
 
 The pine, the beech, the maple stretched away. 
 
 In long and stately avenues — ^their dome 
 
 The glorious heaven ! This was all nature's work. 
 
 And now was but as it had been for years. 
 
 But there were fragile flowers, and tender shrubs. 
 
 Whose feminine frail beauty asked for more 
 
 Thau the rude nursing of the summer breeze. 
 
 There was the red rose, like an evening cloud ; 
 
 The white rose, pale as pining for the song 
 
 Of her now absent love, the nightingale; 
 
 The orange tree — that miser of the spring, 
 
 Amassing gold and silver; jessamine, 
 
 Showering down pearl and amber ; myrtle plants ; 
 
 And, where the sun shone warmest, olives green : — 
 
 For Inez had collected all that, once, 
 
 Her early youth had loved in Arragon ; 
 
 And, with all woman's sweet solicitude. 
 
 She had brought those, too, of his native land, 
 
 Her lover's England ; — there, the violet shed 
 
 The treasures of its purple Araby ; 
 
 The primrose, pale as the last star that fades 
 
 Before the day-break ; and the honeysuckle. 
 
 Hung as around an English cottage walls. 
 
 — No marvel woman should love flowers, they bear 
 
 So much of fanciful similitude 
 
 To her own history ; like herself, repaying, 
 
 With such sweet interest, all the cherishing 
 
1S8 THE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 That calls their beauty or their sweetness forth ; 
 And, like her, too — dying beneath neglect. 
 
 Twas like a fairy tale to pass the woods, 
 
 And enter the sweet solitude, and gaze 
 
 On the fair Spirit of its loveliness. 
 
 Delicate as a creature that but breathes 
 
 The perfumed air of palaces ; a foot 
 
 Xiight as but used to tread on silken down, 
 
 And echo music ; and a hand that looked 
 
 But made to wander o'er the golden harp ; 
 
 Eyes blue as a June sky, when stars light up 
 
 Its deep clear midnight, — languishing, as love 
 
 Were all their language, — eyes whose glance would 
 
 make, 
 At masque or ball, full many a sleepless night ; 
 That dark black hair, which pearls so well become ; 
 And, added to young beauty's natural grace, 
 That courtly air which tells of gentle blood 
 And gentle nurture. — What can she do here .' 
 She loves, she is beloved ; and love is all 
 That makes a woman's world — her element — 
 Her life — her Eden. Native of that land 
 Where the sun lights the heart — romantic Spain, 
 Her early youth past in a convent's cell ; 
 Thence to her father's palace : but, or ere 
 Her heart beat answered to the passionate songs 
 That round her lattice floated, at twilight. 
 They came to England ; there the seal was set 
 Love never sets in vain, — and sets but once ! 
 
THE EMIGRANTS. ' 189 
 
 It was an English youth, with his fair brow, 
 And island colour. One eve, when the sound 
 Of music waked the spirit of delight, 
 From Inez' braided hair there fell a rose; 
 That night, that rose was treasured next a heart 
 Of which, henceforth, she was the destiny. 
 It needs not say how young affection sprung. 
 Gathered and grew in its sweet course ; they hung. 
 Together, o'er the poet's breathing page, 
 Till their own eyes reflected every thought ; 
 And both loved music, and love never yet 
 Had an interpreter like song. 
 
 But as the rose. 
 Even in the crimson zenith of its noon. 
 Flings on the ground its shadow, — even so 
 There is a shade attendant upon love. 
 And Inez was betrothed, in her own land. 
 To one she could not love — one whose dark brow 
 Suited his darker spirit. — One June eve, 
 Together they had read a traveller's tale 
 Of far America's majestic beauty. 
 Of its savannahs and its stately woods. 
 They read till the pale radiance of the west 
 Lighted the page no more ; and, sighed the youth, 
 ** How happy we might be in these wild scenes, — 
 A hunter I, and thou my gentle bride ! 
 Far from the heartlessness of crowded court, 
 ^Vhere finest feelings are but as flowers sown 
 
190' THE EMIGRANTS. 
 
 Upon a rock ; where hope sinks as it soars, 
 
 Like a lark wounded in its morning flight. — 
 
 Our home should be amid the wilderness ; 
 
 The leaves, flowers, clouds, echoes and singing birds 
 
 To us should be companions and dear friends ; 
 
 And we would pair together like two doves, — 
 
 Our nest of happiness a solitude !" — 
 
 — ^The dream grew a reality ; — they fled 
 
 O'er the Atlantic's mighty boundary, — • 
 
 That stormy barrier of a parted earth ; — 
 
 And in the woods they made themselves a home. 
 
 Each one the other's world ! and, with them, dwelt 
 
 A circle of sweet feelings — peace, content. 
 
 And gentle hopes reposing on themselves. 
 
 Quiet but deep affection, and the health 
 
 That dwells but in the pure air of the fields. — 
 
 What though no train waited to catch the eye, 
 
 Ere the lip spoke its bidding ! though no halls 
 
 Were filled with crowds that waited on their state ! 
 
 Yet had they more than all that fortune gives ; 
 
 For, there was nature's utmost luxury. 
 
 And theirs the happiness of hearth and home 
 
 Lighted by love ! 
 
STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 BY THE REV. THOMAS DALE. 
 
 Wake, oh, wake ! — ^the morning star 
 
 Hath ceased to gi-ace his glittering car j 
 
 Slowly the reddening clouds unfold. 
 
 And frequent streaks of living gold 
 
 Announce the Lord of Day j 
 
 The light breeze wafts perfume on high, 
 
 — Less sweet alone than Rosa's sigh ! — 
 
 The flower with fresher tints is glowing. 
 
 The fount with clearer crystal flowing ; — 
 
 Oh come ! oh come ! 
 
 Hours like this a charm impart 
 
 That wins the eye, — ^but not the heart. 
 
 While love is still away ! 
 
 Wake, oh, wake! — through every grove 
 
 Is heard the matin lay of love ; 
 
 —And shall a dearer love be vain 
 
 To bid thee burst dull slumber's chain. 
 
 And spurn at slow delay ! 
 
 Though morning glow with tints divine, 
 
 rd change her brightest blush for thine. 
 
192 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 And deem thine eye, from sleep awaking. 
 
 Outshone the sun through darkness breaking :- 
 
 Oh come I oh come ! 
 
 Hours like this are quickly fled, — 
 
 But thy fond smile a joy can shed 
 
 Which melts not thus away ! 
 
THE TWO HUSSARS. 
 
 A GERMAN TALE. 
 
 The shades of evening had descended over the city 
 of Prague, ere Leopold Rosenwold entered his 
 quarters. He was a stranger, and the occasion of his 
 arrival of a melancholy nature. He had been ordered 
 to take the duty, in consequence of the sudden death 
 of the only officer of the regiment with whom he 
 had ever been upon intimate terms. The place of 
 his abode was the same which had been assigned to 
 Capt. Vanostrode, — a government building, situated 
 in one of the most unfrequented streets. It looked 
 exceedingly dismal, by the dim light of a lamp which 
 burned before a shrine of the Virgin, in its immediate 
 vicinity ; and the interior was still more gloomy than 
 even the outer appearance indicated. A wide, dark 
 staircase and a long gallery ushered the young 
 hussar into a suite of large lofty apartments, scantily 
 furnished. The house would have accommodated 
 the whole regiment ; but a few soldiers, whose bar- 
 rack rooms looked another way, were the only tenants 
 besides himself. 
 
194 THE TWO HUSSARS. 
 
 Memorials of his friend met him, at every step ; 
 his sash still formed a festoon over the ample 
 fire-place, between a brace of pistols ; and his 
 books and musical instruments were scattered, in 
 different places, through the apartments. The re- 
 collections which they produced impressed Leopold's 
 heart with a deeper shade of sadness. There is 
 scarcely any thing more depressing to the spirits 
 than the feeling of perfect solitude, in the centre of 
 a crowded city. Leopold was often, by choice, alone ; 
 but, now, he would have given much for a companion. 
 The evening was cold and unpleasant ; and, some- 
 what fatigued by the exertions of the day, he felt 
 disinclined to wander abroad in search of amuse- 
 ment. He strolled to the window; a high dark 
 building reared its frowning walls on the opposite 
 side of the narrow street ; but all was silent and de- 
 serted. He sat down by the fire of green wood which 
 blazed feebly on the hearth, and gazed upon vacancy, 
 until he almost fancied that he could see the pale 
 face of his friend, dimly shaped in the dreary void. 
 He stretched out his hand for a book, and strove to 
 beguile the weary hours with its contents. The vo- 
 lume was filled with wild tales ; of human beings who 
 had brought sin and misery upon their heads, by 
 dabbling in forbidden arts, — fearful mysteries by 
 which the enemy of man might be summoned at 
 need; tales of vampires, thrusting their unhallowed 
 bodies into the assemblies of the living ; and of the 
 murder of infants, slaughtered for the purpose of 
 
THE TWO HUSSARS. 1S5 
 
 securing some horrid cliarm. The clock struck 
 eleven, and, throwing away the book, he sought his 
 couch. 
 
 He went to sleep, but not to rest; his dreams 
 were troubled and feverish. The form of Vanostrode, 
 repeatedly, flitted before him ; and he walked through 
 damp church-yards, where the yawning graves dis- 
 closed mouldering bones and putrid fragments of the 
 dead. Unrefreshed by such disturbed slumbers, he 
 awoke in tha morning, and found the scene little less 
 dreary by day-light than it had been the preceding 
 night. Long grass grew in the street into which his 
 windows looked. The opposite house had an air of 
 grandeur in decay, and bore, like his own, symptoms 
 of being tenanted by a much smaller number of per- 
 sons than it was calculated to contain. Captain 
 Rosenwold was not a Bohemian by birth ; family 
 misfortunes had obliged him to enter a foreign ser- 
 vice, and, — associated for a considerable period with a 
 set of men whose licentious manners inspired him 
 with disgust, — he had contracted a habit of living very 
 much alone ; which would have rendered his present 
 situation less irksome, but for the cheerless aspect of 
 his residence, and the painful reminiscences which it 
 produced. He did not possess a single letter of in- 
 troduction to any of the inhabitants of Prague, and 
 his sojourn in the capital promised to be of the most 
 disagreeable description. He rode out through the 
 environs of the city, during the morning, and walked 
 in the streets, after dinner. Still, there were many 
 
196 
 
 THE TWO HUSSARS. 
 
 hours to be spent, over a book, in his desolate apart- 
 ments. Weary with reading, he often, involuntarily, 
 strayed to the window; for, though there was seldom 
 any thing to be seen, the light alone attracted him. 
 One day, when thus listlessly employed, he observed 
 the old domestic who occasionally hovered about the 
 premises, holding open the massy gates of the opposite 
 portal, as if to give some approaching person entrance. 
 Leopold cast his eyes down the street ; they rested 
 upon a female, tall, graceful, and too finely propor- 
 tioned to be disguised by the black garments which 
 enveloped her form. A sudden gust of wind — hap- 
 pily, as the soldier thought, caught her veil, and, 
 blowing it aside, disclosed a pale and lovely coun- 
 tenance. The accident occasioned a moment's delay ; 
 but hastily re-arranging the flowing drapery, she 
 went into the house, and the door closed upon her. 
 lieopold was, now, never tired of standing at his 
 lattice. A small square, in one of the heavy stone- 
 framed windows of the opposite mansion, had been, 
 frequently, left open without exciting his attention. 
 He, now, contrived to exalt himself, in a manner which 
 permitted him to look down the aperture ; -and, in 
 this way, he often gained a view of the lady, — either 
 pacing up and down the apartment, or sitting, in a 
 pensive attitude, at a table, with her fair head resting 
 on a delicate white hand. Inexpressibly interested 
 by his beautiful neighbour, he enquired her name 
 and family ; and learned that she was a widow, her 
 husband having died an hour after the solemnization 
 
THE TWO HUSSARS. 197 
 
 of his marriage. It was said that she had been forced 
 into a union which she disliked ; and there were not 
 wanting those who whispered that the glass of poi- 
 soned fly -water, which he drank in mistake, had not 
 been left upon the side-board by accident. Nothing, 
 however, had transpired, at the time, to criminate 
 her; and, the heir having disputed her right to the 
 property for which she had been sacrificed, the house 
 she inhabited and a small jointure alone remained. 
 She lived in strict seclusion, — partly from choice, and 
 partly because she was shunned by the relations of 
 her husband, people of consequence in the city ; and, 
 others following their example, she had little in- 
 ducement to emerge from retirement. 
 
 Rosenwold discovered that she never left home, ex- 
 cept to go to church. The sacred edifice which she had 
 chosen for her orisons immediately became his haunt ; 
 and, placing himself in a spot concealed from her view, 
 he had, frequently, the happiness of seeing the black 
 veil removed, which, too often, obscured the fairest 
 fece in Prague. At last, the lady observed that she 
 was an object of attention to the young soldier ; and 
 she went out no more. The window, too, was closed ; 
 and Leopold was left to gaze upon the cold, dark 
 walls which shut an angel from his eyes — for, not for 
 a single moment, did he entertain the shadow of a 
 doubt as to her innocence of the crime which the ma- 
 levolence of some evil tongues had imputed to her. 
 Leopold was in despair. Fascinated to the spot, yet 
 less able than ever to endure the gloom that sur- 
 
198 THE TWO HUSSAllS. 
 
 rounded him, he became restless and unhappy, ro- 
 mantic and impassioned. Existence seemed valueless, 
 when deprived of the object of his soul's mad idolatry. 
 He had hoped that some fortunate chance would have 
 enabled him to urge his suit to one who had 
 awakened the tenderest sentiments in his heart ; and 
 he could scarcely brook the disappointment of his 
 wishes. 
 
 The street in which he lived terminated in an 
 arch-way, leading to an ancient monastery. The 
 arch was situated at the end of the barracks ; and, 
 over it, was a large room, appropriated to the guar- 
 dianship of military stores. Rosenwold, being called 
 upon to inspect the delivery of some new accoutre- 
 ments to his soldiers, espied a door at the fai'ther 
 extremity, in the direction of Alexa's abode. He 
 made no enquiry concerning it ; but, being in pos- 
 session of the key of the apartment, he returned in 
 the evening; and, withdrawing the bolts of this 
 newly discovered portal, found himself at the top of 
 a narrow stair, which conducted him to a second door 
 below, opening into a piece of waste ground — ^formerly 
 a trim bowling green, when the barrack was the 
 residence of a Prince of the Blood, but now over- 
 grown with weeds, and entirely disused. In a comer 
 of this wilderness stood a fanciful building, of three 
 stories in height, intended for an observatory ; and 
 from the summit of this edifice, he obtained a com- 
 plete view of the fair widow's garden. It was of 
 considerable extent, and gracefully planted with 
 
THE TWO HUSSARS. 199 
 
 linden trees. The soft turf was bordered with beds of 
 flowers, and bowers of roses and honeysuckle shaded 
 rustic seats from the mid-day sun. It was here that 
 the beautiful Alexa spent the largest portion of her 
 time. Here she walked, and read, and sung, and 
 tended the blooming treasures of the luxuriant soil. 
 Here, too, were her birds ; and Leopold's admiration 
 increased, as he watched her pursuing her innocent 
 employments, dressed in tasteful yet simple attire, 
 and divested of those cumbrous folds which had 
 hidden half her charms. 
 
 Debating whether he should speak, or write to 
 her, he regretted that he did not possess the poetical 
 talents of Vanostrode, who had excelled in the com- 
 position of tender verse. Fearful that his letters 
 might fail to make an impression upon her heart, he 
 pondered on the means of obtaining a private inter- 
 view ; and prepared a ladder of ropes, by which he 
 could have easily descended into the garden, not- 
 withstanding the height of the tower. But he was 
 restrained by the fear of offending ; and determined 
 to content himself with the pleasure of looking at 
 her, until some favourable opportunity offered for 
 the disclosure of his passion. 
 
 One day, a sudden storm of thunder and rain 
 drove the lady into her house, and obliged Leopold 
 to take shelter in a lower apartment. Believing that 
 the storm would not be of long continuance, and 
 certain that the moment it was over Alexa would 
 return, he resolved to remain where he was until 
 
200 THE TWO HUSSARS. 
 
 the sky cleared. Always eager to repair to his 
 accustomed station, — ^the spot which overlooked the 
 garden,— he had never before taken any notice of the 
 interior of the observatory. He, now, amused himself 
 by examining the faded decorations. The furniture 
 was of the most antique description, and fast drop- 
 ping to decay. He feared to sit down on a worm- 
 eaten couch, which was placed beside an old fashioned 
 table, lest it should sink under his weight. Pulling 
 away one of the dust-covered cushions, to scrutinize 
 more closely its capability of sustaining him, he 
 observed a small roll of paper, which had slipped 
 behind it ; and, upon unfolding it, was struck with 
 astonishment and dismay, by seeing a pencil 
 sketch of Alexa, with a verse written beneath it, in 
 the hand writing of Vanostrode. It was clear that 
 his friend had been engaged in the like adventure 
 with himself; and, suddenly, the manner of that 
 friend's death, — always singular and suspicious, — ap- 
 peared to him to have differed widely from the ge- 
 neral surmise. The conviction of his murder flashed, 
 like lightning, through his brain. ) 
 
 There had been too many instances of suicide, in 
 persons even less likely to lay violent hands upon 
 themselves, for Leopold to doubt the possibility of 
 Vanostrode's committing the act universally attri- 
 buted to him, when first the fatal catastrophe was 
 bruited abroad. He had been found bathed in blood, 
 in his bed, with his own sword lying by his side. But 
 now, when he perceived the facility with which his 
 
THE TWO HUSSARS. 201 
 
 body might have been conveyed from the place of 
 his secret haunt, to his sleeping apartment, he be- 
 came jealous of foul play. His frame shook with 
 horror, and he looked round, expecting to be con- 
 fronted by the grim face of an assassin, glaring in 
 at him, from the open door. Was Alexa so perilous 
 a creature, that death overtook the wretch lured by 
 her fatal beauty ? He shuddered at the thought. 
 The nature of his late studies — the tales of demons 
 passing into human forms — of fearful compacts, spells, 
 and love charms, to be sealed by the life-blood of 
 some devoted being, had rendered him liable to 
 receive superstitious impressions ; and, in the dark 
 mystery which now enveloped him, he was almost 
 inclined to believe that such things might be. 
 
 The melancholy circumstances of Vanostrode's 
 decease had already, in a great measure, subdued the 
 cheerfulness of his youthful mind ; and now, they 
 hung like a dead weight upon his heart — for, in 
 despite of all his efforts to repress the painful idea, 
 he feared to search deeply into the cause, lest it 
 should criminate the woman he adored. 
 
 In his anxiety to secure her from the scandal of 
 any prying neighbour, he had always taken the most 
 rigorous precautions, in passing to and fro from the 
 barracks to the observatory, to avoid being seen. A 
 thick hedge of yew which bordered the bowling 
 green, not being sufficiently high, in one or two 
 places, to screen him from view, he invariably bent 
 his body as he passed these gaps ; and, when at the 
 
202 THE TWO UUSSARS. 
 
 summit of the tower, never permitted his head to 
 appear above the parapet. He, now, determined to 
 make his approaches with redoubled vigilance; for he 
 felt that danger lurked within the apparently de- 
 serted precinct. Stealing cautiously down stairs, he 
 observed fresh traces of Vanostrode, in the centre 
 apartment. Passages from his poems were written 
 upon the walls ; and, in an obscure corner, he found 
 a military glove. It bore his friend's initials, and 
 was stained with blood. The floor was covered with 
 tapestry of so dark a colour, that it could not betray 
 the crimson dye, which had been most probably 
 poured out upon it ; but the stairs were marked in 
 several places, as if the wood had been scraped, for 
 the purpose of obliterating spots that would not 
 wash off. Passing down stiU lower, to the ground 
 floor, upon strict examination, he perceived that an 
 aperture had been made in the wall, sufficiently 
 large for a man to pass through into Alexa's garden. 
 The breach was carefully concealed, by a panel 
 placed against it on the inside ; and Leopold knew 
 that it must be effectually shadowed, by the clus- 
 tering evergreens which encircled the wall of the 
 outer pleasure grounds. 
 
 Hitherto, Rosenwold's visits to the observatory 
 had been limited to day -light ; but, now, he deter- 
 mined to repair thither in the evening's close — to 
 surprise Alexa — and gain, from her own lips, the 
 confirmation, or the removal of his suspicions, ere he 
 proceeded further in the scrutiny which he deter- 
 
THE TWO HUSSARS. 203 
 
 mined to institute respecting his fi-iend's death. 
 Unexpectedly called away, upon military business, 
 he was detained from his quarters till past twelve 
 o'clock. He thought the hour too late for any chance 
 of finding the lady up ; but, notwithstanding the peril 
 which environed him, he could not refrain from 
 visiting the place, so fatal to the unfortunate Va- 
 nostrode. Listening, to ascertain that no one else 
 was abroad, he proceeded, with a cautious step, 
 through the yew walk. All was silent as the grave : 
 — not a leaf stirred, nor was there a single night- 
 bird on the wing. He passed the aperture, — emerg- 
 ing from a dreary waste of tall flags and tangled 
 weeds, into Alexa's fair and stately garden. Every 
 thing, there also, was calm and still ; and a light, from 
 the window of a distant summer-house, assured him 
 that she whom he sought had not retired to rest. 
 He approached the spot, — a shriek smote his ear ! — 
 another and another ! — He rushed forward, burst 
 open the door, and arrived in time to rescue his be- 
 loved Alexa from the grasp of a ruffian. Leopold 
 seized the villain by the throat; — the garments 
 which he disgraced proved him to be a member of 
 the church, — it was the prior of the adjoining con- 
 vent. Threatened with immediate death, he made 
 a full disclosure of his crimes. 
 
 Alexa had, long, believed herself to be under the 
 influence of some malignant star. A horrid destiny 
 attended all those who sought her affection. She 
 had been mysteriously warned not to receive the 
 
204 THE TWO HUSSARS. 
 
 addresses of a second lover, lest he should be cut 
 off, like the first. The crafty monk hoped, by this 
 means, to work upon the mind of a timid woman, 
 and deter her from seeking the protection of a hus- 
 band. He it was who pronounced her nuptial 
 benediction ; and it was by his contrivance that the 
 glass of poisoned water reached the bridegroom's 
 lips. The prior's endeavour to penetrate into the 
 devoted lady's garden was prevented, by Vanos- 
 trode's persevering gallantry. He had found out the 
 way to the observatory, and almost lived in it. 
 The jealous monk feared that Alexa viewed the 
 handsome hussar with a favourable eye, and he re- 
 solved to remove him out of the way. Lying in 
 wait, in the centre apartment, he stabbed him as he 
 passed down stairs. The stroke was mortal, — Vanos- 
 trode placed his hand on the wound, threw oft* his 
 glove, but expired ere he could draw his sword ; and 
 the monk, wrapping his victim in his own vestments, 
 carried the body into the barracks, — where, afler 
 stripping it of the garments which would have be- 
 trayed him, he laid it in the bed, artfuUy contriving 
 to make it appear that the murdered man had fallen 
 by his own hands. 
 
 It was some time, however, ere the assassin dared 
 renew his design upon Alexa. Rosenwold's extreme 
 watchfulness had preserved Mm from suspicion ; and 
 the monk, believing that he alone was acquainted 
 with the secret entrance into the lady's garden. 
 
THE TWO HUSSARS. 205 
 
 made the bold attempt, so happily prevented by 
 Leopold's opportune appearance. 
 
 The monk suffered the penalty of his crimes ; and 
 the young soldier received the hand of the lovely 
 creature to whom he had been so deeply, and so 
 ardently attached. 
 
 Emma K. 
 
THE LOVE OF GOD. 
 
 TWO SONNETS. 
 
 BY THE REV. H. H. MILMAN, 
 
 Pi-ofessor of Poetry, in the University of Oxford. 
 
 1. 
 
 Love Thee I — oh, Thou, the world's eternal Sire ! 
 Whose palace is the vast infinity, 
 Time, space, height, depth, oh God ! are full of Thee, 
 And sun-eyed seraphs tremble and admire. 
 Love Thee ! — but Thou art girt with vengeful fire, 
 And mountains quake, and banded nations flee, 
 And terror shakes the wide unfathomed sea. 
 When the heavens rock with Thy tempestuous ire. 
 Oh, Thou ! too vast for thought to comprehend, 
 That wast ere time, — shalt be when time is o'er ; 
 Ages and worlds begin — grow old — and end, 
 Systems and suns Thy changeless throne before, 
 Commence and close their cycles : — lost, I bend 
 To earth my prostrate soul, aud shudder and adore ! 
 
THE LOVE OF GOD. 
 
 2. 
 
 Love Thee ! — oh, clad in human lowliness, 
 
 — In Whom each heart its mortal kindred know? — 
 
 Our flesh, our form, our tears, our pains, our woes,— 
 
 A fellow wanderer o'er earth's wilderness ! 
 Love Thee ! Whose every word but breathes to bless I 
 Through Thee, from long-sealed lips, glad language 
 
 flows ; 
 The blind their eyes, that laugh with light, unclose ; 
 And babes, unchid, Thy garment's hem caress. 
 — I see Thee, doomed by bitterest pangs to die, 
 Up the sad hill, with willing footsteps, move, 
 With scourge, and taunt, and wanton agony. 
 While the cross nods, in hideous gloom, above. 
 Though all — even there — be radiant Deity ! 
 — Speechless I gaze, and my whole soul is Love ! 
 
TO THE HON. mLLIAM LAMB. 
 
 BY LADY CAROLINE LAM15. 
 
 Though all at once, unheard, reprove me. 
 
 Left — alike by friend and foe, 
 — I will not shrink, if thou but love me, 
 
 No hand but thine can strike the blow. 
 
 And sayest thou that I dare not face 
 The storm that bursts above my head! 
 
 — ^The proud most keenly feel disgrace, 
 And 'tis disgrace, alone, I dread. 
 
 I fear not censure's bitter sneer, 
 I heed not envy's venomed tongue. 
 
 Nor had'st thou seen one woman's tear. 
 If my own heart had known no wrong. 
 
 And even though wrong, if thou can'st love me. 
 Or friend, or foe, may frown on me ; — 
 
 Their barbarous rage shall never move me, 
 If blest by one kind word from thee ! 
 
THE DYING GIRL. 
 
 A POETIC SKETCH. 
 
 Oh ! lead me forth— and let me gaze, 
 Once more, upon the moon's soft rays ; 
 View, once again, the starry sky. 
 Drink of the balmy air, — ^^and die ! 
 This fading form no spell may save, 
 'Tis passing to the welcome grave : 
 — Ere yonder blossom's dewy trance 
 Shall melt before the morning glance,— 
 'Ere yet the early lark shall wake, 
 This heart— oh, what a joy!— must break. 
 
 I weep, — but 'tis not that I grieve 
 This sweet and sunny world to leave,— 
 I mourn the barter of my youth 
 For treason in the form of truth ; 
 I deenled not that this weary breast 
 So soon should wander to its rest ; 
 But quick life's golden chain decays, 
 When falsehood's mildew on it preys, 
 — I felt the rust within my soul 
 Gnaw link from link ! — now snaps the whole I 
 
 p 
 
212 THE WIFE. 
 
 great happiness. May it please thee to continue to me 
 thy gifts !" — She clasped her hands in the fervour of 
 devotion, as she continued, " but if. Oh ! Lord, I 
 must know sorrow, let Frederick taste none. Make 
 me a wretch — a wanderer on the face of creation — but 
 spare my husband every pang. I will silently endure 
 torture, mental and physical, so he be happy. And 
 my young innocent — thou delightest in babes — thou 
 wilt let him escape deep suffering !" Her fine eyes, 
 raised to heaven, were filled with tears ; she was so 
 absorbed in silent prayer, as not to notice that her 
 child was offering his rosy mouth for a mother's kiss. 
 Stafford, who had been writing, apparently in his 
 calm and usual manner, now put down his pen ; and 
 contemplated his wife and child, for some moments, 
 with a strong but compressed feeling of mental 
 agony. " The pretty babe and dearer mother, must 
 I leave ye both !" thought he. " Poor thing ! she'll 
 find it hard to struggle with the world. And must 
 that fine form be wasted — ^those fair hands labour ? 
 I cannot, I will not live to see it." He covered his 
 face with his hands, to conceal the big drops that 
 coursed each other down his cheek. But this dew of 
 the heart brought no refreshment to him : — tears gave 
 him no relief; they were proofs of the sincerity and 
 depth of his repentance and agony, but death was 
 his design. Despair was at his heart ; he could have 
 borne poverty himself, but poverty for his wife and 
 child — a wife accustomed to all the luxuries of life, 
 and peculiarly formed and fitted by nature, birth, 
 
THE WIFE^. 213 
 
 and education, for their enjoyment and ornament ! 
 " I can die," thought he, shuddering, " hut they will 
 suffer when / am at peace. The cold and chilly earth 
 wiU cover we, — / shall soon be nothingness ; but she 
 wiU endure on, and waste and waste, and die the 
 slow death of a broken heart. I know it well; and 
 / cause this ! /, who might, with my fortune and sta- 
 tion, have made the welfare of a little world of my 
 own creation !" He paused for a moment, in his tor- 
 turing retrospection ; then, struggling with a sigh, 
 unconsciously repeated, in a broken melancholy tone, 
 " Othello's occupation's gone !" 
 
 Mary's quick ear caught the words, the tone, the 
 manner; and, herself pale as death, she contemplated 
 the ashy hue of her husband's countenance. Its very 
 beauty made the grief depicted there the more 
 horrible. "Frederick, dear Frederick," said she, 
 when she could articulate, "you are ill — very ill!'* 
 and she put her cool fingers to his burning forehead. 
 " No, love ! I am quite well; you shall not teach me 
 to be effeminate. Indeed, Mary, you spoil me," 
 said he, with a melancholy smile. " I assure you, 
 I am well," continued he, more earnestly, as he ob- 
 served the anxious and varying looks of her expres- 
 sive face. He held her hand in his, as he said this, 
 and tenderly pressed it. Its delicate whiteness was 
 changed, by the pressure, to a deep crimson. Fre- 
 derick watched it, until it again became white as 
 Parian marble. " These hands are not made for 
 
214 THE WIFE. 
 
 work,*' he said, calmly viewing them. Mary looked 
 doubtfiilly at him. " Indeed, you are not well," she said, 
 —"you look wildly, though you speak so gently. You 
 have been up half the night ; I pray you, love, retire 
 to rest." " I am well — perfectly well, I repeat, phy- 
 sically speaking ; but I am suffering mental torture, 
 — for I am thinking of what would become of you, 
 with such fragile delicacy of constitution, if I were 
 to die. Now tell me, love," said he, in a low tone of 
 sad melody, that thrilled Mary to the heart, " tell 
 me, if I were to die, and poor, — you know it is but 
 a supposition, after all, — where would you seek refuge, 
 — where find consolation ?" For an instant, Mary 
 looked reproachfully in her husband's face, for she 
 thought he was trifling with her feelings ; but read- 
 ing a sad earnestness in his eyes, which she could 
 not comprehend, she burst into tears, and throwing 
 herself into his arms, said, " Die on your grave, if, 
 indeed, I survived the knowledge of my loss." " And 
 your child, owr child, — would you abandon it ?" he 
 continued, with vehement emotion. She thought he 
 was displeased with her; but, collecting all her 
 firmness, she replied, " You wiU be sorry, Frede- 
 rick, on reflection, that you tried me thus ; but it is 
 your wish I should answer ; now hear me, — I could 
 not, — I would not, survive you." A sob escaped her, 
 as she looked on the playful boy at their feet, who 
 was hiding his laughing face in his mother's white 
 dress. " He would be fondly tended by your mo- 
 
THE WIFE. 215 
 
 ther." " I thank you, I thank you," said Stafford, 
 as he pressed her convulsively to his bosom, " then 
 we shall die together ; it would be cruelty to sepa- 
 rate us, — to let you survive me ;" and, with an hys- 
 teric laugh, he fell senseless upon the floor. 
 
 This was the first and last exhibition of Stafford's 
 weakness. He had now wrought his mind up to that 
 high degree of excitation which is heroism or mad- 
 ness, according to its cause or object — He believed he 
 had a sad and horrid duty to perform — The struggle 
 between pure natural feeling, with the disinclination 
 to commit a crime against society, and a desire to save 
 his adored wife and himself the pangs of degradation, 
 want, and misery, — was severe, but decisive. No 
 after-thought, for a moment, turned him from his 
 gloomy purpose. Mary had, at first, feared for his 
 
 life, then that his intellects were deranged; and 
 
 the shock had shaken her frame to its centre. But, 
 on finding that he was recovered to perfect speech 
 and recollection, and apologized, in the most affecti- 
 onate manner, for his foolish jealousy and anxiety as 
 to the force of her affection, and said, he was even jea- 
 lous of his boy, — ^those fears subsided. "I am happy," 
 were his concluding words. " You would rather die 
 with me, than live for him ; I only wish I deserved 
 such love ;" and he fondly kissed her cheek. She 
 smiled, but the smile her lip put on, was not from 
 the heart. She was not imposed on by this calmness 
 of demeanour ; she felt that a hidden fire blazed be- 
 neath. — What can escape the quick perception of a 
 
216 THE WIFE. 
 
 woman's love ? However, she assumed a tran- 
 quillity she did not feel, vainly tasking her imagi- 
 nation to discover the evil which she doubted not had 
 fallen upon her. Her husband was unhappy, — this 
 she saw clearly; but he loved her and her child, 
 with unabated affection. For her^ had he seemed 
 happy, — this had been joy enough. A thought 
 struck her : she knew he played high, — some kind 
 officious friend had told her this, — but she found 
 no change in him, or their style of life ; and she was 
 too timid and fearful of offending, to give advice, 
 unasked. 
 
 Believing that she had now discovered the cause of 
 his wretchedness, she determined to remove it ; and 
 slowly walked to the end of the room where Staf- 
 ford was writing. Her light footstep approached him, 
 unheeded. " My dear Frederick," said she, putting 
 her hand on his shoulder, " what is it that so absorbs 
 you ?" Stafford started, and made a movement to 
 hide his papers, but her quick glance had caught 
 the words, " last will and testament" ; and, speech- 
 less, she fearfully looked from the paper to her hus- 
 band. By this time he had regained his composure. 
 " I am writing my will," he said, " that is, my last 
 wishes ; the lawyers must hereafter put it into form. 
 1 confess, I should not have told you ; but I am sure 
 you possess too much strength of mind to think a 
 man is dying, because he makes his will ;" and he 
 gaily laughed. 
 
 Bursting with emotion, Mary yet constrained her- 
 
THE WIFE. 217 
 
 self to say, " No, certainly ; and I have no idle cu- 
 riosity, but I pray you let me read it." He, play- 
 fully, refused her request; signed, sealed it, and 
 directed it to Hugh Mortimer, Esq., his dear and 
 tried friend, — not to be opened till after his decease ; 
 then, locking it up in his escrutoire, returned to his 
 wife. " And now, tell me what is the meaning of 
 that face, so full of important meaning?" and he 
 pressed her tenderly in his arms. " Frederick," said 
 his wife, as she hid her face on his shoulder, 
 " loving each other as we do, how it places us above 
 the caprices of fortune ! Death would be preferable 
 to its loss, to most of our fashionable friends ; but we 
 should find new joy in this absolute dependance on 
 one another. You would toil, — I should prepare your 
 food ; — think," said she, smiling, and looking up into 
 his fece, " think how pretty I should look in a 
 cottager's dress, — prettier, a thousand times, than in 
 silks and roses ; and the boy, — he should be my pupil 
 while young ; and, afterwards, you would teach him 
 to be like yourself, — all that is kind and excellent." 
 Unconscious of the mental torture she was inflict- 
 ing, she proceeded to pourtray a life of such smiling 
 simplicity and modest useftilness, that Stafford would 
 have been won, by her sweet blandishments, from 
 his purpose, had his rectitude of conduct been still 
 unsullied. But what could he offer in excuse for 
 betraying the happiness of those whom he best 
 loved ! He had staked his last guinea at a gambling 
 table; and then, with that selfish imprudence which 
 
218 THE WIFE. 
 
 is positive criminality,— -although sometimes, as in the 
 present instance, allied to better feelings, — ventured 
 his wife's fortune, in the vain hope of regaining all 
 he had lost. He found he had rested on a broken 
 reed ; and the sense of the distress he must occasion 
 to those he best loved pressed, with maddening 
 force, upon his desolate heart. In all other griefs, 
 to them he would have turned for consolation ; but 
 he could neither ask, nor receive, it from those 
 whom he had so deeply injured. 
 
 Ashamed of his increasing love for play, yet unable 
 to resist its magic and direful influence, he had con- 
 cealed from his true friends this dreadful propensity ; 
 and to the closer pleadings of his friend Mortimer, 
 he affected a callous insensibility, that equally tor- 
 tured both. 
 
 He was now ruined, and had involved others 
 dearer than himself, in the same utter ruin. He 
 was revolving these distressing thoughts, when he 
 was aroused, by his wife placing her feverish hand 
 within his. " I shall lie down, love, and try to find 
 some rest, and I am sure you need it too." He did not 
 appear to have heard her last words, but replied to 
 the first, — " Aye, do ; and I will send for a com- 
 posing draught, from Dr. Phillips,; then you will get 
 some sleep." He rang the bell, and, in his wife's 
 presence, gave this order ; but his lips faltered as he 
 gave it. He hastily left the room, and, seizing his 
 hat, in much agitation, walked out of the house. 
 
 Mary watched him from the window, and every 
 
THE WIFE. 219 
 
 impatient stride he took found an echo in her heart. 
 At length, she threw herself upon her bed: and her 
 maid entering, soon after, with a letter, placed it on 
 a table, without disturbing her ; and, softly closing 
 the curtains of the window, left her to repose. Those 
 who watched Stafford on his return, saw none of the 
 indications of wildness and agitation that had so ob- 
 viously marked his departure ; yet, in his hand he 
 now held the principle of destruction, which was to 
 hurl a wife to death, and make his child an orphan. 
 
 He went straight to his wife's room ; and placing 
 the phial he had held in his hand upon the stand 
 by her bedside, took the fingers that hung listlessly 
 over the counterpane, and kissed them again and 
 again. She unclosed the lids which pain — not sleep 
 — had weighed down, and tried to look the joy 
 she felt. This acknowledgement of his presence 
 and the pleasure it gave her, derived a more forcible 
 eloquence from the very imperfectness of its ex- 
 pression ; — and how did he requite it ? " Your me- 
 dicine is here, and you must suffer me to be your 
 nurse," said he, as he poured it into a glass, and 
 urged her to take it. She drank it eagerly, to shew 
 her prompt obedience; but a cold shudder shook her 
 frame, as she put down the glass, which he had not 
 the power to take from her. " My head feels heavy," 
 she said ; and that lovely head was bowed down, and 
 laid upon the piUow. She slept; — her breathing 
 became faint — and fainter — and scarcely perceptible ; 
 and the pulse of the small white hand which he held 
 
220 THE WIFE. 
 
 beat low and irregularly — Each little beat seemed to 
 knock at his heart, with a giant's power ! Soon, all was 
 quiet ; — and now what were the feelings of her mur- 
 derer ! He looked on her pale face, with stem com- 
 posure. The muscles round his mouth, by their fixed 
 and frightful rigidity, alone betrayed his heart's 
 deep agony. '• And / have murdered her !" He 
 looked at his hands, as if to find them covered 
 with blood; and shuddered, as though he saw the 
 crimson stain. " It will not wash out," said he 
 aloud, harping on this horrid idea, " my heart's 
 blood could not do it." Reason was wavering in her 
 seat. He took her cold hand in his, and the sense of 
 touch restored it, and relieved him, by a shower of 
 tears. " Thou wilt awake no more," said he, " like 
 a young bird, to song and gladness ! No more will 
 thy presence delight — thy laughter gladden— thy 
 beauty charm. Soon, how very soon, thy best friend 
 will turn from thee in disgust, — thy fondest lover 
 look on thee with loathing. And it is I — I to whom 
 thy smile was joy, and thy love heaven, — that have 
 compressed thee into ' a clod of the valley !' " He 
 folded his arms around his inanimate wife, with 
 frantic violence, for a last embrace — then rushed 
 into his dressing-room. 
 
 He took down his pistols, and loaded them, with 
 that breathless haste which is intended to shut out 
 thought ; but which only serves to tinge actions re- 
 sulting from remorse and grief, with the bearings of 
 insanity. In how few moments may we revolve 
 
THE WIFE. 221 
 
 whole years — aye, a whole life — of matchless misery ! 
 The weapon of death was in Stafford's hand, held in 
 a firm and forceftil grasp. How soon may that hand 
 be powerless, — the principle of life, that mighty mys- 
 tery, extinct within a form of manly beauty, — and 
 yet the sun rise on as gay a world as though all 
 smiled who yesterday were young and happy ! — But 
 what white form, with noiseless step, and face and 
 hands so utterly wan and tintless that the grave 
 seems despoiled of a tenant, works the mission of 
 death upon the unhappy Stafford ? For a moment, 
 he gazed on the white-robed visitant who stood at 
 the threshold, without speech or motion, — one arm 
 extended, as if denouncing his soul's perdition ; the 
 life and strength of her attitude strangely and sadly 
 contrasting the vacancy of death upon her counte- 
 nance ;— then relaxing his hold, the pistol dropped 
 from his nerveless grasp; and covering his face, as 
 if to shut out a sight of horror, he uttered aloud his 
 sense of the scene before him, " She comes to curse 
 her murderer !"— and fell, a dead weight upon the 
 floor. 
 
 Three months have passed since the frightful 
 event we have related; and health, and happi- 
 ness, an. splendour reign, once more, in Stafford's 
 house where Mary still presides, — at once joy's 
 image and its cause, — with her boy, who now begins 
 to leave her side, for the ruder romping of his father. 
 During the long illness — the effect of a remorseful 
 imagination — which chained the wretched Stafford, 
 
222 THE WIFE. ' 
 
 after the scene we have described, there was one 
 voice, which, in the height of delirium, could still 
 his frenzy ; one hand whose gentlest pressure could 
 instantly work obedience ; one form of beauty, that 
 gave grace and comfort to his sick-room, — that, how- 
 ever indistinctly seen, was recognized by his hearths 
 perception, long before he had power to give thatform 
 a name. But, when he awoke to perfect conscious- 
 ness of all that had passed, — when he found, from 
 Mary's conversation, that she did not even guess 
 that he had meant her wrong, but had attributed to 
 temporary derangement the fearful scene which she 
 had witnessed, after his fervent embrace had awaken- 
 ed her from her lethargic slumber, — when he recalled 
 the mistake which he must have made, giving her 
 medicine instead of doom, — then sorrow, the sorrow 
 of humiliation and repentance, yet sorrow mixed 
 with thankfulness and gratitude, was the indulged 
 feeling of his heart. 
 
 When his wife deemed him strong enough to bear 
 the glad tidings, she shewed him a letter from his 
 neglected friend, Hugh Mortimer, containing the 
 account of a wealthy nobleman's death, to whom 
 Frederick was immediate heir; and Stafford, with 
 an internal shudder, remembered that he had seen 
 that very letter lying by his wife's bed-side, when 
 he had so nearly given her the sleep of death ! 
 
 MONA. 
 
:UFI7BRSIir] 
 
fling ®©© ©If "'S'ism -^m'SKwrn-mis wsmwDSiQ . 
 
THE SOLDIER AND HIS DOG. 
 
 A POETICAL SKETCH. 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 The warrior youth and his dog are come 
 Where the banner of war is unfurled, — 
 It had eat from his hand, in his mother's home, 
 And had followed him through the world. — 
 The friends of his heart, in its morning pride, 
 Have fled from the gloom of his morrow ; 
 And his dog is all that stands by his side, 
 Since he has but his sabre and sorrow ! 
 
 He had doted too well on those perishing things. 
 
 And wept over them long, as they past. 
 
 Till, one by one, they had made themselves wings. 
 
 Save woman — and she went, last ! 
 
 So, he wiped from his father's sword the stain, 
 
 And the weakness from his heart. 
 
 And hied him away to the battle-plain, 
 
 — But, his dog would not depart ! 
 
224 THE SOLDIER AND HIS DOG. 
 
 He has slumbered beneath a moonless sky, 
 While his friend has watch6d around, 
 And soothed, with its tongue, the agony 
 Of each — save the spirit's — wound. 
 And its faith has been as a gentle dew, 
 Shed sweetly and silently, — 
 Oh ! were the maid of his soul as true. 
 How fair a thing were she ! 
 
 And now, amid the battle's strife, 
 He flings his sword away. 
 And, as he marks its ebbing life. 
 Weeps — as a soldier may ! 
 — Tears that become the warrior, more 
 Than all the weak ones given 
 To her — the darker, that she wore 
 The livery of heaven ! 
 
IRREGULAR ODE, ON THE DEATH OF 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 BY THE REV. C. C. COLTON. 
 
 Scto Bipuv llK\avff€ rax)iV yidpov Ai^rbs 'AWAAwj'." 
 
 MOSCHUS. 
 
 We mourn thy wreck ; — ^that mighty mind 
 
 Did whirlwind passions whelm, 
 While wisdom wavered, half inclined 
 
 To quit the dangerous helm ; — 
 Thou wast an argosy of cost. 
 
 Equipped, enriched in vain. 
 Of gods the work — of men the boast. 
 Glory thy port, — and doomed to gain 
 That splendid haven, only to be lost ! 
 
 Lost, e'en when Greece, with conquest blest, 
 
 Thy gallant bearing hailed j — 
 Then sighs from valour's mailed breast. 
 
 And tears of beauty failed ; 
 
 a 
 
226 IRREGULAR ODE, ON THE 
 
 Oh ! hadst thou in the battle died. 
 
 Triumphant e'en in death, 
 TTie pa&iot's — as the poet's — ^pride. 
 While both Mineiras twined thy wreath. 
 Then had fliy full career malice and fate defied ! 
 
 What architect, with choice design,— 
 
 — Of Rome or Athens styled — 
 Ere left a monument like thine ? — 
 
 And all from ruins piled ! 
 A prouder motto marks thy stone 
 
 Than Archimedes' tomb. 
 He asked a fulcrum — thou demandedst none, 
 But — reckless of past, present, and to come — 
 Didst on thyself depend, to shake the worldr-alone / 
 
 Thine eye to all extremes and ends 
 
 And opposites could turn. 
 And, like the cougelated lens. 
 
 Could sparkle, freeze, or bum ; — 
 But in thy mind's abyss profound. 
 
 As in some limbo vast. 
 More shapes and monsters did abound. 
 To set the wondering world aghast. 
 Than wave-worn Noah fed, or starry Tuscan found. 
 
 Was love thy lay, — Catha^ra reined 
 
 Her car, and owned the spell ! 
 Was hate thy theme,— that murky fiend 
 
 For hotter earth left hell ! 
 
DEATH OF LOBD BTROH. 227 
 
 Tlie palaced crown, the cloistered cowl, 
 
 Moved but thy spleen or jmrth ; 
 Thy smile was deadlier than thy scowl. 
 In guise unearthly didst thou roam the earth. 
 Screened in Thalia's mask, — to drug the to^tgic bowl ! 
 
 Lord of thine own imperial sky. 
 
 In virgin " pride of place," 
 Tliou soared'st where others could not fly. 
 
 And hardly dared to gaze ! — 
 The Condor, thus, his pennonned rane 
 
 O'er Cotopaxa spreads. 
 But — should he ken the prey, or scent the sl^, — 
 Nor chilling height nor burning depth he dreads. 
 From Ande's crysial crag, to Lima's sultry plain ! 
 
 Like Lacan*s, early was thy tomb. 
 
 And more than Bion's mourned ; — 
 For, still, such lights themselves consume, 
 
 — ^The brightest, briefest burned : — 
 But from thy blazing shield recoiled 
 
 Pale Envy's bolt of lead ; 
 She, but to work thy triumphs, toiled. 
 And, muttering coward curses, fled ; — 
 Thee, thine own strength alone — like matchless Milo, 
 —foiled. 
 
 We prize tiiee, that thou didst not fear 
 What stoutest hearts might rack. 
 
28 IRREGULAR ODE, ON THE 
 
 And didst the diamond genius wear, 
 
 That tempts — yet foils — the attack. 
 We mourn thee, that thou wouldst not find. 
 
 While prisoned in thy clay, 
 — Since such there were, — some kindred mind, — 
 For friendship lasts through life's long day. 
 And doth, with surer chain than love or beauty, 
 bind! 
 
 We blame thee, that with baleful light 
 
 Thou didst astound the world, 
 — A comet, plunging from his height, 
 
 And into chaos hurled ! — 
 Accorded king of anarch power. 
 
 And talent misapplied ; — 
 That hid thy God, in evil hour. 
 
 Or showed Him only to deride. 
 And, o'er the gifted blaze of thine own brightness, 
 lour ! 
 
 Thy fierce volcanic breast, o'ercast 
 
 With Hecla's frosty cloke. 
 All earth with fire impure could blast. 
 
 And darken heaven with smoke : 
 O'er ocean, continent, and isle. 
 
 The conflagration ran ; — 
 Thou, from thy throne of ice, the while. 
 
 Didst the red ruin calmly scan. 
 And tuned Apollo's harp — with Nero's ghastly smile! 
 
DEATH OF LORD BYRON. 229 
 
 What now avails that muse of fire, — 
 
 Her nothing of a name ! 
 Thy master hand and matchless lyre. 
 
 What have they gained — but fame ! 
 Fame — fancy's child — by folly fed, 
 
 On breath of meanest things, — 
 A phantom wooed in virtue's stead. 
 That envy to the living brings. 
 And silent, solemn mockery to the dead ! 
 
 Ne'er, — since the deep-toned Theban sung 
 
 Unto the listening Nine, — 
 Hath classic hill or valley rung 
 
 With harmony like thine ! 
 Who now shall wake thy widowed lyre ! 
 
 — There breathes but one, who dares 
 To that Herculean task aspire ; 
 But — less than thou — for fame he cares. 
 And scorns both hope and fear — ambition and desire ! 
 
TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 
 
 BY THE LATE RIGHT HOlfOURABLE LORD BYRON, 
 
 Sixteen Years ago. 
 
 And say'st thou that I have not felt. 
 
 Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me j — 
 
 Nor knoVst how dearly I have dwelt 
 
 On one unbroken dream of thee I 
 
 — But love like ours must never be, 
 
 And I will learn to prize thee less ; — 
 
 As thou hast fled — so let me flee, 
 
 And change the heart thou mayest not bless! 
 
 They'll tell thee, Cara! I have seemed. 
 Of late, another's charms to woo ; 
 Nor sighed — nor frowned — as if I deemed 
 That thou wert banished from my view. 
 Cara ! this struggle — to undo 
 What thou hast done, too well, for me — 
 — ^This mask before the babbling crew — 
 This treachery — was truth to thee ! 
 
TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 231 
 
 I have not wept while thou wert gone, 
 
 Nor worn one look of sullen woe ^ — 
 
 But sought, in many, all that one 
 
 — Ah ! need I name her ? — could bestow. 
 
 — It is a duty which I owe 
 
 To thine — to thee — to man — to God, 
 
 To crush — to quench — this guilty glow. 
 
 Ere yet the path of crime be trod ! 
 
 But, since my breast is not so pure, — 
 
 Since still the vulture tears my heart, — 
 
 Let me this agony endure. 
 
 Not thee — oh ! dearest as thou art ! 
 
 — In mercy, Cara I let us part. 
 
 And I will seek — yet know not how — 
 
 To shun, in time, the threatening dart 
 
 Guilt must not aim at such as thou. 
 
 But thou must aid me in the task. 
 And nobly thus exert thy power, — 
 Then spurn me hence — 'tis all I ask — 
 Ere time mature a guiltier hour ; 
 Ere wrath's impending vials shower 
 Remorse, redoubled, on my head ; 
 Ere fires unquenchable devour 
 A heart — Whose hope has long been dead. 
 
 Deceive no more thyself and me,— 
 Deceive not better hearts than mine ; 
 
232 TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 
 
 —Ah ! shouldest thou, whither wouldest thou flee, 
 
 From woe like ours — from shame like thine ! 
 
 And if there be a wrath divine, 
 
 — A pang beyond this fleeting breath — 
 
 Even now all future hope resign, — 
 
 Such thoughts are guilt — such guilt is death ! 
 
BEAUTY, WEALTH, AND LOVE. 
 
 A ROMANCE. 
 
 BY MRS. CORITWELI. BARON WILSON. 
 
 Wealth, with golden key, once sought 
 To win the way to Beauty's shrine ; 
 Many a sparkling gem he brought. 
 And many a diamond from the mine : — 
 But Love, veiled in sly disguise. 
 Hovered round, near Beauty's bower. 
 Lest the gems of Eastern skies 
 Should weigh against his power ! 
 
 Wealth displayed his dazzling store, 
 — Pearly wreaths and ruby crowns ! 
 Beauty ran the treasures o'er. 
 And smiles succeeded frowns. 
 What could Love oppose to this ! — 
 He had but his crown of simple flowers. 
 That were bathed in the honied dew of bliss. 
 Culled fresh from his roseate bowers ! 
 
234 BEAUTY, WEALTH, AND LOVE. 
 
 Then Wealth, he laughed triumphantly, 
 
 As he led young Beauty's steps along. 
 
 Who turned on Love a scornful eye. 
 
 And a cold ear to his song ! 
 
 — Away they went, — and their path was strown 
 
 With many a rare and precious gem. 
 
 That springs up at Wealth's command alone, — 
 
 All — all shone brightly for them ! 
 
 But Beauty, at last, found out her mistake. 
 
 When time had broken the charm ; — 
 
 As the moonbeam shines on the frozen lake, 
 
 Wealth may glitter, — but cannot warm ! 
 
 Then — too late — she remembered LovE'srosybowers, 
 
 When the spell that beguiled was o'er ; 
 
 And she sighed for the fresh unfading flowers 
 
 TTiat could blossom for her — no more ! 
 
LEGENDARY STANZAS. 
 
 BY J. B. THOMPSON, ESg. 
 
 On the top of Ben Nevis, the snow shines bright, — 
 
 No foot but my own shall print it ; 
 For the feathery feet of my own dear sprite. 
 
 As he springs to my arms, never dint it! — 
 When eve paints the sky with her rosy hues. 
 
 And the gorgeous sun is declining, 
 I fly to suck, from him, the tender dews 
 
 Of love, on his breast reclining ! 
 
 Then, his dove-like wings around me curled, — 
 
 Oh, heart! is it not a sweet pillow ! 
 And is it not sweet — to that bosom furled — 
 
 To be rocked on its gentle billow ; — 
 To tell all I can of my virgin flame. 
 
 And those lingering days of sadness, 
 Ere my love had fulfilled the fanciful dream. 
 
 And breathed, through my frame, all its gladness ! 
 
 " Oh, never !" I said, " shall a child of earth 
 Mix, with mine, the warm breathings of passion, — 
 
236 LEGENDARY STANZAS. 
 
 For there are spirits of heavenly birth. 
 
 Who, for love, leave their blissful station !" — 
 
 And, in radiant light, before me he stood. 
 And sweet vj^ere his coveted kisses ; — 
 
 And ne'er was a maiden's soul so wooed. 
 Or steeped in such balmy blisses ! 
 
 He left the bright bowers of Paradise, 
 
 And its fragrance he breathed around me ; — 
 And its splendour still shone in his glowing eyes. 
 
 As in softest embraces he bound me ! — 
 But hark ! 'tis the hour ! — I come to thee, love ! 
 
 Oh ! had /, too, thy wings of beauty. 
 How swift through the mountain airs would I move. 
 
 To yield to soft passion her duty ! 
 
THE LOVER ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 I LOOKED upon the battle plain, — 
 I saw the silent hero lie,— 
 I saw the life-blood's deepest stain 
 Darken the light of chivalry ! 
 
 Though cleft the brow — the bosom gored. 
 Still bore his arm the dinted shield ; 
 Still grasped his hand the broken sword, 
 Shedding a light around the field. 
 
 He died — as warriors love to die- 
 In victory's proud and burning clasp ; 
 And, from that red throne, sprung on high, 
 Smiling on death's ensanguined grasp ! 
 
 — I saw the lover wandering by, 
 
 With wan cold cheek and nerveless air, — 
 
 He pressed his heart, — I heard him sigh, 
 
 — Oh ! what wild thoughts were gathering tliere ! 
 
238 FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 The dreamy past had lit his brow, 
 With the soft light of love's sweet bliss ;- 
 Then came the dread awakening now. 
 And scared him with her withering kiss ! 
 
 I saw him start at one loved name, — 
 I tnarked his thickly panting breath,— 
 — Rather than live that life of shame. 
 Hail, battle field! — hail, glorious death ! 
 
TO AN INFANT. 
 
 Thou wak'st from happy sleep, to play. 
 With bounding heart, my boy ! 
 Before thee lies a long, bright day 
 Of summer and of joy ! 
 
 Thou hast no heavy thought or dream, 
 To cloud thy fearless eye ;— 
 Long be it thus ! — life's early stream 
 Should still reflect the sky ! 
 
 Yet, — ere the cares of earth lie dim. 
 On thy young spirit's wings, — 
 Now, in thy mom, forget not Him 
 From whom each pure thought springs ! 
 
 So, — in thy onward vale of tears. 
 Where'er thy path may be. 
 When strength hath bowed to evil years, — 
 He will remember thee ! 
 
 F. H. 
 
FORGIVENESS. 
 
 The night was dark and tempestuous : — heavy gusts 
 of wind shook the abbey walls, and resounded, in 
 deep murmurs, along the cloisters ; — whUe the moon, 
 occasionally breaking through the thick clouds 
 which enveloped her, cast an uncertain and awful 
 light over the surrounding scenery. 
 
 The monk, Pierre, had lain down to rest, — ^but sleep 
 fled from his eyes; and a broken slumber, which 
 neither absorbed sense nor yielded repose, alone an- 
 swered his solicitations. The groans of the distressed 
 seemed to mingle with the sighing of the blast ; and 
 he frequently started from his couch, under the 
 impression that he heard the well-known signal of 
 his trusty dog, Fidele. In this manner he spent 
 the hours, till the heavy bell of St. Gothard an- 
 nounced that midnight had passed. The storm was, 
 in some degree, abated ; and the beams of the moon 
 were less interrupted. Pierre, however, no longer 
 endeavoured to sleep. He fixed his eyes upon the 
 bright luminary, which now shone fiill through the 
 
FORGIVENESS. 241 
 
 casement of his little apartment, — and a train of 
 thought, involuntarily, stole over his mind. 
 
 " Behold," said he, mentally, " a picture of myself ! 
 Delivered up to the dominion of my own wayward de- 
 sires, every image was distorted in my imagination ; 
 and the common evils of life became burthens too 
 great for endurance. The stiU small voice of reason 
 was unheard in the whirlwind of passion ; and — like 
 the lea^ severed from its parent stem, and hurried 
 down the torrent — I was alone on the sea of life, the 
 sport of every breeze, and at the direction of every 
 current. Oh, Father of Mercies !" he cried, energe- 
 tically, " I thank Thee for the correction Thou hast 
 given me, and for the light Thou hast communi- 
 cated to me ! A wanderer no more, — though poor 
 and feeble, friendless, and forgotten by the crowds 
 that once hung on my smiles, — I pursue my path 
 with joy, because it leads to Thee; and lose the 
 sense of individual suffering in the humble, but 
 active, endeavour to mark my gratitude,— and imi- 
 tate Thee, by bringing my fellow wanderers to a 
 place of earthly rest, and preparing them for a hea- 
 venly one !" 
 
 He was silent. A gentle calm diffused itself over 
 his mind, and sleep began to steal over his eyelids ; 
 when, suddenly, he was roused by the reiterated 
 barking of Fidele. He instantly obeyed the sum- 
 mons ; and, wrapping his cloak around him, hurried 
 into the air. Fidele fawned upon him with delight, 
 — then sprang forward ; — again barked loudly, — and 
 
242 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 then, as if dissatisfied at the slow pace that his master 
 was obliged to observe, (for the path was rugged, 
 and impeded with snow,) he returned— jumped upon 
 him — licked his hand — and, with redoubled speed, 
 pursued his own way, through the windings of the 
 mountain. At length, he stopped. Exerting all 
 his strength, Pierre pressed forward ; and beheld the 
 apparently lifeless remains of a man, stretched upon 
 the snow. He knelt down, and perceived, — by the 
 rays of his torch, aided by the beams of the moon, — 
 that the ground was covered with blood. He laid 
 his hand upon the breast of the stranger, and, to his 
 joy, some slight pulsation evincied that life was not 
 quite departed. He now dispatched Fidele for fur- 
 ther assistance ; and, in a short time, the wounded 
 man was conveyed to the Abbey. 
 
 Pierre laid him upon his own bed ; and, anxious to 
 ascertain the extent of the injury he had received, 
 he proceeded to examine the head, from whence the 
 blood still flowed copiously. "With this view he re- 
 moved his cap, and parted the thick curls that co- 
 vered his forehead. The light now shone full on 
 his livid countenance. Pierre started back, — his 
 eyes remained fixed upon the stranger, — his whole 
 frame shook with violent and increasing emotion, — 
 and the placid expression of liis features was en- 
 tirely lost. Kecovering himself, he hid his face with 
 his hands ; and, — after an apparent struggle with his 
 feelings,-— he knelt down, and in a short, but earnest 
 prayer, deplored his present weakness, and suppli- 
 
r 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 243 
 
 cated the Divine assistance for the future. He 
 then arose; — the smile of benevolence again illu- 
 mined his pale, but venerable face ; and, approach- 
 ing the sufferer, he applied every remedy in his 
 power, and watched, with trembling anxiety, the re- 
 sult of his cares. With feelings of pure delight, 
 he observed, at length, the heaving of his breast, 
 and heard a deep sigh issue from his lips. In a 
 short time, the stranger opened his eyes, and fixed 
 them upon his benefactor ; but seemed to have no 
 recollection of the past, or apprehensions for the 
 present." Pierre took his station by his bedside, and, 
 for many days, assiduously attended him. 
 
 At the end of a week, AbdaUah — as he called him- 
 self—was able to converse ; and Pierre now asked 
 the particulars of his disaster, and the meaning of 
 the incoherent expressions of wrath which had, fre- 
 quently, escaped from his lips, during his late deli- 
 rium. " You behold," said Abdallah, " a man who 
 has seen the reverses of fortune, in their greatest 
 extent. I have basked in the smiles of monarchs ; 
 I have held the highest posts of office ; and wealth 
 unbounded has swelled my coffers. My rmik, how- 
 ever, was unable to shield me from malevolence ; 
 and the envy of one who had long hated me 
 wrought my ruin. I was disgraced, to make room 
 for my rival ; and I became an outcast from that 
 country which had owed its prosperity to my cares, 
 and a Vagabond in lands that had lately trembled at 
 the sound of my name." 
 
244 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 Overpowered with the acuteness of his feelings, he 
 paused ; — nor was Pierre less affected. He wrapped 
 his face in his garments, and groaned aloud. " You 
 feel for me," said Abdallah, " but what are your sen- 
 sations compared with mine ! Listen, however, 
 good Pierre ! and rejoice with me. INIy injuries have 
 not slept in the dust ! — no, no !" — added he, his coun- 
 tenance assuming an expression which made his 
 auditor shudder, as he regarded him ; — " I swore to 
 be revenged, and I have performed my oath ! 
 Night and day has the desire of vengeance pursued 
 me. It has been my food — my occupation — ^the 
 height of my wishes, and the very end of an exis- 
 tence of which I had, long ago, rid myself, but for 
 the hope of living to witness the destniction of my 
 enemy." 
 
 " But, surely," interrupted Pierre, " you de- 
 stroyed, by this means, your own happiness, (for, 
 doubtless, sources of happiness were still open to 
 you,) without injuring his." " Happiness !" scorn- 
 fully replied Abdallah, " I desired no happiness but 
 to be revenged ; though, perhaps, I could not have 
 wished my rival to endure a more bitter punish- 
 ment than the state into which he had reduced me. 
 The hope of vengeance haunted me every where. 
 I had sufficient wealth,— but I despised it. I had a 
 wife and children, — but their caresses were poisoned 
 by the image of my foe. I forgot to take my food ; 
 and even sleep brought no repose. Frequently, in 
 my slumbers, I thought I felt him in my grasp, and 
 
FORGIVENESS. 245 
 
 i-aised my arm to stab him to the heart, — when, 
 awakened by the action, I found he had yet escaped, 
 and I wept for disappointment. My wife and chil- 
 dren were all swept off by a fever," added he, in a 
 low voice ; " my wealth was dissipated. I renounced 
 every connexion, and hired myself with bravoes. 
 At length, I heard that my rival had received a com- 
 mission which would compel him to cross these 
 mountains. I instantly bent my course hither; and, 
 having encountered his train, I managed to separate 
 him from his attendants. And now, hear me, old 
 man ! — hear the completion of my long-protracted 
 hopes. I met him in the pass. I struck him to the 
 earth ; and while he lay bleeding on the ground, I 
 proclaimed myself ray avenger, and upbraided him 
 with his perfidy ! I witnessed the convulsions of his 
 frame ! I heard his dying groans — they were music 
 to my ears ! and, in a delirium of joy, I still hung 
 over him, when a blow, from an unknown hand, 
 precipitated me down the precipice. Tell me, am I 
 not to be envied ! Can happiness, now, be greater 
 than mine, or revenge more complete !" 
 
 He seized the arm of Pierre, as he spoke. The coun- 
 tenance of the latter was pale as marble, and it was 
 some moments before he could make any reply. "Ab- 
 dallah," at length, he cried, " I also was once rich, 
 powerful, and renowned ;— and I also had an enemy. 
 He was once my friend — my brother — the beloved of 
 my heart. I raised him to power, and gratified all his 
 desires. But, he betrayed my love, — he brought dis- 
 
246- FORGIVENESS. 
 
 grace and ruin upom my name, and drove me an 
 exile from my country and mankind. Like you, 
 I carried revenge into my retreat ; and, like you, I 
 suffered it to prey upon my heart. I planned va- 
 rious schemes of vengeance, but none answered the 
 extent of my wishes. At length, I, fortunately, be- 
 came acquainted with one who was weU skilled to 
 assist my research, and guide me in the right way 
 to obtain satisfaction for my past wrongs. It was 
 long, however, before I could obey his suggestions, 
 or listen to his entreaties ; — but, in the end, he pre- 
 vailed, and opportunity alone was wanting to com- 
 plete my projected plan." 
 
 " And has that opportunity been granted ?'* ea- 
 gerly enquired AbdaUah." " I thank heaven," re- 
 plied Pierre, fervently, " it has ! Years had passed 
 away, when, in an unlooked-for hour, my treacherous 
 friend was thrown into my power. His life was in 
 my hands ; — no one was near to witness the deed ; 
 
 — he was alone, undefended, and " " And," 
 
 cried Abdallah, in a voice which shook with emotion, 
 " you slew him !" " My revenge," returned Pierre, 
 " was not to be so gratified." He raised his eyes 
 to heaven ; and then, extending his arms towards Ab- 
 dallah, he exclaimed, — " I forgave him ! Look at me, 
 Abdallah ! — Poor and mean as I am, do you not re- 
 cognize, under these weeds, your once loved, once 
 honoured, Hamet? Nay, hide not your face, but 
 repose, again, on the bosom of friendship. I have 
 learned a better lesson than to take vengeance. I 
 
t 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 247 
 
 have exchanged the slavery of passion for the free- 
 dom of the Christian ; and entreat you to partake 
 of that peace which has long filled my bosom, — and 
 which now swells it with joy unutterable ! — Your 
 enemy still lives, and is sheltered, with yourself, in 
 these walls." 
 
 Abdallah paused for a few minutes, — and his vary- 
 ing countenance shewed the perturbation of his 
 mind. Then, throwing his arms round the neck of 
 Pierre, he sobbed — " Hamet ! teach me this lesson, 
 and bring me to your God ; and let the restoration 
 of your friendship be the promise of his pardon and 
 acceptance !" 
 
THE BANQUET. 
 
 A SCENE FROM AN UNFINISHED DRAMA. 
 Imitated from the Ancient English Ih-amatists. 
 
 BY LAURENCE YOUNG, ESQ. 
 SCENE — ^AN ILLUMINATED HALL. 
 
 Marquess f^eroni — Marchioness, his wife — Erivine, his 
 mistress-^County brother to the Marchioness — Bar- 
 toio, and other Guests — surrounding a Tabic. 
 
 f^eroni. Fie ! Count! — thou dost affect a ceremony 
 With our poor fare, and make our wine a stranger. 
 
 Count. And if it were so — but that it is not — 
 'Twere that my glutted senses feast each other. 
 And eyes and ears do make the lips pay forfeit ; — 
 A thirsty friar might well forget his howl. 
 Content to gaze ; — but thus 1 drown your censure. 
 Full fain to swallow your unjust upbraiding! [Drinks. 
 
 Veroni. Hist, hist ! a pledge to all ! — 
 Here's to the noble patron of our revels ! 
 This was the Marchioness's marriage day ! 
 — How old's our Hymen-calendar, my love ? 
 
THE BANQUET. 249 
 
 March. Just seven sweet years. 
 
 Veroni. I would have guessed it nine. 
 Bartolo. Shrewd reckoning that ! — more stale than 
 old, it seems ! [Aside. 
 
 [Aloud.'] In truth, his godship ages cruel quick. 
 Some say he measures his years by the moon ; 
 — ^Not that he'll ever keep the clock in my house, 
 I drink his distance ! — still, for his friends' sake. 
 Wishing he'd please to take his birth-day wings 
 For common, daily wear. 
 
 f^eroni. Unmannered caitiff! 
 — So, thou art wooing for a song out yonder. 
 Where thy success shall richly fee thy pleading ' 
 
 My sweet Erixine ! 
 Sure tones like thine, breathed out in Paradise, 
 Waked the first emulous nightingale to song ! 
 
 March. What needs, my lord ! to bid the fair Erixine ? 
 We will not so task her timidity. 
 Bid in the minstrels. [Enter Music. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Wake, O ! wake, the sprightly measure, 
 Count it by the pulse of pleasure, 
 Softer, slower, bid it move. 
 Soft as sigh of yielding love ; 
 Love and beauty— music — wine — 
 What more hath heaven to call divine ! 
 
 During the music y Bartolo talks apart with another of 
 the guests. 
 Bartolo. Mark how his wistful eye fawns on his 
 minion ! 
 
 :tjhivbesit 
 
250 THE BANQUET. 
 
 Guest. And by my troth, she is a pleasant prospect. 
 What wealth hath nature lavished on her face ! 
 What a soft splendour glows around her form ! 
 See, — as she drinks, — ^how, from her ripe, red lip. 
 The conscious cup essays a brighter hue. 
 And senseless gold grows proud Avithin her clasp ! 
 
 Bartolo. Tut, tut ! a piece of blotted alabaster, 
 That doth betray its own dishonesty ! 
 Shame's crimson front glares through her crystal 
 
 cheek. 
 As to reveal — See how her downcast lid 
 Declines her lover's passionate communion ! 
 But hist ! Veroni speaks ! — be still a while. 
 And but enrich thy sight with observation. 
 
 yeroni. Nay, I will have it so ; come, sweet Erixine ! 
 Make our ears happy. 
 
 Erixine sings. 
 
 I've woven a garland — a wreath for my love ; 
 
 The bloom of the woodland — the garden — the grove ! 
 
 Behold, here, the laurel — the chaplet of fame — 
 
 The bays of his prowess encircling his name ! 
 
 The dew-spangled rose-bud — an emblem of youth, 
 
 And the fresh sprig of myrtle, to stand for his truth ! 
 
 The branch of the oak tree, to shew forth his power. 
 
 With the peaceful green olive plant, opening its flower ! 
 
 And the fragile, the sensitive lily is there, 
 
 —A type of his honour, untarnished and fair ! 
 
 A few rigid leaves, too, inserted, beside, 
 
 Of the tall, stately fir-tree — to speak of his pride ! 
 
THE BANQUET. 251 
 
 And O ! for his love, what so apt to entwine, 
 
 As the tender, the graceful, the fond eglantine ! 
 This my coronal shall be. 
 Made for mirth and revelry. 
 Wreathed around the brimming bowl,--- 
 Sweets of sense and flowers of soul ! 
 — In the cup the tendrils dip. 
 The mantling juice the blossoms sip; 
 
 So nourished, shall it live and bloom for ever, 
 
 The verdant margin of a rosy river ! 
 
 Marquess. O ! ravishing sound ! — echo's in love 
 with it. 
 And lingers on the air, in humble mimicry ! 
 Thanks, fair Erixine!— 
 
 Look to the Marchioness ! 
 F^nt? — overcome, sure, by the mingled odours ! 
 
 [To the Marchioness. 
 Rear up thy heart — taste of this wine — so pale ! 
 What ails my mistress ? 
 
 March. I'll return anon ; 
 Speak my excuse, and let me seek my chamber, — 
 I shall find fitter time for being well. [Exit. 
 
 Veroni. Thanks, fair Erixine! — my heart's sole 
 queen ! 
 Sit thou by me ! — and bid our jester here ! 
 Fellow ! a savour of thy quality ! 
 — Not that of Ariadne on the rock, 
 Or Leucothoe mourning for the sun. 
 But make thy chaunt on some right merry theme, — 
 We would be gay ! 
 
252 TH£ BANQUET. 
 
 Count. My lord ! a moment stay, 
 I would my lady-sister should be here ; — 
 I'll seek the cause of her so long delay, — 
 Is she, indeed, so sick ? 
 
 Exity and, after a short space, returns, hearing the 
 dead body of the Marchioness in his arms. 
 
 Count. Ho ! ho ! a feast of death and ghostly guests ! 
 Murder's abroad — and martyrdom — and blood ! 
 Pour out your tears for wine ; 
 And turn your glowing tapers into corpse-lights. 
 Alas, alas! — yet 'twas not her own act ! 
 'Twas thou, fair wickedness ! that drugged the draught. 
 And thou, brave husband ! put it to her lip ! 
 Look on this scroll!— she did conceive her wrong. 
 And the sufficient thought hath murdered her / — 
 The affronted soul's gone up to heaven, complaining ! — 
 — So, — how your asking eyes accuse each other ! 
 What ! ye'd entice her back to life again. 
 With fruitless wishes ! — there, to please ye, then, 
 I'll set her in her chair of state, again. 
 And place your richest cates before her. — No ! 
 She'll not be tempted — she has lost her appetite ! 
 Ho ! — she's asleep ! — wake up your loudest timbrels !— 
 Or stay — haply, she'll hear her husband's voice ! 
 — Away, ye revellers — insects of a sun-beam ! 
 Beauty ! go, tell thy beads ! — for thee, false Marquis ! 
 I'll have a trial of skill to reach thy heart. 
 Hence — ^hence! — let all be dark — for death is dark- 
 ness! — 
 Away ! — ^but hush I steal softly, lest ye waken her ! 
 
 [Scene closes. 
 
¥ 
 
 [MITBRSITT] 
 
A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 BY MISS JANE PORTER. 
 
 Far in the East,— behold, in letters, arms, 
 Fair mien, discourses, civil exercises, 
 All the full blazon of a gentleman. 
 
 When Robert, the young and aspiring brother of 
 Sir Anthony Shirley, the first noted British traveller 
 in Persia, arrived there, — also bearing a special mis- 
 sion from the King of England to that court, — he 
 was lost in wonder at the magnificence of Ispalian ; 
 then the most celebrated city of the East, for regal 
 splendor, chivalric spectacle, and a display of mer- 
 chandise unrivalled in the proudest emporiums of 
 Europe. 
 
 Robert Shirley had left the British metropolis, 
 under a conviction, that nothing in architecture 
 could be more august, than the embattled towers, 
 and gothic pinnacles, which adorned its structures, 
 public and private; nothing more refreshingly de- 
 
254 A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 lightful, than the elms' walks in Saint James's Park, 
 or the holly vistas in the t)ld Palace, and Temple 
 Gardens, sloping their smooth green terraces down 
 to the river side. Then, for the gaiety of festival, 
 what could transcend the lists in the tilt-yard of 
 Westminster, where a maiden queen sat, amidst her 
 ladies, dispensing the rewards of knightly prowess ! 
 That was, indeed, passed away ; — the sometime wa- 
 ning star of the royal Elizabeth had set in the grave ; 
 but a prince, reported wise and brave, now held the 
 sceptre, and what might not be expected of gallantry 
 and grace from the son of Mary Stuart ! His first 
 acts honored the hopes of men. 
 
 Elizabeth having taken note of Anthony, the elder 
 brother of Robert Shirley, for good service to his 
 countiy, in useful observation, and happy influence 
 at the court of the young Shah Abbas, even while 
 only a traveller, — first signalized him by the honour 
 of knighthood, and then created him her ambassa- 
 dor with the Persian king. And, such was the brave 
 knight's sway with that accomplished prince, by the 
 power of character alone, founded in spotless faith and 
 romantic heroism, that Elizabeth held no ally more 
 enthusiastically devoted than the Sophi Shah. He 
 wore her picture (painted, indeed, when she was 
 very young, with something of a flattering pencil,) 
 upon his heart. It was fair, and smiling ; seeming a 
 lovely girl, who might have placed a crested diadem 
 
A TA^LE OF ISPAHAN. 256 
 
 Upon her head in sport, had not the jewelled garter 
 round it borne a sterner assurance. Cmir de Lion 
 was its motto ; and the gallant Abbas was fond of 
 calling her his " Lion Bride." The present mission 
 of the younger brother of the British resident-minis- 
 ter, could not, then, be very acceptable to the Persian 
 monarch, when it brought intelligence that, instead 
 of this bright and cherished object of his chivalric 
 idolatry, a successor of " beard and baton'' now sent 
 him greeting. 
 
 Abbas, however, received the herald of so illus- 
 trious a decease, and worthy an heirship, with every 
 distinction due to his own dignity, and that of the 
 sovereign whence he came; and Robert Shirley 
 first beheld the great Shah of Persia in his hall of 
 audience, on a throne of such splendor, mingling 
 with his diamond-set corslet, that he shone one blaze 
 of light. All his people bowed at sight of him, in 
 like manner with their ancestors before the noon-day 
 sun. But, to the messenger of his new ally, to the 
 brother of his personal friend, this earthly successor 
 to the solar deity gave a welcome, in which majesty 
 and graciousness were so blended that Shirley felt 
 his imagination dazzled, even more than his eyes. 
 To him it was a day of wonders ; and, in the even- 
 ing, he retired from the palace of the Heste Beheste, 
 or Seven Paradises, in speechless admiration of all 
 which he had seen and heard. 
 
256 A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 The palace, itself, was more like a vision of fairy- 
 land than a fabric raised by mortal hands. Every 
 kind of marble, of gorgeous painting, burnished 
 gold and silver, precious stones, carved w^ork, and 
 compartments of mirror reflecting those components 
 in every possible direction, gave so endless a va- 
 riety and infinity of parts, that the gazer hardly 
 knew where to look for the grand reality or the 
 splendid, bewildering illusion. Then, for the gar- 
 dens, so aptly named after that of Eden, every thing 
 that nature or art could do with the sylvan world, — 
 from the magnificent cedar to the elegant chenar, 
 from the pomegranate, laden with fruit, to the rose 
 of Shiraz, perfuming the air from forests of fragrance, 
 — all were collected there ; mingling with grottoes, 
 fountains, streams, and every luxury of coolness 
 and shade that make earth feel like heaven, to the 
 senses of the sun-burnt Asiatic. Indeed, the travel- 
 ler from England hailed such soft freshness, in such 
 a hemisphere, with delighted surprise. 
 
 But the tournament which he was, next day, taken 
 to see, in the Moidon Shah, or Great Royal Square of 
 Ispahan, was, — to his taste, who had lately won his 
 own spurs in the list, — a yet more amazing and inte- 
 resting spectacle. The place itself is a quadrangle, 
 about two thousand six hundred feet in length, sur- 
 rounded by ranges of building adapted to the different 
 purposes for which they were designed. A portion of 
 
A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 257 
 
 each side of the square, is occupied by a double ar- 
 cade, beneath which, every rich commodity, from 
 all quarters of the globe, was disposed for sale; 
 while, in the centre, an immense area presented 
 itself, where the royal guards exercised, or the no- 
 bility exhibited their chivalry. But, the features of 
 this celebrated Square which more particularly dis- 
 tinguished it, beyond all other similar objects in the 
 noted cities of Asia, were four majestic edifices, 
 each occupying parallel situations in the sides of 
 the quadrangle. Two were dedicated to religion; 
 two were called Gates, — the Gates of the East, — 
 meaning structures erected for public uses, — immense 
 as palaces. One of the mosques, — and, certainly, 
 the most superb, — stood in the south-east. Having 
 been finished under the command of the reigning 
 monarch, it received the title of Mesjed Shah, (literally, 
 the Mosque of the King). Its ample cupola, and 
 four towering minarets, each at the extremities of 
 a grand porch-way leading from the Square to the 
 domed body of the building, were all decorated with 
 a brilliancy of exterior ornament that time cannot in- 
 jure, in that pure atmosphere. The second, and more 
 ancient mosque, though of less imposing dimensions, 
 occupied the north-east point of the Moidan Shah ; 
 while the north-west presented the great gate of en- 
 trance from the Bazaar — the mercantile world of Is- 
 pahan ; and, over its rainbow-stretching arch, shone 
 
268 A TALL- OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 the famous clock of the city, the gift of Shah Abbas, 
 fastened against the main tower, — a sufficient proof 
 of the judicious munificence of that monarch. In a 
 parallel position, stood the most majestic object of 
 the whole, the AH Copi, or Gate of Ali, — also an 
 edifice of the architectural ambition of the Sefi (or 
 Sophi) dynasty. Over its noble portico, appeared 
 the open saloon where the king sat, when he wished 
 to view the spectacles below, whether festival or 
 military. 
 
 From that saloon, seated on ivory chairs, on each 
 side of the cushioned throne of the royal knight-com- 
 mander of his newly founded order of the Shah 
 Sevan, (literally, the King's Companions), the two 
 British knights were spectators of their varied chi- 
 valric exercises, whether of the lance, the sword, 
 or the jerreed ; and in all, Robert Shirley was sur- 
 prised at such knowledge of the lists, dexterity in 
 arms, and courtly grace, in what he deemed hardly 
 better than " a paynim land." Shah Abbas ob- 
 served the admiring amazement of the young envoy, 
 and, guessing his thoughts, smiled, with a glance 
 which spoke his own commentary, to the elder 
 Shirley. 
 
 The spectacle over, the king rose ; but, in leav- 
 ing, he requested Sir Anthony to remain, and shew 
 his brother the archives, and other note-wortliy ob- 
 jects within the Ali Copi chambers. With the 
 
A TALE OF ISFAHAN. 259 
 
 departure of the sovereign, the square below was 
 vacated, under a peal of trumpets, accompanied by 
 the roar of the royal guard of elephants, which an- 
 nounced the exit, as it had done the entrance, of the 
 king. The congregated sound of these animals was 
 absolutely tremendous. It seemed to shake the 
 foundation of the building ; and, for a moment, 
 Robert Shirley started back into the room, with his 
 hands on his ears. Sir Anthony laughed at the 
 change of effect on his brother ; for, on first hearing 
 the bellowing of the elephants, at the coming in of 
 the monarch, the stagger and pale cheek of the 
 young knight had shewn that he could be made to 
 fear, — the strange sound appearing to him the explo- 
 sion of an earthquake. On recovering himself from 
 the deafening peal, this second time, he joined in the 
 laugh against himself; and, advancing to the front of 
 the Royal Saloon, on looking out, beheld the Square 
 empty. The silence and solitude, after such a con- 
 course and such an uproar, seemed the result of en- 
 chantment ; and the objects left imparted a delicious 
 feeling of repose to the then deserted place. The 
 evening was glowingly sultry, and a refreshing air 
 rose from the abundantly-flowing fountains, and their 
 connecting marble-bedded canals, still glittering be- 
 low, under the slanting beams of the setting sun. 
 The refreshing breeze soon drew into the open cham- 
 ber above, and thence, through gilded trellis, or 
 
260 A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 half-curtained portals, into other apartments of the 
 AH Copi, not less magnificent than the Royal Audi- 
 ence ; and all of which Sir Robert Shirley, now, 
 took his leisure to examine. 
 
 He found them divided into several ranges of 
 stories, and the flights of steps which approached 
 them formed of the most beautifully variegated porce- 
 lain. The first ascent conducts to the Royal Saloon, 
 directly over the gate. This chamber is open on all 
 sides but one. The roof is sumptuously carved, 
 and supported by eighteen lofty pillars, all richly 
 emblazoned with gold, and other decorations, con- 
 formable to the splendid ornaments of the rest of the 
 building; but the most delightful was a marble foun- 
 tain here, too, which threw up its waters, by machi- 
 nery, from below, into a basin of sparkling alabaster. 
 On the side of this Saloon, directly facing the great 
 area of the Square, was placed the royal seat ; and 
 quite at its back appeared an embroidered curtain, 
 which, when drawn aside by Sir Anthony Shirley, to 
 admit his brother, displayed an interior apartment, 
 sacred to the retiring of the monarch, which might 
 beggar fancy to describe. Besides the usual decora- 
 tion of gold, mirror, arabesque wreathing, and tis- 
 sued hangings, the finest pictures of the East co- 
 vered the walls. Robert Shirley stopped before one 
 of them. It was that of a lovely young woman, 
 dressed in the ancient costume of Persia, with the 
 
A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 261 
 
 globed diadem upon her head. He seemed im- 
 moveable from the spot. "This is female perfec- 
 tion !" cried he, "such a woman might make a man 
 forget his country. Who is she ?" 
 
 Sir Anthony replied that she was the beautiful Shi- 
 rene, and tlie portrait supposed to have been paint- 
 ed by a noted painter of her father's court. " He 
 miist have been an artist, indeed !" answered Robert, 
 still gazing on it with almost an enamoured eye; 
 " But who was this Shirene ? When. did she live? 
 And, yet, surely nothing of earth's mould could have 
 been so completely beautiful. " " I could give you 
 proof of it," returned the ambassador, " had you 
 patience to listen to her story. It is the burthen of 
 many a song in Persia." — " Tell it me, Anthony, on 
 the spot ;" cried his brother, throwing himself on a 
 low brocaded couch, just before the picture ; " here 
 will I sit, like Abbas, himself, hearkening to his best 
 minstrel ; and I shall be well off if I lose not my 
 heart and wits, out at my eyes and ears, before you 
 bring the tale to an end I" — " Then, it will not be for 
 me to run you into such peril," replied the ambassa- 
 dor, smiling, and moving onward, " though I have, my- 
 self, stood, unscathed, the charms of a living princess 
 yet more lovely than this ; — in fact, the Shah's sister. 
 He loves her, as we do ours, in happy Christendom. 
 She is worthy of it, — wise and fair! and, sometimes. 
 
262 A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 he admits me to sup with him, when she is pre- 
 sent." 
 
 " Surely, Abbas is a most extraordinary mahome- 
 tan !" exclaimed Robert, with his eyes yet fixed on 
 the picture ; " but, is his beautiful sister at all like 
 this ? If she be not, were she perfection to you, I 
 should find her charmless. I never saw my mind's 
 image of female beauty, till now !" " It would be 
 dangerous to answer that question to so true a knight- 
 errant," returned Sir Anthony, "so, pray come away, 
 while any wits are left you." Robert started from 
 his position, to follow his brother through a golden- 
 latticed winding passage, that opened towards a 
 remoter part of the building. The flutter of a bird, 
 escaping from its cage, seemed to fly before them, 
 till they emerged into a deeply wooded recess of the 
 royal gardens, and there they lost the sound of the 
 invisible fugitive. 
 
 " We have been observed," whispered the ambas- 
 sador; " but whether from bad or good will, no long 
 time, probably, will shew. There are those here, 
 from foreign courts, who would gladly blot our 
 escutcheon in the eyes of Shah Abbas, and, through 
 us, tarnish our country." 
 
 But, such was not the intent of the eyes which 
 had beheld Robert Shirley, from the gauze-veiled 
 window of the picture-saloon; which, by a side 
 
A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 263 
 
 view, had alike commanded the chamber of pre- 
 sence and the tournament ; and, that very night, he 
 formed suspicions of a fairer promise. When com- 
 posing himself to repose, on the splendid cushioned 
 carpet of a thousand colours, which the royal pages 
 had spread for him in a chamber of the palace, he 
 observed that one lingered behind the departing steps 
 of the others. The youth seemed of an elegant de- 
 portment, beyond his fellows ; and, while attending 
 his bath, Robert had noticed a particular attention in 
 his service. He now called to him, and, in Persian, 
 asked why he did not withdraw with the rest. The 
 young slave bowed his head to the ground, and re- 
 plied, " The wish of my lord's heart was that 
 he should hear the story of the loves of the beautiful 
 Shirene, and the matchless Ferhaud,— a stranger from 
 distant lands ; and I am sent to tell it." — " And who 
 sent you ?" demanded Shirley, "my brother, or some 
 invisible Hourie ? — for, none else heard me express the 
 wish." — " I come to tell my story," answered the 
 youth, " but I know no more." — " You are a cun- 
 ning boy," returned the Englishman ; " making sure 
 of keeping me awake, while satisfying one appetite of 
 curiosity, by exciting my gout for another. But, 
 good ! proceed with your tale ; and, when that is 
 over, we shall settle the answer to my question." 
 
 The page made no reply, but by a second bowing 
 of the head; and, seating himself down on a silk 
 
264 A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 cushion, which he had carried under his arm, at a very 
 short distance from the pillow of the young envoy, 
 folded his arras over his breast, and, in a low, mono- 
 tonous, but sweet tone of voice, recited the following 
 
 PERSIAN LEGEND. 
 
 " A thousand years ago, lived Maurice, Emperor 
 of the West. He had one daughter, the most incom- 
 parable princess the sun ever shone on. And when 
 Khosroo Purviz, — the great Shah of Persia, and sole 
 monarch of the East, — heard of her transcendent 
 beauty, he visited her father's court, with a mighty 
 train, to see whether report had spoken true ; and, 
 if so, to open his treasures to her father, and make 
 her his queen. 
 
 " Khosroo Purviz found that nature had never be- 
 fore made so fair a creature. His soul took fire, at first 
 sight of her ; and, falling on his face before her, in 
 presence of the emperor, he swore that he would give 
 the seven golden mountains of his kingdom for one 
 of her smiles. But Shirene wept; and then, he 
 made oath that she was more lovely in her tears, and 
 he would cast all the riches of his navies, — from India 
 to the Red Sea, — at her feet, to purchase one drop 
 from that bright eye, to bless his lip. But the blessing 
 
A TALE OF ISPAHAN, 
 
 265 
 
 of her lip, or of her eye, was not for him. Shirene 
 looked around her, and sighed ; no sigh answered 
 hers, and she sighed again and bitterly. Khosroo 
 put a golden ring on her pale, cold hand, and be- 
 lieved himself the happiest of men. 
 
 " Shirene sailed from the shores of her father, and 
 her tears flowed into the parting waves. Shirene set 
 her foot on the land of her nuptials, and a smile vi- 
 sited her face no more. But Khosroo, the great king, 
 was her husband, yet, but by a half rite ; and he 
 wooed her to the bridal altar of Mythras, the god of 
 his country, in vain. Still, it was woman's heart he 
 sought, and he thought it had a price. He built her 
 palaces, to court her eye ; he planted her gardens, to 
 win the soul. ' Pleasure,* said he, ' dwells in the 
 shade ; and the song of the wood-pigeon, wooing his 
 mate, will call my fair one to look up from the earth, 
 and, meeting the gaze of Khosroo, teach her to love 
 and to be happy !' 
 
 " Of all the paradises which he prepared for her, for 
 along time, none were to compare with that of Dus- 
 tejard ; and which, to this day, in memory of her, is 
 called Kaesra Shirene. The palace was like the 
 abode of the genii, and filled with the rarest carvings 
 in ivory and precious metals, imitating the embellish- 
 ings of her native land. There were, also, delicious 
 fountains and streams; and one particular open 
 grotto of a thousand spars, commemorating that in 
 
266 A tali: of Ispahan. 
 
 which he had first beheld the lady of his heart. Yes, 
 fated was the hour, when the still planet of evening 
 led him over the bowery terrace of the palace roof, 
 to look down upon the garden of the imperial harem. 
 He there beheld the Princess Shirene, bathing in the 
 lucid waters of a grotto, directly beneath his gaze j 
 and, from that moment, her celestial beauties so con- 
 sumed his soul, that even possession of her presence 
 did not sufficiently fill his eyes with their bright per- 
 fections. He would multiply them everywhere ; and, 
 on his bringing her to his kingdom, he caused her 
 image to be moulded in gold or silver, and placed, as 
 he had first beheld her, in the midst of some transpa- 
 rent fountain, in the loveliest spots of every palace- 
 garden in his dominions. 
 
 " Yet, nothing of all this adulatory w ooing touched 
 the heart of the virgin queen. She looked on all, 
 wdth the vacancy of one who sees not. Gilded pa- 
 laces were trod by her as indiffierently as t)ie lone 
 moss-walk of the garden ; and the lone moss- walk of 
 the garden drew equal attention from her with the 
 chenar avenues, crowded with alternate statues — 
 mocking apparitions, alas ! of her native home. Par- 
 terres of luxuriant flowers spread their splendours, 
 unnoticed by her eye. The nightingales in the rose 
 branches strained their little throats, unheard. Shi- 
 rene moved in beauty, bright as when she smiled, like 
 the morning star, in her father's court ; but, it was 
 
A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 26/ 
 
 the bri^tness of a wandering spirit, regarding no 
 more the world in wTiich, for awhile, she is doomed 
 to tread. 
 
 " But there came a day. It was the feast of the 
 Nowroose, — the opening of spring, — the awakening 
 of joy in every heart. Khosroo had sent messengers 
 into all countries, to summon the most renowned 
 sculptors to repair to Persia, and, there, try their art 
 in making a marble figure of the divine Shirene, 
 of more admirable workmanship than any which 
 had hitherto been produced. The artists arrived at 
 the season of the great festival ; and each shewed a 
 specimen of his skill, in wax, — some moulding afoot, 
 others a hand, of the faultless original. One, alone, 
 chose for his trial the bold attempt of copying the 
 matchless face. He was veiled to the eyes ; but, those 
 eyes did their duty, as if by magic, — for, he never raised 
 them to the face of the queen, while appearing to be 
 modelling her features under that part of his robe 
 which hung over his heart. In a few minutes, he 
 took the finished work from his bosom, and, with a 
 bowed head, presented it to the king. It exhibited, 
 at once, to the enamoured Khosroo, not merely the 
 form of the features of his adored Shirene, but all 
 the breatliing lustre of her cheek and lips ; the eyes, 
 alone, were a blank of colourless wax. 
 
 " ' Enchantment !' cried the monarch ; * it is my 
 beloved — her second self! Open but these sealed 
 
268 A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 orbs, to look like hers, and the treasures of Gumj 
 Namhah shall be yours !' 
 
 "Ferhaud, the incomparable artist, obeyed. He put 
 the moulded head back into his bosom ; and, taking 
 it thence again, the blue eyes of the image shone like 
 those of the queen, and the lips were then seen to 
 dimple with a smile. Khosroo snatched the won- 
 drous piece of art to his breast, and covered it wi.h 
 kisses. During all, Shirene, herself, sat unheeding, 
 speechless, and unmoved ; and, the great lords pre- 
 sent thought there was little difference, in reaUty, be- 
 tween the waxen effigy and its living, lifeless model. 
 
 " * Oh V cried the king, * make but that insensible 
 mistress of my soul to smile on me, like this image ; 
 give me but that moment of cheating bliss, and I 
 could almost reward you with the lovely cold one 
 ever after ! — I cannot live, and see her thus.' — The 
 artist stood up before Khosroo, and, with the air 
 of some supernatural being, solemnly whispered, 
 
 * Weigh well your request, monarch ! — for you speak 
 to one who can grant it ! Is not yon frozen beauty 
 your wife? and would you barter herself for a 
 smile V — ' She is my queen !' answered the king ; 
 
 * but, as my bride, she repels me — hates me 1 Yet, 
 I adore her, spell-bound ; and, one look of gracious- 
 ness, such as she wore when first her beauties mad- 
 dened me, might bring me to my peace again — or 
 in its vanishing, break the talisman, and give my cap- 
 
A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 269 
 
 tivated heart its liberty/ — ' Then,' replied the artist, 
 raising^ his voice so that all should hear him, * swear, 
 O ! Khosroo, Son of Cyrus ! that, if my art can make 
 your princess smile on you, you will give her to my 
 arms !' — ' By Mythras sacred self, I make the vow !' 
 returned the king, with a frantic gasp, as if under in- 
 cantation. 
 
 "When, lo! at the moment, turning his eyes to- 
 wards the queen, he beheld, to his amazement, that 
 she no longer sat like an enshrined statue, but, with 
 looks as if her soul would start from every glowing 
 feature, gazed on the veiled face of the mysterious 
 artist, whose voice had seemed to strike her, as by 
 a wand. Ferhaud, immediately on the oath of the 
 monarch, approached the beautiful object of his art, 
 and, throwing himself on his knee before her — 
 * Lady,' cried he, ' whatever form this face may 
 wear, when its withdrawn shroud may briefly expose 
 it to those august eyes, for the sake of him whose life 
 is nought unless you live for him, smile on the great 
 king !' While he spoke, those in the presence be- 
 held the countenance of the queen undergo a variety 
 of changes, from the lily's paleness to the rose's 
 tender blush ; but, when he ended, and, for one se- 
 cond only, dropt the veil from hi§ face, she sprang 
 from her seat, with such a smile as angels enter pa- 
 radise. The king, enraptured, started towards her, as 
 that gleam of heavenly brightness flashed upon him : — 
 
270 A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 and she, with a panting shriek of suffocating joy, fell, 
 with her closing eyes fixed on the again-covered head 
 of Ferhaud ; — but the arms of Khosroo caught her. 
 He clasped her close to his breast, exclaiming aloud — 
 ' Magician, thy soul shall be satisfied ! — she has 
 smiled again — she will now love me — and here is 
 her fond place for ever !' 
 
 " Ah, not so, Khosroo, son of Cyrus ! It was on 
 Ferhaud — but not the humbly born, of a slave's cast 
 — it was on Ferhaud, the young Prince of Corinth, 
 the beloved of her childhood, the betrotlied of her 
 youth, — ^fi-om whom the treasures of Persia had pur- 
 chased her of her ambitious father, — it was on him 
 she had smiled, and into his arms she would have 
 sunk, there to sigh away her happy spirit in that 
 chaste re-union. 
 
 " Nights came, and mornings rose, and still, the 
 seeming artist pleaded, to the king, his oath ; and 
 still, the monarch, more and more enamoured, de- 
 layed to ratify his bond. For, now, Shirene smiled — 
 smiled always ; though it was often amidst sighs and 
 tears of smothered tenderness for the dear dweller 
 in her thoughts ; whom, indeed, she, almost every day, 
 saw ; — ^for, by the irreversible law of the Medes and 
 Persians, Khosroo dared not, absolutely, deny ful- 
 filment of that which he had so solemnly sworn. 
 But, to gain time, he promised the performance of 
 his engagement; first, at the end of one great work 
 
A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 271 
 
 by this wonderful artist, and then, at the termination 
 of another; till, at length, the last prodigious task 
 he had assigned him being nearly finished, the mo- 
 narch was driven to despair. He had commanded 
 this extraordinary master of the chisel to transform 
 a particularly wild track, in a vast rocky desert, 
 leading to the city of Dustejard, into a region of 
 sculptured palaces, far to transcend the proudest in 
 that favorite royal residence. 
 
 " Ferhaud hastened to obey ; and the moon, whose 
 crescent shone on the commencement of this his last 
 labour, seemed hardly in her waning bend, when 
 news was brought to the king of its near completion. 
 He stood aghast — no subterfuge remained — now, or 
 never, he must perform the vow which would sepa- 
 rate him, for ever, from the light of his eyes, the 
 being in whose presence alone he felt existence ! 
 and — what, yet further, augmented his desperation — 
 even on the evening in which such evil tidings 
 came, he discovered that his yet unwedded queen 
 was more ready to depart witli the mysterious 
 artist, and risk the fortunes of his apparent wan- 
 dering fate, than abide in Persia, with all the 
 honours of the monarchy. In passing by the 
 golden trellis of an orange grove, her lately chosen 
 place of repose at set of sun, he perceived her, 
 through the gilded wire, reclining on her pearl-em- 
 broidered cushions, and holding a white rose in her 
 
272 A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 hand, which she pressed alternately to her lips and 
 heart, 
 
 " * Oh, sweetest flower !' she softly exclaimed, 
 * and sweeter, as the gift of ray beloved ! Dear em- 
 blem of the life of purity and tenderness I should 
 pass with him I Yea, my Ferhaud ! thy native hills, 
 of still-remembered fame, shall soon receive us. 
 There will we live, beneath the olive shade, unvisited 
 by any splendor but thy virtues. Oh, rather would 
 I be thy bride, under a humble roof of sedge, green 
 as thine own laurels, than the queen of the great 
 king, mistress of the world ! Yet, Khosroo, Khosroo, 
 my own pangs of anxious love teach me to pity 
 thee!' 
 
 " Khosroo fled, at these sounds, and tore his jet- 
 black beard. * Witchcraft, from the first,' said he, 
 ' has held that gentle heart from mine, and vengeance 
 shall restore it to me. I dare not forswear my oath, 
 but I can render its fulfilment impossible.' 
 
 " He called to him Gorgone, the base daughter of 
 the aged nurse who, in fatal hour, had accompanied 
 the beautiful Shirene from the land of her happiness. 
 This woman was soon purchased to assume the cha- 
 racter of her mother, and accomplish the will of the 
 king. She clad herself in garments of sackclotli, 
 and, — with a mourning veil, steeped in ashes, on her 
 head, — hastened to the vale of Tackt-i-Boston ; which 
 name, Uterally, means the throne in the garden. At 
 
A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 273 
 
 tfie entrance of the vale, where two golden gates, 
 under a marble portal o'er-canopied with trees, rolled 
 back to receive her, the slaves who carried her litter 
 set it down. She stepped out, and proceeded alone. 
 She had never visited the spot before ; and even her 
 fiend-like spirit, for a moment, was diverted from 
 thouvhts of her errand, in admiration of the paradise 
 which her proposed victim had created. 
 
 "When Ferhaud first entered it, it presented 
 a scene of the wildest desart, — a vast green wilder- 
 ness, surrounded by mountains, craggy, barren, and 
 terrific. It now appeared the garden of the Hourii. 
 The rugged heights were crowned with trees, and 
 robed in richest verdure ; while the marble rocks 
 beneath were, everywhere, sculptured into the forms 
 of Sylvan grottos, and chambers in the bosom of the 
 mountain, whose branching arcades and pillared 
 supports might have vied with the proudest temples 
 of the West and East. At the foot of the centre 
 mountain, a fountain gushed, clear as the fabled 
 waters of the magic valley, where female loveliness 
 need only bathe once to render it immortal. Here 
 Ferhaud liad displayed his whole skill; adorning 
 it with such statuary as never had been seen, since 
 the master hand of Phidias completed the glory of 
 Athens. For here, the young and enamoured artist 
 had thronged together the loves and the graces, in 
 beauteous assemblage, arotind the still more trans- 
 
 T 
 
274 A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 cendent beauty — the image of Shirene herself, bath- 
 ing in the crystal wave. From this marble fount, 
 over which the fairest roses of Persia shed their softest 
 shade, flowed a stream of such pellucid water that 
 a lover might have compared it to the eye-beam of 
 his love : — and a lover did call it so ; for, to this day, 
 that brook of the valley bears the name of Shirene. 
 All along its banks was fragrance, from bowers of 
 every shrub and flower that drinks the dew of heaven ; 
 and, on every leaf, the drops of a recently fallen 
 shower, — rare in that region, — were sparkling, like 
 pendant diamonds, or the lucid tear on the cheek 
 of a happy bride. 
 
 " Just over the bright bosom of the fountain, rose 
 a high perpendicular front of the rock, smoothed to 
 the polish of a mirror ; and, above, on its platform 
 surface, there seemed to have just alighted, from the 
 cloudless sky, a little army of guardian spirits, hover- 
 ing their snowy wings over the virgin bather below. 
 In the midst of them stood the form of a knight, in 
 Grecian armour; his shield, too, was stretched over 
 the fountain, as if to shut its beauties, alike from his 
 own gaze and that of the ardent sun. But, instead 
 of a warrior's sword, he grasped the torch of Hymen 
 in his hand, and his unhelmed head was bound with 
 laurel, mixing with the rivets of a broken diadem. 
 
 " Resounding from the depths of that sculptured 
 platform, Gorgone heard the chisel of the devoted 
 
A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 2/5 
 
 Ferhaud striking against the triumphal wreath of that 
 martial figure, as if only a few strokes more were to 
 finish the last leaf of the chaplet ; and then, his task 
 completed, he would descend, fly to the king, and, 
 demanding his bride, power itself could not withhold 
 the well-earned guerdon. Gorgone listened, and 
 threw her eyes around . A thousand echoes, rever- 
 berating stroke after stroke of the chisel, seemed 
 calling her to hasten, ere it were too late to execute 
 her purpose. On one side, almost hidden amongst 
 trees, she perceived a flight of steps ; and, hurrying 
 towards them, after ascending seven hundred, ar- 
 rived, panting, on the platform's summit. There, 
 affecting fatigue and anguish, she stopped, leaning 
 against an altar-column on the brink of the preci- 
 pice. 
 
 "At that moment, the thoughts of Ferhaud were 
 bent on the near completion of his task, — on the in- 
 stant grasp of his long-promised happiness : but, he 
 heard the sounds of sorrow, and he looked around. 
 He descried the aged nurse of Shirene, who, though 
 veiled, was recognised by the royal amulet on her 
 bosom, and he hastened to her side. One word de- 
 manded why her feeble limbs had dared such a 
 height, and wherefore was her grief. 
 
 " ' Oh, Ferhaud !' cried she, ^ I bring thee this cup 
 from thy mistress and mine. The treachery of Khos- 
 roo forced it to her lips. She drank ; and, dying, bade. 
 
276 A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 me take the dregs to thee. Her nuptial cup, she 
 called it, and she bade you drink it.' 
 
 " Ferhaud stood, now, like a statue of horror. His 
 hand, mechanically, took the golden chalice,— drugged, 
 indeed, with a deadly poison, — which the woman put 
 into his grasp. But he moved not ; he raised it not, 
 to obey the last injunction of his belo\^ed — to drink 
 it f The woman, with the perseverance of a ruthless 
 heart, twined her arm around his; and, looking in 
 his fixed and glassy eye, in a tone of seeming pity, 
 murmured — ' shall not the nourisher of Shirene's 
 fatal beauties assist her bereaved lover to meet his 
 expecting bride in paradise V — and, with the words, 
 rather too abruptly moving his arm, to raise the cha- 
 lice to his lips, he staggered under the impulsive 
 weight, and, with this female fiend self-coiled to his 
 almost unconscious body, fell headlong over the pre- 
 cipice. Both perished in the fall. 
 
 " But, was the murderer blessed in the crime ? — 
 No ; — Shirene's faithful heart had only to hear her 
 lover's fate, and hear no more. Her bright eye 
 closed, and Khosroo clasped a lifeless statue. Smote, 
 too late, with remorse, he placed the two incompa- 
 ble beings, whom his injustice had destroyed, in the 
 same grave ; — union, at least in death, he gave them. 
 Nature, too, bore evidence of their love ; for, ere the 
 return of spring, when the turtle should seek the 
 grove, two rose trees grew out of the mould of the 
 
A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 277 
 
 faithful pair, and a huge thistle marked the clay of 
 their cruel destroyer. 
 
 " Stranger! travel towards Dustejard, by the way 
 of Tackt-i-Boston ; and there wilt thou, still, see the 
 spot where ihe pilgrim weeps for the peerless Shirene, 
 and the warrior sighs over the dust of the brave 
 Ferhaud, — where the nightingale sings in the 
 branches, and wails over the fate of human loves !" 
 
 " You are asleep, sir ?" gently added the young 
 Asiatic troubadour, having paused a moment, with- 
 out answer, after he concluded his tale. 
 
 " No," replied the Englishman ; " but, perhaps, I 
 am thinking more of the beautiful Shirene who yet 
 lives, and inhabits this palace, than of her who — a 
 shrouded bride — sleeps sweetly, at last, under the 
 roses of her lover's garden !" 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed the youth, starting from his 
 carpet seat; and, touching a few notes on a little lute- 
 like instrument that hung at his neck, he softly 
 chanted these words : — 
 
 * Stranger ! love the soul of her 
 
 Who loves that soul of thine ; 
 Nor think 'twas lightness sent me here. 
 
 To tell this tale of mine ! 
 
278 A TALE OF ISPAHAN. 
 
 What Shirene was to Greek Ferhaud, 
 
 Zelmaine would prove to thee, 
 —A handmaid, — blest, in thy abode, 
 
 A Christian bride to be !' 
 
 With the last strain, the page vanished from the 
 chamber. But, ere the moon, that then shone bright 
 in at the young envoy's window, again appeared 
 there in full orb, it lit the nuptial chamber of the 
 English knight and the Persian princess. And, in 
 after days, when many suns and moons had revolved 
 their course, the portraits of Sir Robert Shirley and 
 his beautiful bride, the Lady Zelmaine, were seen, by 
 future travellers, in the very same picture-saloon of 
 the Ali Copi, — side by side with those of the la- 
 mented Shirene and her incomparable Ferhaud. 
 
STANZAS, 
 Composed during a Tempest. 
 
 BY BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 Dazzling may seem the noontide ssky, 
 Its arch of azure shewing ; 
 
 And lovely to the gazer's eye 
 The west, at sunset glowing. 
 
 Splendid the east — at morning bright, 
 Soft moonlight on the ocean ; — 
 
 But glorious is the hushed delist 
 Born in the storm's commotion ! 
 
 To see the dark and lowering cloud 
 By vivid lightning riven, — 
 
 To hear the answer, stern and proud, 
 By echoing thunders given ; — 
 
 To feel, in such a scene and hour, 
 — 'Mid all that each discloses — 
 
 The presence of that viewless power 
 On whom the world reposes ; — 
 
280 friendship's offering. 
 
 This, to the heart, is more than all 
 Mere beauty can bring o'er it ; 
 
 Thought — feeling— fancy own its thrall. 
 And joy is hushed before it ! 
 
 FRIENDSHIPS OFFERING. 
 
 Written in an Annual Publication, presented to a Lady, who 
 had suffered much and long Affliction. 
 
 Reviewing time's perennial flight. 
 We mark some lovely hours, 
 Like stars amidst a stormy night. 
 Or winter-blooming flowers. 
 
 Such as among the gloomy past 
 Your happiest days appear. 
 Such — but improving to the last. 
 Be all in this new year I 
 
 Sheffield. J. M. 
 
SPAIN. 
 
 AN INVOCATION. 
 BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD DILLOW. 
 
 Oh, that the Spirit of my votive song 
 
 Would pour her sybil oracles along ; — 
 
 Go forth where despots sway, and dastards yield, 
 
 And rouse a tented Israel to the field ! 
 
 — Oh ! for the mystic harp of Kedron's vale, 
 
 To fling its music on the tameless gale ! 
 
 As erst, in Israel, when — at God's command — 
 
 Saul was sent forth to blight the chartered land, 
 
 When Siloa's brook was gathered to a flood. 
 
 And Sion wept— till every tear was blood ! 
 
 Oh ! for a spell — like her's who called the dead. 
 And brought the prophet from his dreamless bed,— 
 To wake the spirit of the martyred brave. 
 And break the slumber of Riego's grave ! 
 — Oh ! for the warrior-youth of Judah's line, 
 Divinely missioned to a work divine, — 
 A David to " go up" — with staff and sling. 
 And pebbles for the forehead of a king, — 
 
282 SPAIN. ' 
 
 Aud, in the spirit of a holy wrath. 
 Smite the Goliath of a sceptered Gath ! 
 
 Alas ! the lovely land !— where fetters bind 
 All but the sighs their captives give the wind ! 
 Where life is stagnant— but when stirred by fears. 
 And patriots have no weapon — but their teai-s ! 
 Where the free breezes and the dancing waves 
 Utter vain language to a world of slaves; 
 And hope— a *' fitful fever" — wakes and dies. 
 Like clouds that form — to melt — in Spanish skies ! 
 
 It comes — it comes ! — like a far trumpet blast, 
 I hear the tumult and the stir, at last !— 
 Through the dull distance of a few short years, 
 The gathering-cry is borne to prophet ears. 
 When nations shall go forth, like water poured. 
 To see an Agag hewn before the Lord, 
 And freedom lift, again, her starry crest. 
 High o'er the new-born Hebron of the west ! 
 
TO A WREATH OF DEAD FLOWERS. 
 
 Shewn to me hy a Friend, on his return from Abroad, to whom I. 
 had given them, in bloom, on the eve of his departure. 
 
 Pale, fragile flowerets ! I remember ye, 
 In all your pride of fragrant witchery ; 
 Shunning broad day-light — like a bashful maid 
 To woo her lover closer in the shade ; — 
 Winging the breeze with perfume soft and sweet, 
 — A scented guide to lure the willing feet ! — 
 But, now — with colours faded, odour gone, 
 No sweetness left for any other one, — 
 Ye have for me a beauty, passing all 
 Your pomp of purple, in your paler pall ; 
 — Withered and silent vouchers for his truth, 
 Whose love has been the star light of my youth 
 
THE EXILE. 
 
 A POETIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 The vessel left the shore. 
 Braving the restless ocean ; — for the sea, 
 As though it scorned the hurden w^hich the will 
 Of man had cast upon its glittering plain. 
 Murmured with sullen voice, — and seemed, awhile. 
 As it would fling the trace of earthly power 
 From off its glorious face, into the air. 
 Or whelm it in its own blue shining depths ! 
 — One stands upon the deck, and, through the war 
 Of waters, watches where the blood-red sun 
 Sinks o'er his own far valley of the west. 
 And lights the distant home that never more " 
 Shall come, with all its music — but in dreams ! 
 Never shall vision rise upon his sight 
 Like that, this moment, o'er the billows fading. 
 Dim in the distance ! — Onward goes the ship, 
 To meet the rising sun ! — ^but on his soul 
 Has sunk — morn shall not lighten it — the night 
 Descending o'er his own Hesperia ! 
 
 The vessel glided onwards !— onwards still. 
 In music and in moonlight .'—and the waves — 
 
THE EXILE. 285 
 
 The little wavelets — lighted by the moon. 
 
 Play, like a thousand stars, upon its path I — 
 
 And the liglit pennon streams upon a breeze. 
 
 Winged with the perfume of far orange bowers ! — 
 
 And birds go flashing by, like silver gleams. 
 
 Or ride, like snow-flakes, on the (lancing waves !— 
 
 And sounds steal o'er the waters — and the breasts 
 
 Of many throb, with that delicious thrill 
 
 That marks the weariness and peril past ; 
 
 And— where she rises^hail the glowing East, 
 
 — Fair as a new-born Venus from the sea ! 
 
 And eyes look out, where hearts have gone before, 
 
 Through many a weary day and heavy night ; 
 
 All, all — save one !— He leans upon the deck, 
 
 And, through the waters, sends his spirit forth. 
 
 To seek another *' land" ! For him — for him, 
 
 Tlie ample world has but a single home ; 
 
 All else a waste— of water or of plain. 
 
 What boots it which !— and the glad land-cry comes 
 
 Light to his ear — but heavy to his heart, 
 
 Marking the space he never must repass. 
 
 That hides the valley where he was a child ! 
 
 — His mother's white-walled cottage — far away — 
 
 Lost — like the dove that wandered from the ark. 
 
 And never came again !— all this, and more, 
 
 A thousand thoughts— each one an agony — 
 
 Swell in his bosom ! — and he turns to' weep ^ 
 
 Amid the smiles that greet the lovely land. 
 
 Where he is but AN EXILE ! 
 
FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE 
 LA TORRE. 
 
 Beautiful is my nymph, if gay she spread 
 Her golden hair, dishevelled on the wind ; 
 
 Beautiful, if, in the disdain I dread, 
 
 Estranged, she turns from me her eyes unkind. 
 
 2. 
 
 Beautiful angry, — beautiful when glad, — 
 Beautiful cruel, — beautiful when shy ; — 
 
 But O ! most beautiful, when, mute and sad. 
 She draws agentle cloud o'er sun and sky ! 
 
 6, 
 
 Beautiful, when she stills the storms and seas. 
 With that blue eye which only I adore ; 
 
 Beautiful, when, in pity for my peace. 
 She smiles as angels who were sad before. 
 
 4. 
 
 A nymph whose beauty, amiable and calm. 
 Cannot be fancied unless seen ; — nor, seen, 
 
 Can it be found in what consists the charm 
 Which sheds such interest o'ei- her angel mien ! 
 
 W 
 
CONSTANCE. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 " Notwithstanding, these citizens of Gaunt, in all their publike 
 actions, have ever shewed more grosse folly than cunning, and 
 no marvel; for they that earrie credit and authority among 
 them, are for the most part wealthy men, of occupation, vna- 
 quainted with waightie affaires, and little vnderstanding what 
 belongeth to the gouernment of a state. Their cunning con- 
 sisteth but in two points : the one, that they studie, by all means 
 possible, how to weaken and impouerish their prince ; the other, 
 that when they have made a fault, and finde the partie offended 
 too strong for them, they craue pardon with greater humiliation,, 
 and buie peace with larger gifts than any people in the world." 
 
 Philip De Commineg, 
 
 " He is taken ! the minion of the tyrant is se- 
 cured ! see, Constance ! they are bringing him down 
 the street," exclaimed Martin Jansens ; " here, 
 Brawn ! Peterkin ! my gown and wand of office ! I 
 must follow my father to the town house, where the^ 
 burgesses will sit in consultation." 
 
 Constance Lindorf, left alone by the departure of 
 her kinsman, approached the window with trembling^ 
 
288 CONSTANCE. 
 
 steps, and leaned for support against the stone 
 frame-work of the balcony. The yell of the infu- 
 riated populace announced the approach of the pri- 
 soner. His hands were fettered, he was bare-headed 
 — for his cap had been lost in the desperate resist- 
 ance which he had made against his assailants — and 
 pale ; but with brow erect, and casting, at intervals, 
 a look of scorn upon the multitude, who loaded him 
 with threats and execrations. 
 
 Count Adolph, of Blumenberg,— the trusted 
 knight of Charles, Duke of Burgundy, — walked 
 boldly in the midst of the hostile crowd; who 
 were only restrained by the weapons of the guard, 
 from tearing him to pieces. Here and there, a 
 burgess, floundering along upon a horse only less 
 clumsy than himself, strove to keep order ; but the 
 shouts and the curses of the multitude increased. 
 Every base mechanic and greasy artisan quitted his 
 employment, and rushed into the street, rejoicing, 
 like a wolf, in the scent of blood, and hungry after 
 slaughter. Hotly, — eagerly they pushed upon the 
 soldiers, their ferocity heightened by the calm self- 
 possession of their intended victim. 
 
 " They will murder him," exclaimed Constance, 
 " ere he reaches that gloomy prison which is but the 
 prelude to his grave. I see him for the last time 
 upon earth!" Earnestly, passionately she fastened 
 her gaze upon his noble countenance; admiring, 
 despite of her terror, the unshrinking eye, the 
 curled lip, and the firm step with which he met the 
 
CONSTANCE. 289 
 
 savage exultation of his enemies. But tears be- 
 dimmed her vision, as she thought upon that evening 
 when— the star of his master's court— every tongue 
 liad spoken in his applause; where — the most graceful 
 amid a train of gallant cavaliers, radiant with happi- 
 ness, — he led the sprightly dance. A thousand recol- 
 lections rushed upon her soul. She, the humblest of 
 all his partners, one whom he had selected because 
 she was the orphan daughter of his father's friend, 
 was probably forgotten. But where was the proud 
 beauty who, on that triumphant night, lavished 
 such flattering distinctions upon him, — the acknow- 
 ledged object of his fond idolatry ? She had forsaken 
 him, and married another. Fortune, also, had played 
 him false ; and now, perchance, only one heart re- 
 mained faithful, — and he would sink into a blood- 
 stained tomb, unlamented, except by the devoted 
 girl who loved not the less ardently that she loved 
 in vain. 
 
 Adolph was now out of sight. The roar of the mul- 
 titude became fainter and fainter. Constance learned, 
 by the disappointed words and gestures of the few 
 who fell back, sulkily, from the crowd, that he had 
 been conveyed, in safety, to the town house ; and, 
 relieved from immediate apprehension, she sat down 
 to recover herself Gratefully attached to her hot- 
 headed uncle, Ludwig Jansens, the rich merchant of 
 Ghent, she grieved to see him plunging into re- 
 bellion against his sovereign. Though, in the ab- 
 sence of Duke Charles, in Germany, the citizens had 
 
 u 
 
290 CONSTANCE. 
 
 risen upon Ms otficers, murdered his friends, and 
 proclaimed themselves free, she was aware that they 
 were not strong enough to cast oft' a yoke which 
 would be made more burthensome than ever, when 
 the Duke, incensed by the wanton cruelties which 
 accompanied all their outrages, should return, with a 
 force sufficiently potent to bring them into subjec- 
 tion. But, elate with the triumph which they had 
 achieved, exulting in their own wisdom, and puffed, 
 by self conceit, to the highest extreme of folly, — it 
 would have been worse than useless for Constance 
 to have remonstrated with senators, who, in common 
 with all men of weak understanding, held the mental 
 abilities of the other sex in unmitigated contempt. 
 Conscious of the tender feelings which she che- 
 rished for Count Adolph, she had never mentioned 
 her acquaintance with him in the family by whom 
 she was, now, protected ; and she resolved to conceal 
 the strong interest which she took in his fate, — well 
 knowing that it would raise the jealousy of Martin 
 Jansens, who, angry and mortified by her rejection 
 of his addresses, was ever ready to ascribe it to a 
 preference for another. 
 
 The father and son returned home, full of the pro- 
 ceedings of the day ; — the elder in a high state of irri- 
 tation, occasioned by the successful opposition of a 
 rival orator. In mere contradiction to Hans Van- 
 dergild, who had triumphed over him on several 
 occasions, and not through any particular blood, 
 thirstinessj — for Ludwig was more silly than wicked,^ 
 
CONSTANCE. 291 
 
 — he had advocated the immediate execution of the 
 prisoner. But his opponent, who piqued himself 
 upon carrying a point, raised such an outcry against 
 this mode of proceeding in the absence of several 
 burgesses, who, he contended, ought to have a voice 
 in the business, that Adolph was committed to 
 prison, and his sentence deferred for nearly a week. 
 Still, there could be no doubt of his final condemna- 
 tion ; for he had incurred the hatred of the trading 
 community, by his contempt of their brutal igno- 
 rance; and, however differing respecting the time 
 and manner of it, his death was universally decreed, 
 by all classes of those into whose hands he had, so 
 unhappily, fallen. Leige, Arras, and other cities, 
 following the example of Ghent, were in a state of 
 insurrection ; and a considerable period must, neces- 
 sarily, elapse before the fiery-hearted Duke could 
 disengage himself from his distant campaign, in 
 order to reduce them to obedience. 
 
 Constance withdrew, early, to her chamber ; but, 
 in the certainty that sleep would be a stranger to her 
 eyes, she did not attempt to seek repose. Her 
 thoughts were full of Adolph; and the desire of 
 saving him rose so strongly in her heart, that, not- 
 withstanding her perfect conviction of the impossi- 
 bility of the undertaking, project after project,— each 
 more wild and hopeless than the preceding, — rushed 
 across her brain. She had read, in story, of great ex- 
 ploits achieved by even weaker instruments ;— but 
 they must be false, she thought ; for no one had ever, 
 
292 CONSTANCE. 
 
 yet, brought more enthusiasm to their aid, and she 
 felt that she could do absolutely nothing, in behalf 
 of one whom she would have died to rescue. Agi- 
 tated, restless, and impatient, she wrapped herself, 
 from head to foot, in a dark veil ; and stole into the 
 garden. After wandering through its paths, for a 
 short time, an irresistible impulse prompted her to 
 sally forth, by a side door, of which she had the key, 
 into the street; in order to indulge a melancholy 
 satisfaction, in gazing upon the walls which held the 
 man she loved, in dread captivity. Gliding softly 
 along, she reached a spot opposite to the prison. It 
 was a large, massy, frowning building, which seemed 
 to bid defiance to her feeble powers ; and her spirit, 
 hitherto supported by a vague and undefined hope, 
 sunk within her. Standing in the deep shade of a 
 buttress which supported the walls of a church, the 
 approach of a man caused her to shrink into closer 
 concealment. The stone work had fallen into decay ; 
 and presented a small aperture, into which she 
 pressed her slender form, so as to be completely 
 hidden from view. The person, who had compelled 
 her to take this shelter, advanced to the very spot 
 which she had just vacated; and, looking upwards to 
 the prison, heaved a deep sigh. In another minute, 
 he was joined by a friend ; and they began to con- 
 verse together, in low tones, but sufficiently audible 
 to be overheard by the trembling Constance. 
 
 " Where have they placed him ?" cried one. " At 
 the summit of the western tower," replied his com- 
 
CONSTANCE. 293 
 
 panion. " Then," said the first speaker, " all hope 
 
 of aiding him is at an end ; had it been below 
 
 I know a secret of the prison ; I have tasted its de- 
 lights, and worked a subterranean passage, from my 
 dungeon, into the burying ground of this very 
 church. Unexpectedly released, a day or two before 
 my intended escape, my operations have never been 
 discovered. A piece of blanket, painted to an exact 
 resemblance of the wall, — for I had implements con- 
 veyed to me from without, — conceals the chasm. If 
 the rascal burghers had, in their wisdom, confined 
 the Count in this apparently secure retreat, we 
 might have saved him." — " Scarcely," returned the 
 other ; " the city gates are doubly watched. Obliged, 
 ourselves, to adopt mean habits, and to live in the 
 greatest publicity Avith our vulgar neighbours, to 
 avoid suspicion, where could we have hoped to have 
 concealed him until enquiry was at an end? — I 
 would set fire to his prison walls, with my own 
 hands, if, in the event of his escape, there was a 
 single spot, throughout the accursed city, where he 
 might rest secure." 
 
 Constance could withhold no longer. Catching at 
 the desperate hope which these strangers held out, 
 she glided, like a phantom, between the speakers. 
 " Be not afraid," she cried; " you behold a friend; 
 and think not evil of me, that I join your conference. 
 I were unworthy to be the daughter of a brave man, 
 if I shrank from assisting the son of his beloved 
 companion in arms." Recovered from their sur- 
 
294 CONSTANCE. 
 
 prise, a fresh consultation ensued. It was brief; but 
 not a single point which related to the deliverance of 
 the Count was left untouched. Having settled the 
 mode of their future correspondence, the meeting 
 broke up ; and Constance returned home, followed, at 
 a convenient distance, by her new acquaintances, — 
 who watched her, until assured of her safety within 
 the garden wall. 
 
 At one moment, certain of success, — in the next, 
 struck with sudden despair, — Constance passed the 
 remainder of the night in continual alternations, be- 
 tween hope and fear. But, compelled to assume the 
 semblance of composure, she soothed her perturbed 
 brow ; and descended to the breakfast table, with 
 calm features and an agitated heart. Proceedings 
 had, already, Commenced. Martin, — more easily ca- 
 joled than any other person in the world, except his 
 father, — sate swelling with the happiest notions of his 
 own sapience. " Here's a pretty mismanaged bu- 
 siness !" cried he, to the worthy burgess ; " they have 
 put Count Adolph at the top of the western tower ; 
 and he holds signals, through the grated windows, 
 with his colleagues, below." Ludwig, who held great 
 command in the prison, pleased with the blunder 
 committed by Vandergeld, and with the opportunity 
 which it gave him of displaying his more active vi- 
 gilance, instantly invested his son with an authority 
 to change the place of Count Adolph's confinement ; 
 and Martin, having received a hint from the corres- 
 pondent who had favoured him with an account of 
 
CONSTANCE. 295 
 
 the Count's mode of communicating with ill-disposed 
 persons, outside the walls, — that the dungeon under 
 the moat was the most secure place, — adopted the 
 expedient, as a suggestion of his own ; and, forth- 
 with, directed the removal of the prisoner to this 
 dismal cell. To make assurance doublj sure, he 
 ordered the jailor to fasten the captive to the wall ; 
 nor would he suffer the slightest alteration to be 
 made in the furniture of the apartment,— because, as 
 he jocosely remarked, they need be at little pains for 
 the accommodation of a man who had not another 
 week to live in the world. Now, Martin was im- 
 pelled to this wanton cruelty, merely to shew his 
 wit and his authority. He had a confused notion 
 that it was a patriot action to cut the throats of all 
 the nobility ; but, individually, he bore no malice to 
 the man whom he now subjected to the most inhu- 
 man usage. The next morning, he was advised by 
 his anonymous friend to inspect the food which was 
 delivered to the Count ; and, charmed with this new 
 method of appearing zealous and important, he pre- 
 pared to pay another visit to the prison. 
 
 Constance asked his escort to a neighbouring 
 church. Such an unusual request filled him with 
 delight ; and, giving her his arm, they walked, in a 
 lover-like manner — very much to his fancy — through 
 the streets. The church was a little way beyond 
 the prison ; but, on reaching the gate of the latter, 
 Constance was taken suddenly ill, — so ill that she 
 could not proceed a step further. She was, therefore, 
 
296 CONSTANCE. 
 
 obliged to enter the dark edifice. Rest, and a glass 
 of water, almost recovered her; but she could, no 
 longer, think of going to church ; and, frightened at 
 the strange and melancholy appearance of every 
 thing around her, she refused to stay with the jailor's 
 wife, but, cKnging to Martin's arm, entreated him 
 to remain with her, or to allow her to accompany 
 him. Her companion, gladly, embraced the offered 
 alternative ; and they trod the mazes of the dreary 
 labyrinth, together. The, naturally ingenuous, heart 
 of Constance revolted at the deception which she 
 practised ; but Adolph's safety demanded the hateful 
 task, and she repulsed her scruples. She had a file, 
 in her sleeve, ready wrapped in a written scroll. On 
 arriving at the vaulted anti-room of the dungeon, 
 Martin placed a loaf of coarse bread in her hands, — 
 after he had broken it in half, and turned it round 
 and round, in his own, — whilst he poured the water 
 from one jug into another ; and, with the file and the 
 letter ingeniously inserted in the bread, he sent the 
 priaoner's allowance into the dungeon, in the full 
 conviction that he had baffled the most cunning de- 
 vice of the Count's friends. 
 
 The birth-day of Martin Jansens was at hand ; 
 and more than ordinary preparations were making, 
 to celebrate that happy event. Constance suggested 
 the propriety of a masked ball, and recommended 
 her lover to appear in the character of Brutus. 
 Nothing could, he thought, be more appropriate ; and 
 he, forthwith, set all the tailors in Ghent to work 
 
CONSTANCE. 29? 
 
 upon the intended habiliment. Though, hitherto, 
 her design had been carried on in the most pros- 
 perous manner, Constance could not repel the alarm 
 excited bj the dangerous nature of the enterprise. 
 The crisis approached ; — a few hours, alone, remain- 
 ed for action ; for, on the following morning, Count 
 Adolph was to be summoned to his mock trial, and 
 the increasing clamours of the people rendered his 
 immediate execution a dreadful certainty. With 
 difficulty, she arrayed herself in the gorgeous ap- 
 parel which she had selected to do honour to he]; 
 cousin. She wore an Asiatic dress, supposed to re- 
 present the costume of Judith, — a bright idea of 
 Martin's ; who, anxious to return the compliment 
 which she had paid him, fixed upon the blood-stained 
 heroine, as the prototype of his gentle relation ; — 
 there, certainly, could not have been a better dis- 
 guise. Evening approached. — Garlands of flowers 
 festooned the tapestry hangings, which draperied the 
 walls of the principal apartments. Floods of light 
 streamed from the illuminated tapers, upon the gold 
 and silver ornaments; and a rich strain of music 
 stole upon the ear. 
 
 The motley group assembled. Constance rallied 
 her flagging spirits ; — she laughed, and talked, and 
 danced — But instinct seemed to be her only guide, 
 fgr she saw not one of the grotesque figures around 
 her — heard not a word of the nonsense they uttered; 
 — her whole soul was in the prison, and the church- 
 yard. At length, she was aware that the appointed 
 
298 CONSTANCE. 
 
 hour was at hand. She threw a cloak over her 
 splendid garments, and directed her trembling steps, 
 unperceived, to the garden. A few breathless mo- 
 ments elapsed, — they were ages to Constance ! — Her 
 eager ear detected the sound of footsteps ; the signal 
 was given, and she opened the door to three masks ; 
 — one was, indeed. Count Adolph ! A few hurried 
 words passed between them ; for, protracted con- 
 verse would have been dangerous. It was neces- 
 sary to pass along the reception-rooms, to reach the 
 small cabinet inside her chamber, which she had 
 prepared for the knight's retreat. She dared not 
 hasten through them, with the stranger guest ; and, 
 for a short time, he must make one of the company. 
 Attired with a rich plainness, the least calculated to 
 excite remark, Constance trembled as he folded his 
 mantling domino around him. The superior elegance 
 of his demeanour, she feared, would infallibly betray 
 him ; and she whispered words of caution. Pleased 
 with the odd situation in which fortune had placed 
 him, his fearless spirit would have entered gaily into 
 the humours of the scene, had he not been restrained 
 by the terrors of his fair preserver ; and, in obedi- 
 ence to her entreaties, he seized a convenient oppor- 
 tunity to retire. 
 
 The next morning, Martin Jansens was awakened 
 from his first slumber, with the astounding intelli- 
 gence of the prisoner's escape. He was, at first, 
 incredulous ; but,— compelled to believe the fact, from 
 the evidence of his own eyes, — he raved, and stormed, 
 
CONSTANCE. 299 
 
 in a fearful manner; and instituted so strict a search 
 throughout the whole city, that had not the Count, 
 fortunately, taken refuge under his own roof, he 
 would infallibly have been discovered. 
 
 No other inconvenience resulted to the Jansens, 
 from their blunder, than a few sneers from Hans 
 Vandergeld ; which Martin answered with this 
 incontrovertible truth, that " had the Count been 
 beheaded, according to his father's recommendation, 
 he could not have got away, alive, out of their 
 hands." 
 
 It became necessary for Constance to devise some 
 means of conveying Adolph beyond the barrier, — an 
 undertaking of considerable difficulty, as the alarm 
 and suspicion excited by the late evasion rendered 
 the town-guard doubly alert. But, in this case, as 
 in the former, she was assisted by the wilftil conceit 
 of her cousin Martin. He claimed the privilege of 
 taking the air in a clumsy open chariot,— an inven- 
 tion wliich preceded the covered coaches of the 
 following century, — nor would he be stopped, a mo- 
 ment, in his career, or submit to any of the regula- 
 tions imposed upon persons of less consequence ; and 
 the instant that a running footman announced his 
 approach, the gates were, always, thrown open. A 
 livery was, in consequence, provided for Adolph ; 
 his ingenious friend, Richter, helped him to a vizor, 
 exactly resembling the broad features of honest Pe- 
 terkin ; and, thus disguised, he mounted at the back 
 of the equipage, — Constance having previously sent 
 
300 CONSTANCE. 
 
 his double on a sleeveless errand. Away galloped 
 the two Flanders mares with the trio, — for the lady 
 chose to be of the party. — Not a moment's delay oc- 
 curred at the barrier. The Count slipped down, 
 when the road was clear ; and was, soon, beyond the 
 power of his enemies. 
 
 Time passed away, in feasting and dancing, ^t 
 Ghent. The burghers thought themselves the 
 masters of the world ; and an earthquake could, 
 scarcely, have astonished them more than the 
 report of the approach of the Duke of Burgundy, 
 at the head of a numerous army. They did not 
 choose to believe the intelligence ; and they, 
 wisely, put the messenger to a cruel death. Conse- 
 quently, they remained in perfect ignorance of the 
 Duke's proceedings, until he was almost at their 
 gates. Then, the scene was immediately changed ; 
 from the highest insolence, they sunk, at once, into 
 the most abject meanness. Each studied how he 
 should degrade himself lower than his neighbour ; 
 and he who dared to speak of courageous defence, 
 was either imprisoned or hung. 
 
 The Jansens were not behindhand with their bre- 
 thren, in the servility by which they hoped to dis- 
 arm the resentment of their sovereign. In conse- 
 quence of their advice, three hundred of the citizens 
 were dispatched, in their shirts, to meet him ; and 
 they, themselves, together with all the principal 
 burgesses, clothed in sackcloth garments, bare- 
 footed, and with ashes on their heads, advanced be- 
 
CONSTANCE. 301 
 
 yond the gates of the town, to lay their keys, and 
 all their privileges, at his feet. Martin, as with 
 downcast looks he prepared to join the procession, 
 caught a glance of Constance, and started with sur- 
 prise. Instead of a sad-coloured robe, and her hair 
 hanging dishevelled on her shoulders, like the rest 
 of her towns-women, she was attired in white and 
 silver, and wore a wreath of roses round her braided 
 tresses. He had no opportunity, however, for re- 
 monstrance, ere he joined the dolorous ranks,— with 
 the certainty that this ill-timed gaiety would draw 
 down tenfold vengeance upon their devoted house. 
 Nor were his fears at all allayed, by perceiving that 
 Count Adolph, mounted on a white courser, rode by 
 the side of the Duke. 
 
 Charles of Burgundy condescended not to inform 
 them of their doom ; but, ordering them into the rear, 
 paced proudly, at the head of his lancers and men at 
 arms, into the city. Constance saw the cavalcade 
 advance ; and rejoiced that her spirited interference 
 in the fate of Count Adolph had, not only saved the 
 man she loved from an untimely death, but would, 
 now, afford her the means of pleading in the behalf 
 of those kind relatives who so truly merited her gra- 
 titude. 
 
 The mansion of the Jansens was the first house 
 tenanted by the rulers of Ghent, which occurred in 
 the Duke's progress. He halted before it, called out 
 the father and the son, and directed six of his 
 archers to shoot them like dogs, and leave their 
 
302 CONSTANCE. 
 
 worthless bodies to the kite and crow. Constance 
 saw there was not a moment to lose. She rushed 
 through the gate, and,— seizing the bridle of the 
 Duke's horse, with her small, white hands, — entreat- 
 ed him to spare the lives of those who had preserved 
 his trusty knight. Adolph joined in the prayer ; 
 and, more dead than alive, the two delinquents were 
 released from their perilous situation. Hans Van- 
 dergeld, at whose intercession the Count's execution 
 had been delayed, was likewise pardoned ; and, these 
 three being the most deeply implicated in the re- 
 bellion of the burgesses, the Duke could not, in jus- 
 tice, visit others with severity, but contented him- 
 self with the offer which they made of purchasing 
 his mercy, at the price of thirty thousand gilders. 
 
 It was long before the Jansens could comprehend 
 the possibility of Adolph's concealment in their 
 house. But, highly delighted with the result of the 
 contrivance, — when the Count asked the hand of 
 their fair cousin, in marriage, they gave her a larger 
 portion than any one of the daughters of the familj' 
 had ever, before, received. 
 
 Emma R. 
 

^gne dea:© s-iairaES'iEffam. 
 
THE DEAD TRUMPETER. 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 Wake, soldier ! — wake ! — thy war-horse waits, 
 To bear thee to the battle back ; — 
 Thou slumberest at a foeman's gates ; — 
 Thy dog would break thy bivouac ; — 
 Thy plume is trailing in the dust, 
 And thy red feulchion gathering rust ! 
 
 Sleep, soldier ! — sleep !— thy warfare o'er, — 
 Not thine own bugle's loudest strain 
 Shall ever break thy slumbers more. 
 With summons to the battle-plain ; 
 A trumpet-note more loud and deep, 
 Must rouse thee from that leaden sleep ! 
 
 Thou need'st nor helm nor cuirass, now, 
 — Beyond the Grecian hero's boast, — 
 Thou wilt not quail thy naked brow. 
 Nor shrink before a myriad host,— 
 For head and heel alike are sound, 
 A thousand arrows cannot wound ! 
 
304 THL DEAD TRUMPETER. 
 
 Thy mother is not in thy dreams, 
 "With that wild, widowed look she wore 
 The da}^ — how long to her it seems !^ — 
 She kissed thee, at the cottage door, 
 And sickened at the sounds of joy 
 That bore away her only boy ! 
 
 Sleep, soldier !— let thy mother wait. 
 To hear thy bugle on the blast ; 
 Thy dog, perhaps, may find the gate. 
 And bid her home to thee, at last ;— 
 He cannot tell a sadder tale 
 Than did thy clarion, on the gale. 
 When last — and far away — she heard its lingering 
 echoes fail ! 
 
C(EUR DE LION'S ADIEU TO PALESTINE. 
 
 " It needed not many arguments to convince Richard of the 
 truth of his situation ; and, indeed, after the burst of passion, he 
 sat him calmly down, and, with gloomy looks, head depressed, 
 and arms folded on his bosom, listened to the archbishop's rea- 
 soning on the impossibility of his carrying on the crusade when 
 deserted by his companions." The Talisman. 
 
 1. 
 Jerusalem ! — ^for thee — for thee, 
 
 May I a king and warrior weep, — 
 And other kings and warriors see. 
 
 Nor deem my lion heart asleep ; 
 —He was a God who wept of old. 
 Thou wert not, then, a heathen fold i 
 
 2. 
 
 Think not— to look on Syrian skies, — 
 For Moslem spoil, — or gorgeous ease, — 
 
 I bade mine ancient banner rise. 
 And traversed earth, and braved the seas ; 
 
 — I have a realm as Eden fair, 
 
 A thousand woods and streams are there. 
 
 X 
 
306 CCEUR DE lion's ADIEU TO PALESTINE. 
 
 3. 
 Tlwu wert the lure ! — could I forget 
 
 That men and angels, earth and heaven, 
 "Where now the scomer's foot is set. 
 
 In peace had walked, in vengeance striven ! 
 Could I forget thy first estate ! 
 Could I forget thine after-fate ! 
 
 4. 
 I came — and there were with me fought 
 
 Leaders as noble and as firee, 
 And many were the swords they brought. 
 
 But not the soul that lived in me ; 
 They asked for spoil— I did but crave 
 To free thy towers, or find a grave ! 
 
 5. 
 
 Oh, were the strength of yonder host 
 But mine — were even my spirit theirs, — 
 
 Brief— brief should be the Moslem's boast. 
 As brief the Christian's coward cares ; — 
 
 Yet, on those towers the cross should rise, 
 
 And England's * Lions guard the prize. 
 
 6. 
 
 Adieu — adieu !— This is a dream 
 No waking hour may render true ; 
 
 Alluding to the Roj^al Standard. 
 
C(EUR DE lion's ADIEU TO PALESTINE. 307 
 
 Leader and vassal homeward stream, 
 
 I, too, must hence — adieu— adieu ! — 
 Must leave unreaped this field of fame, 
 A victor— but in will and name ! 
 
 7. 
 
 In every land the laurel grows, 
 
 And many a wreath shall yet be mine, — 
 
 But Judah's palm and Sharon's rose 
 Are only plucked in Palestine ; 
 
 — I dreamed of them and Kedron's rill, 
 
 Alas ! the spoiler guards them, stiU ! 
 
 8. 
 
 Adieu— adieu ! In other days, 
 
 — When youthful minstrels sing of thee,— 
 Let this be Coeur de Lion's praise, 
 
 He left a throne to set thee free ! 
 Say, that he strove tiU hope was o'er, 
 And wept— when he could strive no more ! 
 
WRirrEN AT SILCHESTER, 
 
 THE ANCIENT CALLEVAl 
 
 A celebrated Station and City, on the great Roman Road from 
 Bath to London ; — the walls of which, covered with trees, yet 
 remain nearly entire. 
 
 BY THE REV. W. LISLE BOWLES. 
 
 The wild pear whispers, and the ivy crawls, 
 Aloag the circuit of thine ancient walls. 
 Lone city of the dead ! — and near this mound, * 
 The buried coins of mighty men are found, — 
 Silent remains of Caesars and of kings, 
 Soldiers of whose renown the world yet rings. 
 In its sad story ! — These have had their day 
 Of glory, and are passed — like sounds— away ! 
 
 And such their fame ! — while we the spot behold. 
 
 And muse upon the tale that time has told. 
 
 We ask, where are they ? — they whose clarion 
 
 brayed. 
 Whose chariot glided, and whose war-horse neighed ; 
 
 • The Amphitheatre. 
 
WRITTEN AT SILCHESTER. 309 
 
 Whose cohorts hastened o'er the echoing way, 
 Whose eagles glittered to the orient ray ! 
 —Ask of this fragment, reared by Roman hands, 
 That, now, a lone and broken column stands I 
 Ask of that Road — whose track alone remains — 
 That swept, of old, o'er mountains, downs, and 
 
 plains ; 
 And, still, along the silent champain leads, — 
 Where are its noise of cars and tramp of steeds ". 
 Ask of the dead ! — and silence will reply, 
 " Go, seek them in the grave of mortal vanity!" 
 
 Is this a Roman veteran ? — look again, — 
 
 It is a British soldier, who, in Spain, 
 
 At Albuera's glorious fight, has bled ; 
 
 He, too, has spurred his charger o'er the dead ! 
 
 — Desolate, now — friendless and desolate. 
 
 Let him the tale of war and home relate. — 
 
 His wife — (and Gainsborough such a form and mien 
 
 Would paint, in harmony with such a scene,) — 
 
 With pensive aspect— yet demeanour bland, 
 
 — A tottering infant guided by her hand — 
 
 Spoke of her own green Erin, vyhile her child, 
 
 Amid the scene of ancient glory, smiled, 
 
 As spring's first flower smiles from a monument 
 
 Of other years, by time and ruin rent ! 
 
 Lone city of the dead ! thy pride is past, 
 
 Thy temples sunk — as at the whirlwind's blast! 
 
310 WRITTEN AT SILCIIESTER. 
 
 Silent— all silent, where the mingled cries 
 
 Of gathered myriads rent the purple skies ! 
 
 Here — where the summer breezes wave the wood — 
 
 The stern and silent gladiator stood. 
 
 And listened to the shouts that hailed his gushing 
 
 blood! 
 And, on this wooded mount, — that oft, of yore. 
 Hath echoed to the Lybian lion's roar, — 
 The ear scarce catches, from the shady glen. 
 The small pipe of a solitaiy wren ! 
 
THE LAST WISH. 
 
 Go to the forest shade ; 
 
 Seek thou the well-known glade 
 Where, heavy with sweet dew, the violets lie. 
 
 Gleaming through moss-tufts deep, 
 
 Like dark eyes filled with sleep. 
 And bathed in hues of summer's midnight sky. 
 
 Bring me their buds, to shed 
 
 Around my dying bed, 
 A breath of May, and of the wood's repose ; 
 
 For I, in sooth, depart 
 
 With a reluctant heart. 
 That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. 
 
 Fain would I stay with thee, — 
 
 Alas ! this must not be ; 
 Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours ! 
 
 Go where the fountain's breast 
 
 Catches, in glassy rest, 
 'the dim green light that pours through laurel bowers. 
 
312 THE LAST WISH. 
 
 I know how softly bright. 
 
 Steeped in that tender light. 
 The water-lilies tremble there, e'en now ; 
 
 Go to the pure stream's edge. 
 
 And, from its whispering sedge. 
 Bring me those flowers, to cool my fevered brow. 
 
 Then, — as in Hope's young days, — 
 
 Track thou the antique maze 
 Of the rich garden, to its grassy mound ; 
 
 There is a lone white rose. 
 
 Shedding, in sudden snows. 
 Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around ! 
 
 Well know'st thou that fair tree I 
 
 —A murmur of the bee 
 Dwells, ever, in the honied lime above ; 
 
 Bring me one pearly flower. 
 
 Of all its clustering shower, — 
 For, on that spot we first revealed our love ! 
 
 Gather one woodbine bough. 
 
 Then, from the lattice low 
 Of the bowered cottage which J bade thee mark. 
 
 When, by the hamlet, last. 
 
 Through dim wood-lanes, we passed, 
 Where dews were glancing to the glow-worm's spark. 
 
 Haste ! to my pillow bear 
 Those fragrant things, and fair ; — 
 My hand no more may bind them up at eve j 
 
THE LAST WISH. 313 
 
 Yet shall their odour soft 
 One bright dream round me waft. 
 Of life, youth, summer, — all that I must leave ! 
 
 And oh ! if thou would'st ask 
 
 Wherefore thy steps I task 
 The grove, the stream, the hamlet- vale to trace ; 
 
 'Tis that some thought of me 
 
 —When f am gone, — may be 
 The spirit bound to each familiar place. 
 
 I bid mine image dwell, 
 
 (Oh ! break thou not the spell !) 
 In the deep wood, and by the fountain side ! 
 
 Thou must not, my beloved ! 
 
 Rove where we two have roved, 
 Forgetting her that in her spring-time died ! 
 
 F. H. 
 
 [uiriyBRsiTY; 
 
214 THE WIFE. 
 
 work," he said, calmly viewing them. Mary looked 
 doubtfully at him. " Indeed, you are not well," she said, 
 — "you look wildly, though you speak so gently. You 
 have been up half the night ; I pray you, love, retire 
 to rest." " I am well — perfectly well, I repeat, phy- 
 sically speaking ; but I am suffering mental torture, 
 — for I am thinking of what would become of you, 
 with such fragile delicacy of constitution, if I were 
 to die. Now teU me, love," said he, in a low tone of 
 sad melody, that thrilled Mary to the heart, " tell 
 me, if I were to die, and poor, — ^you know it is but 
 a supposition, after all, — where would you seek refuge, 
 — where find consolation ?" For an instant, Mary 
 looked reproachfully in her husband's face, for she 
 thought he was trifling with her feelings ; but read- 
 ing a sad earnestness in bis eyes, which she could 
 not comprehend, she burst into tears, and throwing 
 herself into his arms, said, " Die on your grave, if, 
 indeed, I survived the knowledge of my loss." " And 
 your chUd, owr child, — would you abandon it ?" he 
 continued, with vehement emotion. She thought he 
 was displeased with her; but, collecting all her 
 firmness, she replied, "You will be sorry, Frede- 
 rick, on reflection, that you tried me thus ; but it is 
 your wish I should answer ; now hear me, — I could 
 not, — I would not, survive you." A sob escaped her, 
 as she looked on the playful boy at their feet, who 
 was hiding his laughing face in his mother's white 
 dress. " He would be fondly tended by your mo- 
 
THE WIFE. 216 
 
 ther." " I thank you, I thank you," said Stafford, 
 as he pressed her convulsively to his bosom, " then 
 we shall die together ; it would be cruelty to sepa- 
 rate us, — to let you survive me ;" and, with an hys- 
 teric laugh, he fell senseless upon the floor. 
 
 This was the first and last exhibition of Stafford's 
 weakness. He had now wrought his mind up to that 
 high degree of excitation which is heroism or mad- 
 ness, according to its cause or object — He believed he 
 had a sad and horrid duty to perform — The struggle 
 between pure natural feeling, with the disinclination 
 to commit a crime against society, and a desire to save 
 his adored wife and himself the pangs of degradation, 
 want, and misery, — was severe, but decisive. No 
 after-thought, for a moment, turned him from his 
 gloomy purpose. Mary had, at first, feared for his 
 life, — then that his intellects were deranged; and 
 the shock had shaken her frame to its centre. But, 
 on finding that he was recovered to perfect speech 
 and recollection, and apologized, in the most affecti- 
 onate manner, for his foolish jealousy and anxiety as 
 to the force of her aflfection, and said, he was even jea- 
 lous of his boy, — ^those fears subsided. "I am happy," 
 were his concluding words. " You would rather die 
 with me, than live for him ; I only wish I deserved 
 such love ;'* and he fondly kissed her cheek. She 
 smiled, but the smile her lip put on, was not from 
 the heart. She was not imposed on by this calmness 
 of demeanour ; she felt that a hidden fire blazed be- 
 neath. — What can escape the quick perception of a 
 
316 ADDRESS TO THE GARDEN ROLL. 
 
 Its icy head, like its own cousin, snake. 
 To hiss and wound : — beneath thy giant tread, 
 It writhes and bleeds ; and, on thy circling snow. 
 Its thread of blood, in pallid stains, distils ! 
 
 Sometimes the snail, — if snail, like Mungo Park, 
 
 Or noted Bruce, on bold exploring bent. 
 
 Leaves the sweet bosom of some yielding fruit. 
 
 And, full of enterprize and love of fame. 
 
 Dares cross the awful gravel, which divides 
 
 Grass plot from shrubbery, and, with quickened pace. 
 
 Presumes to tread where snail ne'er trod before,— 
 
 Thou checkest in its progress ; and the mail 
 
 In which it sallied forth — like knight of old. 
 
 To tilt at tournament — avails it nought ; 
 
 But, with its horns outstretched, and shivered coat, 
 
 The victim *' on sweet nectarine thinks,— and dies !"* 
 
 And when, intent to make the smooth more smooth, 
 
 Thou roll'st thy massy body o'er the grass. 
 
 In vain the daisy lifts its modest eye. 
 
 To bid thee spare its beauties : — thou, alas ! 
 
 Continuest, still, thy progress, — till thy track 
 
 Is marked by daisy deaths ! 
 
 Yet, Garden Roll! 
 The good thou dost outweighs the evil, still, — 
 If thou art judged as man should always judge 
 
 Et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos."— Virgil. 
 
ADDRESS TO THE GARDEN ROLL. 317 
 
 His fellow man, and would himself be judged, 
 
 — A frailty pardoned for a virtue's sake ! — 
 
 And thence, to thee this strain of praise I breathe. 
 
 These beauteous scenes among ;— where handmaid Art, 
 
 With graceful skill, has dressed fair Nature's form. 
 
 Hanging, in easy folds, her verdant robe, 
 
 To veil — but notobscure — her beauties! — Garden Roll, 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 
 
 A TALE OF AMERICA. 
 
 Thy destined Lord is come too late." 
 
 Bride ofAbydos. 
 
 It was a beautiful autumn evening, in Pine Hollow. 
 The sun had almost set ; and deep rays, bursting 
 through the clouds, glowed upon their leaden mas- 
 ses, in a dusky purple tinge. But it was on the hori- 
 zon only that the shadow of a cloud could be seen, 
 for all above was clear uninterrupted space. The 
 blue vault, immediately overhead, declined, at the 
 sides of the vast arch, into all those delicate untrace- 
 able tints, the exquisite blending of which lends so 
 soft a charm to evening skies. The face of the earth 
 partook of the influence of the hour. The wind had 
 sunk so low that no leaf trembled in its embraces. 
 Nothing fell upon the ear, to interrupt that mur- 
 muring which perplexes us to know whether it is 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 319 
 
 the creature of reality or of imagination, — save the 
 faint and monotonous rippling of the stream, or the 
 chirping of the owls, as they flitted around. 
 
 Pine Hollow was, at the period of my tale, one of 
 those small, sweet vallies which, in an irregular coun- 
 try, like America, — unlevelled, or levelled only in 
 a very partial degree, by the almost omnipotent power 
 of civilization, — so often arrest the wanderings of the 
 trans-Atlantic traveller. Lofty pines which, with 
 their far-spreading summits, seemed monuments of 
 living antiquity, clothed its sides ; and cast a dark 
 shade over the bubbling stream that glistened be- 
 neath, wherever a gleam, of light broke through the 
 overhanging foliage. Lichens, nameless herbs, and 
 wild-flowers perfumed the banks of the diminutive 
 stream. These, becoming detached by the unceas- 
 ing flow of the waters, and congregating with loose 
 pebbles and other accidental obstacles, formed, at 
 irregular distances, dams, over which the flood fell in 
 noisy cataracts. The gloom which canopied the whole 
 was such as inspired a pleasing awe, — wholly distinct 
 from that terror with which the more secret recesses 
 of nature are, sometimes, apt to invest the beholder; 
 and, to one fond of indulging in fanciful reveries, at 
 the expense of judgment, might have seemed one of 
 the sylvan retreats of classic mythology, or the 
 scene of the wilder and more romantic superstitions 
 with which the traditions of the darker ages has de- 
 lighted to people the more secret localities of nature. 
 But the discoverer cf the western hemisphere is not 
 
320 MARIAN SEAfOllTlI, 
 
 supposed to have been anticipated, in his researches, 
 by the deities of ancient Greece ; and no spectre of 
 modem date was known to have chosen, for the stage 
 of its exhibitions, the spot of which I speak. It is, 
 therefore, to be feared that Pine Hollow was,— and 
 may yet remain, — undignified by any more as- 
 tounding apparitions than the squirrels that sprung 
 from branch to branch of the clustered walnut-trees, 
 at the southern extremity of the Hollow ; or the 
 lizards, butterflies, and other reptiles and insects, 
 which <;laimed an immemorial right of enjoyment 
 in the produce of the uncultivated district (by far 
 the most extensive) of the valley. 
 
 It may be inferred, from what has been just said, 
 that cultivation was not entirely excluded. On one 
 bank of the valley, — where the descent, becoming less 
 precipitous, formed a gentle slope, — the neatness and 
 conveniency of art had supplanted the wild luxuri- 
 ance of nature. The turf had, in many places, been 
 removed, to make way for small gravel walks, bor- 
 dered either with shells or neatly clipped rows of 
 box. A smaU grove of firs half concealed from 
 view a dwelling, originally built of wood and plais- 
 ter ; but the additions and alterations which had 
 been made to it, and of which the number was by no 
 means small, were of brick and other modern mate- 
 rials. The windows were small, and the glazing in 
 the minute diamond style, except w^here the operator 
 had chosen to exhibit his taste and skill, in stars, cir- 
 cles, and other such fantasies. The little light which 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 321 
 
 could, under any circumstances, penetrate through 
 the green glass of which they were formed, was, in 
 a great proportion, intercepted by the intermingling 
 tendrils of the hop-plants and ivy which clasped 
 and kissed the white-washed casements. After the 
 fashion of ancient dwellings, in our own country, 
 the upper story of the building projected to a con- 
 siderable distance beyond the level of the lower 
 part; and was painted in chequers of black and 
 white, and decorated with rude alto relievos, in- 
 tended to represent human countenances, or cattle, or 
 such nameless objects, as it had entered the head of 
 the artificer to conceive. The roof was covered with 
 tUes, intermingling with thatch, which a slight ver- 
 dure had clothed with an uniform coating of green. 
 The total want of design, and the irregularity ob- 
 servable in every point, gave a romantic, though not 
 unpleasing, wildness to the retired dwelling. Yet, 
 there was not wanting an appearance of neatness and 
 comfort about it. 
 
 On the green platform before the house, stood a 
 dial, — which was so situated as, in sunny weather, to 
 point out the progress of time, during three hours in 
 the day. This, together with an hieroglyphic image, 
 emblematic (for the obscure hint at the meaning 
 which it conveyed, could not be called representa- 
 tive) of St. George and the Dragon, were the chief 
 artificial adornments of the exterior part of the esta- 
 blishment. But the tulip-tree, on whose branches 
 rested the pendant abodes of the fiery hang-nest, 
 ^ed its perfume around ; and, the lattice porch, al- 
 
322 MARIAN SEAFORTH. 
 
 most hidden by the vines which twined up its sides, 
 gave a cheering promise of the spirit that dwelt 
 within. 
 
 Glowing in all the richness of young loveliness, 
 Marian Seaforth, in her seventeenth year, was the 
 enlivening spirit of the abode which her presence 
 consecrated. Tall in stature, and exquisitely pro- 
 portioned, her figure met the eye as that of a per- 
 fect model. Her eyes were blue ; and a common 
 spectator would have said that they were beauti- 
 fiilly bright. One of closer observation would have 
 seen that their brightness was softened down into 
 a mild and affectionate lustre, in harmony with tlie 
 sweet and gentle expression of lier features ; while, 
 they were the very eyes on which a poet would 
 have gazed with inspiration, till he dreamed of 
 liquid stars, and melting suns, and all the fond un- 
 intelligible of simile and metaphor, — and saw, in the 
 brown locks that clustered around them, clouds, 
 veiling the luminaries which his imagination had 
 given birth to. But Marian knew little of 
 poetry,— except the poetry of nature, which had 
 taught her to feel, and admire, — and this was lan- 
 guage which, in her situation, the breath of adula- 
 tion had never carried to her ear. She was, at once, 
 lovely, simple, and affectionate; — attributes which 
 can so seldom be conjointly predicated of the same 
 female, that nothing but the consciousness of in- 
 flexible veracity could have induced me to assert 
 what the sceptical may consider as verging on the 
 borders of improbability,— at least. Her mother had 
 
MARIAN SEAIORTH. 323 
 
 died and left her, then a girl of thirteen, to the care 
 of her father. This early sorrow had made an im- 
 pression on her mind, which imparted to her cha- 
 racter more seriousness than might otherwise have 
 belonged to it,— for she was naturally lively; and 
 now that time had softened the harshness of her 
 grief, and that the solitary condition of her surviving 
 parent required all her endeavours to enliven his 
 days, she was contented and cheerfuL 
 
 But, on the evening of which we have spoken, a 
 cloud hung over Marian. She paced sadly, and 
 somewhat hurriedly, round the little garden. Yet, 
 there was no expression of impatience in her sorrow, 
 — no forgetftilness of that placid gentleness which 
 was ever, as a soft music, about her. But tears fell 
 fast and silently, as she, alternately, took from her 
 bosom, and returned to its sacred depository, a 
 paper, which seemed connected with her griefe ; 
 and she sighed heavily, as she pressed to her lips 
 some object, for her fondness to which, the blush 
 that overspread her cheek, though alone, seemed 
 intended to atone. We must digress, to make our 
 readers acquainted with the cause of Marian's 
 sorrow. 
 
 Her father was an Englishman, whom misfortunes 
 had induced to leave his country ; which he did with 
 the reluctance of one who clung, with bigotted fond- 
 ness, to the land of his sires. He crossed the At- 
 lantic, and arrived at the shores of the New World, 
 some years previous to the commencement of those 
 
324 MARIAN SEAFORTHy 
 
 dissensions which ended in the dismemberment of 
 the American States from the parent country. Here 
 he married the mother of his daughter. Bound by 
 such ties, and placed in a state of independence, by 
 a train of prosperity which his native land had re- 
 fused to his endeavours, he became so far an Ame- 
 rican as to lose the wish of departing from the 
 country. The death of his wife, however, consi- 
 derably altered his sentiments ; and, on the break- 
 ing out of the independent spirit among the Ame- 
 ricans, his warmth in favour of Britain destroyed 
 the cordiality which had, till then, subsisted between 
 him and many of the inhabitants of his adopted land. 
 He had, therefore, retired into privacy ; where 
 the irksomeness of solitude, though alleviated 
 by the soothing attention of his child, gave addi- 
 tional strength to his wish for departure. Circum- 
 stances, however, connected with the commercial 
 undertaking in which he had been engaged, delayed 
 his carrying his resolves into execution, till the in- 
 creased seriousness of the political affairs of the time 
 rendered such an attempt hazardous. 
 
 Amongst the forces of the provincialists, one of 
 the earliest who enrolled themselves in the cause of 
 American independence was a young man, named 
 Frederic Muir. Brave, impetuous, and devoted to 
 the cause in which he was engaged, he had attracted 
 the notice, not only of his commanding officer, but, 
 upon an occasion of a sudden and hazardous attack, 
 of Washington, — who had lately been elected the 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 325 
 
 general of the provincial army. But what entitles 
 him to notice here is, that he was an admirer of 
 Marian Seaforth. Their acquaintance had com- 
 menced before the dispute between America and 
 England had arrived at any great height ; and poli- 
 tical differences had not occasioned any change in 
 their feelings towards each other. But, between the 
 father and lover, the case was altered. Men are 
 more forcibly actuated by impulses, arising from the 
 changes of public and external affairs. Woman re- 
 poses more wholly upon her own domestic circle, — 
 that microcosm of affectionate hearts, with which 
 consanguinity or friendship has raised up, in her 
 bosom, a kindly communion. 
 
 Between old Seaforth, then, and the lover, it is 
 not surprising that differences arose;— it would, ra- 
 ther, have been strange had it been otherwise. It 
 is true, the youth endeavoured to avoid all dis- 
 course which might lead to subjects upon which he 
 was certain to difler from the father of his Marian, 
 —and he succeeded ; but the prejudices of age are not 
 equally flexible, and the father would often throw 
 out observations which could not but be painful to 
 Frederic. Love, however, induced him to bear pa- 
 tiently the persecution which he endured. But the 
 honour of a soldier ought to be dearer than even his 
 love ; and when he was attacked on that ground, it 
 was no longer possible for the connection between 
 Muir and Seaforth to continue. 
 
 One evening, when the intelligence which had 
 
326 MARIAN SEArORTH. 
 
 reached Seaforth, respecting the conduct of the 
 States, had been particularly displeasing to him, he 
 threw out invectives against the American cause, 
 — so bitter that Muir, who was present, could not 
 avoid replying. In spite of his endeavour to frame 
 his reply as gently as might not compromise his 
 sense of duty, a dispute ensued, in which each party 
 considered that the degree of respect which was due 
 to himself was neglected. Marian, too, thought 
 that the deference to which her father was entitled 
 had not been yielded to him ; and, when the dispu- 
 tants parted in anger, and the lover entreated her to 
 hear him, in private, a moment, before they sepa- 
 rated, she refiised his request, in an accent which 
 those lips had never before given to words address- 
 ed to him. For a moment, he stood, as if irresolute ; 
 — for a moment, his paling cheek and quivering lip 
 were as a comment upon the deep, sad, yet melan- 
 choly-fond expression of his eye, as he gazed upon 
 her whose every look had, till that moment, been 
 the echo of his own. It was but for an instant, — ere 
 the consciousness that he no longer lingered on the 
 threshold of a friend recurred to his mind ; and, 
 uttering a farewell, he compelled his features to as- 
 sume the appearance of calmness,— and left the 
 house. 
 
 But, in the memory of her whom he left, the tone, 
 the look of that farewell dwelt, for many a day, 
 mournftilly engrossing her every thought and feel- 
 ing. Day after day, she found herself mentally 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 327 
 
 repeating it, — inwardly brooding over the glance of 
 suppressed anguish which accompanied it. Her's 
 was no longer the smile of the heart which — like a 
 sun-beam on a diversified landscape — was wont to 
 lend a lustre to every occupation in which she en- 
 gaged,— 
 
 " to shed 
 A tenderness on all she said.^^ 
 
 Her step no longer bounded over the ground— a 
 light emblem of a lighter heart. Sad, mournful, and 
 unhappy,— and yet more sad, more mournful, more 
 unhappy, from being compelled to hide, or to endea- 
 vour to hide, the feelings which swelled her bosom, — 
 when she could steal a moment of privacy, she 
 would give way to her sorrow, and pour forth her 
 grief in tears; — happy if, with her tears, the source 
 of them could also have been dried up. But it was 
 not so : " it is only to the happy that tears are a 
 luxury ;'* and, tUl she could forget what her heart 
 too plainly told her could never be forgotten, it was 
 vain to look for happiness. 
 
 In vain did she cling to the hope which, day 
 after day, deceived her, that he would yet return ; 
 vainly did she try to convince herself that, if he 
 had, indeed, on so slight occasion, abandoned her, 
 he was unworthy of being regretted. The cold, 
 heartless sophistry that seeks to cheat our feelings, 
 never deceives, even when the tissue of its argu- 
 ment seems most plausible and complete ; and the 
 
328 MARIAN SEAI'ORTH. 
 
 altered look,--the pause,— the start, at every foot- 
 step, which approached the unfrequented valley of 
 Pine Hollow, — the palpitation of heart, till the 
 comer was ascertained, — and the sinking of the spi- 
 rit, when the certainty that no intelligence of Mm 
 had arrived extinguished the newly lit-up blaze of 
 hope,— these told too well that Marian's peace was 
 no longer the inmate of its native home. At last, 
 the wasting anxiety of suspense was determined. 
 A messenger arrived, with a letter for the almost 
 hopeless girl ; and it was after the perusal of that 
 epistle, that Marian was first introduced to the 
 reader. 
 
 It was from Frederic. It informed her that he 
 was about to go, with his regiment, to a Somewhat 
 remote part of the country ; implored her forgive- 
 ness ; entreated her acceptance of a ring, which ac- 
 companied the letter ; and begged, in return, as a 
 mark of her pardon, a lock of her hair. It concluded 
 with an assurance that those vows, once so dear to 
 Marian, now clung faster to his heart than ever ; 
 and an entreaty that if, amid the troubles which dis- 
 turbed the country, an hour of distress or danger 
 should arrive to her^ she would send back his ring, 
 as a token, — and it would bring him to her side, 
 through every risk. 
 
 A weight of sorrow was lifted from Marian's heart, 
 by this letter. Still, the danger to which her lover 
 might be exposed pressed mournfully upon her. 
 She sent the lock, with a few lines expressive of 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 329 
 
 her forgiveness and her love ; and returned to her 
 accustomed employment, with a cheerfulness to 
 which she had long been a stranger. 
 
 But other griefe awaited Marian. The day was 
 closing, and Seaforth had not yet returned home 
 
 from the town of B , which was within four or 
 
 five miles fi-om Pine Hollow, and which — contrary to 
 his usual retired habits — he had, that day, visited. 
 As the light rapidly decreased, and the foliage which 
 shaded the windows took a darker tinge, Marian felt 
 some degree of apprehension ; — for Pine Hollow was 
 situated in a lonely and unfrequented spot, and the 
 unsettled state of the country rendered caution 
 essential to safety. Her fears increased as the hour 
 grew later, in spite of the endeavours of the old 
 man, their servant, to persuade her that her lather 
 had been induced, by the gloominess of the night, to 
 accept some friend's invitation, and pass the night at 
 B . Marian watched till midnight, — when, de- 
 spairing of her father's return, she retired to her 
 chamber, and passed the remainder of the night in 
 anxiety and apprehension. 
 
 At the first dawn of morning, she was up, and on 
 
 her way to B . Suspense is heavier than the 
 
 heaviest evil under the sun. On her arrival at the 
 town, every thing which met her eyes was indicative 
 of some late commotion. Many of the shops were 
 closed, and the people in the streets were collected 
 in scattered groups, discoursing eagerly, and with 
 an appearance of mystery and deep concern. Small 
 
 :Uiri7BIlSITTt 
 
330 MARIAN SEAFORTH. 
 
 bodies of the provincial militia occasionally paraded 
 the streets. Every thing wore the appearance of 
 doubt and alarm. 
 
 Marian needed all the little stock of happiness 
 which had been let in upon her heart, to enable her 
 to bear up against the shock which awaited her. 
 Close on the outskirts of the town, a skirmish had 
 taken place with a party of British troops. Un- 
 happily, Marian's father was passing at the time ; 
 and, seeing a disarmed British soldier about to be 
 cut down, when begging for quarter, his natural 
 feelings, aided in no slight degree by his political 
 prejudices, had prompted him rashly to interfere, 
 and strike down the American. The action was not 
 unobserved ; he was taken prisoner ; and, at the 
 conclusion of the fight, — which was almost immediate, 
 and in favour of the Americans, — he was lodged 
 safely in the town ; where the fear of the inhabi- 
 tants, (amongst whom a rumour was spread that a 
 larger body of the enemy was advancing on them,) 
 caused Seaforth to be watched closely, and treated 
 with some degree of rigour. 
 
 Two days after this event, a young man, of slight 
 form, and apparently delicate constitution, presented 
 himself to the recruiting officer at B , and sig- 
 nified a wish to become a member of the provincial 
 corps. He represented himself as a Canadian ; and the 
 eagerness which he expressed — the resolution marked 
 on his saUow features — overcame the scruples arising 
 from his want of strength. He was accepted ; and 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 331 
 
 — the most experienced troops being needed, to par- 
 take in the active service, — he was, with two others, 
 placed to guard the prisoners. 
 
 The next day, the recruit, together with the pri- 
 soner Seaforth, were missing. Immediate search 
 was made, and the younger of the fugitives was 
 soon apprehended, in a wood adjoining the town. 
 To all enquiries respecting the prisoner, he either 
 refused to answer, or spoke from the purpose ; and 
 seemed totally unmoved by any thing that passed, — 
 save that, when a party returned from the pursuit of 
 Seaforth, with the intelligence that they had been 
 unable to discover any trace of the fugitive, the 
 smile of a moment passed over his lip, and the blaze 
 of rejoicing which burned in his eye shewed how 
 much interest he took in the information. To find 
 treachery among their ranks was a blow which Ame- 
 ricans—struggling for all that was dear to them, — 
 could not bear. The deserter was tried, and, being 
 found guilty, sentenced to death. 
 
 During these transactions, Frederic Muir— at a 
 distance of nearly two hundred miles from the spot 
 of his Marian's residence, — was actively performing 
 the duties of his station, and reaping laurels which 
 he fondly hoped his reconciled girl might, one day, 
 share with him. His buoyant spirit looked forward 
 to the time when peace and independence should be 
 acquired by his country, and the dissensions of party 
 should no longer poison the serene happiness of 
 private life. He beguiled his lonely hours with 
 
332 MARXIAN SEAFORTH. 
 
 bright recollections of the past, and brighter pictur- 
 ings of the future ; and never paused to doybt that 
 time would put the seal of reality upon the promises 
 of fancy. 
 
 A bright moon-light night had tempted him to 
 walk a few paces from his tent. The whole camp 
 lay in stillness before him, interrupted only by the 
 regular measured steps of the sentinels. The white 
 canvas glistened in the moon-beams ; — the sky was 
 spotless ; — the far woods— the farther hills were lit 
 up with a softened radiance. The young man sighed, 
 as he looked on the picture before — around — above 
 him. On such a night, he had first, with hesitating 
 lips and a trembling frame, sued for the favour of his 
 ladye-love ! Again he looked on the white tents 
 and the far landscape, — but his heart was at the cot- 
 tage of Pine Hollow ! 
 
 His reverie was broken by the sound of his name, 
 and the approach of some one who delivered into his 
 hands a sealed packet. His eye fell on the super- 
 scription—it was from Marian. With all a lover's 
 eagerness and a lover's hope, he broke the seal, and 
 a ring fell out ! The scarcely audible report, as it 
 reached the ground, startled him like the sudden 
 blast of a trumpet ;— it was the signal of danger ! He 
 sat down, and passed his hand across his brow, for a 
 tew moments, ere he ran over the contents. It was 
 written in danger, and in doubt if it might reach its 
 object till the hand was cold that traced it ; and, be- 
 fore these feelings, maidenly reserve and maidenly 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 
 
 333 
 
 pride had given way, and it breathed a love whose 
 expression — even in their fondc^.t hours, — had never 
 before blessed him, — but in Marian's eye. His ashy 
 features, which had gradually stiffened with horror, 
 as he read the contents of the letter, softened 
 before the tenderness of her language ; and a long 
 burst of weeping gave relief to feelings, whose ten- 
 sion would have prevented the immediate exertion 
 necessary to track the single ray of hope that, at 
 once, presented itself to his mind. 
 
 The letter was long. It told of Seaforth*s offence 
 and arrest ; — of his escape by the aid of Marian, dis- 
 guised as a recruit ; — of Marian's capture and con- 
 demnation ; — of her determination to conceal her sex 
 and character, lest it should reach the ears of her 
 father, who would immediately give himself up to 
 save her ;— it adjured Frederic, by their long love, 
 and by the confidence she had reposed in him, not to 
 thwart her endeavour by any discovery ; — and im- 
 plored him, by the promise of that ring which she 
 now returned, to come to her,— that she might see 
 him once more on earth, after so long separation and 
 sorrow. 
 
 Four days were yet to pass, ere the morning which 
 was to terminate the existence of Marian. Fre- 
 deric's resolution was speedily taken. He had, in 
 the first violence of his grief, determined upon going 
 at once to Marian ; but a better hope dawned upon 
 his calmer reflection, — and he resolved, if leave of ab- 
 sence could be procured, to go to the camp adjoining 
 
334 MARIAN SEAFORTH. 
 
 Philadelphia, where Washington, with his army, 
 were then stationed. The distance was little short 
 of two hundred miles ; and from Philadelphia to the 
 town where Marian was confined, more than a hun- 
 dred. This space was to be traversed over the face 
 of a country of varied aspect, and very imperfectly 
 provided with roads of any description; at the con- 
 stant risk, too, of falling in with parties of the 
 English army, — and being thereby delayed, without 
 the hope of proceeding in time for the accomplish- 
 ment of his object. He provided himself with a fleet 
 horse, and as much money as he was master of; for 
 he foresaw the necessity of tliis, in order to procure 
 fresh horses, and otherwise accelerate his progres?. 
 The life of a soldier accustoms him to dispatch in his 
 preparations, and a space of half an hour saw Fre- 
 derick's completed, and him on his way. 
 
 The day was half past, when the rider stopped 
 to take some refreshment, at a small farm-house, 
 that appeared to be the intermediate limit be- 
 tween the cultivated and rude divisions of the 
 district he was crossing. Had it depended on 
 Muir alone, a brief time had been sufficient to 
 supply his wants ; but those of his companion, 
 — upon whose strength and swiftness so much de- 
 pended,— were to be regarded. Half an hour's 
 delay was aflforded to recruit the animal, and Fre- 
 deric proceeded. He now entered a wild and hiUy 
 country ; the wood that obstructed this region had 
 been but very partially cleared away, and that little 
 
MARJAN SEAFORTH. 335 
 
 for a small extent only. Amid huge clusters of pine, 
 oak, and chesnut, spreading and interweaving their 
 vast arms, his progress was much slower than was 
 congenial to his wishes. Autumn was advancing, 
 and the decaying leaves were falling around him, on 
 every side, offering an obstacle to his horse's motion. 
 This woody tract was succeeded by a sandy plain, 
 which lay so deep that the horse sank three or four 
 inches into it, at every step. 
 
 By evening, he had arrived at the small village on 
 the banks of the Connecticut which certified him 
 that a considerable portion of his journey was passed ; 
 and saw the majestic waves of the noble river, swell- 
 ing and glittering, by the uncertain twilight which 
 prevailed. Here it was necessary to pass the night ; 
 but he was awakened, in the morning, from a dream 
 of pleasant omen, by the first rays of the rising sun, 
 shining in diamond-shaped sections on the floor 
 through the panes of his window. Again mounted,— 
 again he pursued his journey ; and, the road being some- 
 what better than on the preceding day, his dispatch was 
 such that, by noon, he had accomplished more miles 
 than in the whole of yesterday's course. But he 
 thought it doubtful whether his steed could sustain 
 such continued exertion, and therefore procured ano- 
 ther, instead of his present one, — which he left, with 
 a sum of money, as a security for the return of his 
 substitute. 
 
 The sun had, some time, given place to the bright 
 star which gemmed the edge of the dark clouds that 
 
336 MARIAN SEAFORTH. 
 
 skirted the horizon, — when Frederic approached the 
 station which the commander-in-chief had chosen, 
 near Philadelphia, for the entrenchments of the 
 American array. A deep orange tint, blending in- 
 sensibly into a rich saffron, spread over the sky. 
 The mild beauty of the heavens was in keeping with 
 the silence which lends so peculiar a witchery to 
 evening, — silence rather marked than broken, by the 
 distant hum of the camp, " stilly sounding." Here, 
 then, was his goal — the spot where his hopes and his 
 fear were to be determined ! 
 
 He addressed himself to an officer who was in- 
 specting the progress of an out-work ; and, being 
 examined, was conducted to a tent,— the superior 
 structure of which, and the flag by which it was 
 surmounted, pointed it out as the one appropriated 
 to Washington. Into this Frederic was introduced, 
 and was placed in its outer compartment. In a few 
 minutes, the canvas of the interior division was 
 pushed aside, — and he stood in the presence of the 
 commander. We must not dwell upon the particu- 
 lars of his interview with the hero of America. 
 During the time which he had remained alone in the 
 tent, his anxiety had increased to such a degree that 
 his agitation, for a time, deprived him of utterance 
 to tell his story. The favourable opinion which his 
 commander had previously formed of him, and the 
 anguish painted on his fine manly features, were, all 
 this time, speaking for him ; and Washington lis- 
 tened, with deep interest, to the affecting details 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 337 
 
 which he, at length, drew from the young soldier. 
 Another pause of agony awaited Frederic, when 
 after listening to his recital, Washington withdrew 
 to confer with his council on the petition. A few 
 minutes, and the curtain was again drawn aside ; and 
 Washington, in person, announced to him — Marian's 
 pardon ! 
 
 The same mercy could not be extended to Seaforth. 
 His hostile interference in a quarrel, in which (con- 
 sidering that America had afforded him those means 
 of acquiring independence which his native land had 
 refused him,) he ought, at least, to have maintained 
 neutrality, had placed him, in the opinion of those 
 with whom the general had conferred, beyond the 
 reach of lenience. The necessary documents for 
 Marian's pardon were delivered to Frederic Muir ; 
 and Washington, after " ordering him refreshment, 
 and remindmg him that when the immediate pres- 
 sure of his domestic afflictions were removed, he 
 was, once more, the soldier of America — the child of 
 a great nation, struggling for freedom,— left himself 
 rooted in the young man's heart. 
 
 In the morning, on preparing to depart, Frederic 
 found his horse exchanged, for one infinitely supe- 
 rior. Secretly thanking the foresight and gene- 
 rosity of the donor, — for, he had no doubt by whose 
 directions the substitution had been made, — he set 
 spurs to his new acquaintance, whose pace speedily 
 justified the opinion which, from his appearance, 
 Frederic had been inclined to form of him. For a 
 
338 MARIAN SEAFORTH. 
 
 few hours, his journey continued fair and prosperous ; 
 but from the darkness, — which, every moment, in- 
 creased, as the day advanced, — and the massy clouds 
 which drove with fitful violence across the face of 
 the heavens, he augured an almost immediate storm. 
 Unbuckling his ample war-cloak, he disposed of it in 
 such a manner as to shelter, not only himself, but, 
 in some degree, the horse which he rode. But his 
 caution was superfluous; for the storm which burst 
 upon him, came with such violence as completely to 
 drench him, in less than five minutes. This, how- 
 ever, was an inconvenience to which — as one accus- 
 tomed to camps, and to brave aU seasons, — he was not 
 incUned to attach much importance. He hastened 
 on, therefore, with slight interruptions, until the 
 evening. He then halted at a small house, which 
 stood at the skirts of a woody district, of no great 
 extent, which he had to cross ; where, having ob- 
 tained shelter and food for his horse, he procured the 
 same indulgences for himself. 
 
 An almost sleepless night, ushered in the dawn of 
 that day which was to bring him to the termination of 
 his journey — to restore him to the arms of his Marian. 
 Naturally ardent and impetuous, and elated by the 
 pictures which imagination painted to his view, and 
 by the glad consciousness of merited success, — the 
 fleet steed which bore him seemed, to his impatient 
 apprehension, to go with tardy steps ; and his anxiety 
 was increased, when, — on arriving at the interior re- 
 cesses of the wood, — the overplus of vegetation, and 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTII. 
 
 339 
 
 the propinquity of the vast trees, impeded his pro- 
 gress. He pressed onward, however, in hopes of ar- 
 riving at a small river, beyond which, he remem- 
 bered the country become more open and unincum- 
 bered. Meantime, the storm not only continued 
 with unabated force, but became more terrific, by the 
 hollow muttering of the thunder. Frederic was not 
 unaware of the danger with which a storm of thun- 
 der and lightning is accompanied, in woody regions. 
 The darkness had, also, encreased to a considerable de- 
 gree ; and this added no little to the perplexity of his 
 course. In vain did he stretch his eyeballs amid the 
 gloom, to discover, if possible, the river which he was 
 to cross. The flashes of lightning — which now stream- 
 ed frequently and vividly, — only rendered more 
 distinct the dimness of the forest in which he was 
 enveloped ; nor, from the uneven rate at which he 
 advanced, could he form any conjecture as to the 
 distance he had yet to pass, before he should clear 
 the woods. Things continued in this course, till the 
 approach of night; and stiU, the object of his search 
 had not met the gaze of the traveller. Sometimes, 
 he thought he had lost his way ; but, if that were the 
 case, he was unable to divine any more probable 
 course, and he pursued his track. The thunder had 
 now ceased. For some time, Frederic had heard, — or 
 fancied that he had heard, — mingled with the noise of 
 the storm, a hollow boiling sound, like the strife of 
 rushing waters. He now heard the sound more 
 plainly, and was confirmed in his conjecture, with 
 
340 MARIAN SEAFORTH. 
 
 some degree of alarm ; for, though he could not ac- 
 count for it, nor had he any remembrance of the 
 neighbourhood of any flood greater than the rivulet 
 already alluded to, yet he feared that it foreboded 
 any thing but good. His mind was by no means at 
 rest : — he had hoped to be, by this time, enjoying the 
 reward of his labours, in the approving smiles of the 
 dear one for whom they had been incurred ; and, at 
 his most moderate computation, he had between 
 forty and fifty miles, yet, to travel. Still, he had no 
 doubt of being in time for the object of his mission. 
 Whilst he was revolving these thoughts, the noise 
 burst more violently on his ear ; and, through a sud- 
 den opening to the left, he beheld a scene which fiUed 
 him with urprise and alarm. 
 
 He had, at last, reached the river which he had so 
 long looked for. But, the stream — which, in general, 
 the horse that bore him would have crossed, in a mo- 
 ment, — now presented to his eyes a roaring and 
 foaming torrent, swelled by the unremitting rains 
 which, for two days, had inundated the region, — and 
 tumbling and dashing about its waves, with a vio- 
 lence which would have appalled an indifferent 
 spectator ! Huge trees, torn up by the headlong 
 course of the flood, were hurled along, either entire 
 or in fragments, or whirled in the circling eddies of 
 the waters. The waves, dark and discoloured, were 
 boiling with foam ; and the fearfulness of the scene 
 was deepened by the doubled gloom which hung 
 over it, and shrouded — without diminishing — its hor- 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 341 
 
 rOrs. Frederick gazed on it, as one deprived of 
 sense. The roar — the flash of the rioting waves— the 
 gloom, and solitariness of his situation — pressed upon 
 him, with maddening force. But there was no time 
 for delay. With a decision almost fearful, in such a 
 state, -he determined upon his course. He darted his 
 spurs into his horse's flanks. The animal started, 
 and looked fearfully round. Frederick patted him 
 encouragingly, and again applied the spurs, — and 
 horse and man were, instantly, plunged amid the 
 waters ! 
 
 The violence of the current hurried them, irresis- 
 tibly, along; but, still, the efforts of the horse — whose 
 great strength was, here, of incalculable value— suc- 
 ceeded in slowly forcing a passage. But there were 
 many dangers to be avoided : for the whirlpools cre- 
 ated by the rapidity of the stream were numerous ; 
 and it required no little address to escape from 
 the trees which were hurriedly tumbled down Hae 
 stream. Courage and presence of mind, however, 
 were balanced against these difficulties ; and two- 
 thirds of the course were accomplished, when the trunk 
 of a vast oak, which had been whelmed under the wa- 
 ters, suddenly rose, and, — violently striking the horse, 
 —at the same time, stunned Frederick, with a blow 
 from one of its branches, so as, for a moment, entirely 
 to deprive him of sense. -When he recovered, — which 
 he did immediately, — he found himself without his 
 horse, and sinking amid the waters. With an effort 
 which was aided by a sudden swell of the flood, he 
 
342 MARIAN SEAFORTH. 
 
 rose to the surface, and struggled to make for the 
 shore. But his efforts availed little, against the over- 
 powering torrent ; and he speedily found the strength 
 of his limbs relaxed, and himself borne away, with- 
 out the power of resistance. Such, then, was to 
 be the conclusion of his labours ! All the fairy 
 schemes of happiness which he had formed rose up, 
 as in mockery, before him, in this, his hour of trial 
 and deep sutfering. The doom that awaited Marian, 
 was now inevitable !— His struggles were fearfuUy 
 violent ; but they rather accelerated, than retarded 
 his fate. Soon, insensibility came to relieve his 
 pangs ; the toils he had passed faded from his me- 
 mory ; his hopes — his fears — even his present situa- 
 tion — at last, the confused idea which lingered longest, 
 of her for whose sake he had risked, and (as it now 
 seemed) lost every thing, failed him.— Nerveless and 
 unconscious, he was hurried away by the waters ! 
 
 We must return to the town of B ; on which, 
 
 slowly and heavily, dawned the morning that was 
 to terminate the earthly sufferings of Marian Sea- 
 forth. For four long days, there had hung about her 
 young heart that hope of life which never, wholly, 
 forsakes even those who are best prepared for death. 
 Her consciousness told her that she would have pur- 
 chased, at any price, so much of life as should suffice to 
 bring her some assurance of her lover's truth. She 
 had never seen him, since the day when they parted 
 in unkindness ; and her woman's heart swelled with 
 upbraidings, as she remembered that the last look 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 343 
 
 she had ever given — or could give — him on earth, was 
 one of reproach. More than the promise of long 
 life without him,— even in that time of extremity,— 
 would she have valued one hour, to tell him of that 
 love which the grave was about to consecrate, and 
 whose unreserved utterance the crisis would have 
 privileged. Had her token failed to reach him ? 
 Why had he not redeemed his own pledge ? Was 
 he false to Marian ? Strengthened as her mind was, 
 by its own inward consolations, that was too heavy 
 a thought for it ; and her pure confiding heart rose 
 at once, to repel the stain upon his faith, and do 
 justice to her lover, even in that hour of weakness 
 and of trial. He was not false. The belief— f^e as- 
 surance — fell like balm upon her spirit; and, with 
 that last offering of womanly love and confidence, 
 she turned from the one earthly thought which she 
 had permitted to haunt her longest and last, to me- 
 ditations more high and heavenly. Ere she retired 
 to rest, on the last evening of her numbered days, the 
 triumph was complete ; and — though, again and again, 
 the thoughts of dear faces and beloved voices would 
 steal in, amid her holier aspirations, — ^they came in 
 no form, and mingled with no feeling, which could 
 darken the purity of her worship. That evening, 
 she slept calmly as an infant ; and when she awoke 
 from slumbers—light as had ever visited her couch 
 in Pine Hollow — three hours were all that stood be- 
 tween her and eternity ! 
 
344 MARIAN SEAFORTH. 
 
 One by one, the hours were tolled upon the bell 
 whose vibrations were the measure of her existence. 
 Eight o'clock was the fatal hour. A few minutes 
 before that time, the door of her prison opened, and 
 she was conducted to the destined spot. The ap- 
 proach of death is always awful, — perhaps more so, 
 though less fearful, to those who have most contem- 
 plated it. Marian trembled, as she beheld the file of 
 soldiers whose aim was to conclude her earthly 
 course. A dim mist rose above her eyes, — but it pass- 
 ed away ; and, though her cheek was pale, and her lip 
 bloodless, there was, after a moment, no struggle of 
 the countenance — no quivering of the lip — no tear on 
 the eyelid— to speak, by outward token, the sinking 
 of the inward spirit. As usual at all public occur- 
 rences, — whether on occasions of sorrow or of gladness, 
 — ^^a multitude of the idle and unoccupied, of aU ages 
 and sexes, were gathered together. Murmurs of 
 compassion rose /rom the crowd ; — for the pity in- 
 spired by the youth and interesting appearance of 
 the criminal overcame even the violence of political 
 hostility. But, — as the dreadful moment approached, 
 — those murmurs sunk, gradually, into the deep and 
 fearful stillness of expectation. 
 
 As Marian stood prepared for the signal, she 
 pressed to her lips a small flower, carved in ivory. 
 It was the last memorial of her lover's affection ; and 
 with it, she seemed to take leave of every human tie 
 — of every feeling towards earthly objects ;— for, im- 
 
MARIAN SEAFORTH. 345 
 
 mediately on withdrawing it from her lip, she broke 
 it, and cast away the fragments from her. The 
 smile of a moment passed over her pallid features, 
 and lingered in her uplifted eye, — when the first toll 
 of the fatal bell, whose latest vibration was to carry 
 fate to Marian, fell heavily on the ear ! 
 
 At that instant, — some of the spectators, who were 
 farthest from the scene, observed, at a distance, a 
 figure on horseback, advancing, apparently, with 
 tremendous speed. They who first saw him said 
 that the arm was lifted up, and the body bent for- 
 ward, as in desperation. Many eyes were turned 
 towards the approaching horseman, — when the hollow 
 peal of the musquetry struck upon the heart ! — and all 
 saw the raised arm fall, and the body drop lower 
 on the horse, — as if some mighty stimulus had been, 
 suddenly, removed,— at theinstant when Marian fell, 
 without a groan ! 
 
 Still, the rider kept his seat, — and still the horse 
 came, rapidly, forward. The crowd divided, right and 
 left, to let him pass ; — and they who saw him, as he 
 rushed by, agreed in declaring that his limbs seemed 
 stiffened into their hold, and his face was the face of 
 a corpse — the teeth screwed together, and the eyes 
 starting from their sockets ! At a few yards' dis- 
 tance from the place of execution, the exhausted 
 horse fell ; and the rider was thrown forward, on the 
 platform, — with his right arm over the dead body of 
 Marian, grasping in its clenched hand, the promise 
 of Jier life. When taken up, Frederic Muir was 
 
346 MARIAN SEAFORTH, 
 
 quite dead ; — yet, no outward bruise or injury was 
 discovered on the body. It was evident that he had 
 died, — as the mysterious whispers of the crowd im- 
 ported,— at the same moment, and by the same shot, 
 as his Marian I 
 
^i^ Of THM 
 
 [UITlVBIlSITr 
 
.ENEAS AND DIDO. 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEY. 
 
 He comes — he comes through storm and night ! 
 
 No sail impels — no pilot guides, — 
 
 The sky has not a single light 
 
 To lamp him o'er the tides ! 
 
 Through breeze and billow — swell and spray, 
 
 He stands upon his fated way ; 
 
 One of those fair and visioned forms. 
 
 That — like the rainbow — come in storms ! — 
 
 And bears, through more than mortal strife. 
 
 The treasure of a charmed life ! 
 
 — Upon his brow the grace revealed, 
 
 Which kings have stamped — and gods have sealed, 
 
 He rises on her, through the night. 
 
 Like some bright spirit of the sea. 
 
 And stands before her, in the light 
 
 Of his own high nobility ! 
 
 But he is as those meteor things 
 That tread, like monarchs, through the sky, 
 Yet have their red and burning wings 
 Controlled and plumed by destiny ! — 
 
348 
 
 iENEAS AND DIDO. 
 
 He came like light — like light is gone, 
 "Where far Hesperia beckons on ; 
 And a young blighted passion-flower 
 Lies withering in Elissa's bower ! 
 
 Bom eastward, where the palmy Tyre 
 Holds spirits, like its daylight — fire ; 
 And passion takes deeper tone 
 From Syria's warm and glowing zone ; 
 And love — and every sunny thing — 
 Spring upward on a brighter wing ; — 
 Her heart is like her native scenes, — 
 (And all a woman's — though a queen's !) 
 — A heart, whose fountains dried away, 
 Have left it to the scorching ray 
 That makes her young and wasted breast. 
 Like wilds and waters in the East, — 
 A lifeless and a tideless sea, — 
 A desart — to eternity ! 
 
THE BROKEN VOW. 
 
 BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, ESQ. 
 
 I HAVE a lock of raven hair, 
 
 A gold ring, and a glove ; 
 They are the tokens of a fair, — 
 
 A fair and faithless love. 
 My kisses, yet, are on her lips, 
 
 The blush scarce from her brow ; 
 Her witching tongue seems yet to speak 
 
 The false and joyless vow. 
 
 She sat, — and, with her lily hand, 
 
 Pressed her ripe rosy cheek ; 
 And glanced on me her hazel eye. 
 
 Which speechless love did speak. 
 A gentle lisp was on her tongue. 
 
 With words both mild and meek : — 
 Oh ! soon my sick and slighted heart 
 
 Maun scorn her, or maun break ! 
 
 Her homely hose are cast aside. 
 Her bodice jimp and brown ; 
 
350 THK BROKEN VOW. 
 
 She wears* a mantle rich and rare. 
 
 And gold upon her gown. 
 The song I love no more she sings. 
 
 By river -bank and grove ; 
 Nor 'neath the dewy star-light comes. 
 
 To meet her own true love. 
 
 Go, show those gems and links of gold. 
 
 Hung o'er thy bosom bare : 
 Go, dance till all those diamonds gleam, 
 
 Which star thy inky hair : 
 Go, show thy bowers and gilded halls, 
 
 And lands both broad and fair ; 
 Then kneel, and show thy heart to God,- 
 
 What broken \ows are there ! 
 
THE MOURNER. 
 
 BY THE KEV. THOMAS DALE, 
 Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove.' 
 
 I STOOD beside the parting bed 
 Of all I ever loved below ; 
 I gazed until the soul was fled 
 From earthly pangs, and earthly woe : — 
 Then the first tears were felt to flow 
 Which thou, sweet angel ! didst not share; 
 Then, first, my heart was doomed to know 
 The loneliness of cold despair ! 
 
 Till then, — though many a grief were mine, 
 
 That well might wring the sternest breast, — 
 
 With loveliness and love like thine, 
 
 I was not — could not be— unblest : 
 
 For when, with causeless wrongs opprest. 
 
 From the false world I fled to thee, 
 
 Thy smiles could soothe the thought to rest 
 
 Which — but for them — were agony ! 
 
352 THE MOURNER. 
 
 Now am I left to beat, alone, 
 A shattered bark on life's rough sea ; — 
 To muse on pleasures fled and gone. 
 On hopes that ne'er can beam for me ! — 
 Once to have been — and not to be — 
 This wakes the pang that cannot die ; 
 As none, but those who once were free, 
 Feel the full weight of slavery ! 
 
 But oh ! I may not thus repine, — 
 Guilt mingles with the vain regret ; 
 And, though the gem that once was mine 
 I cannot — save in death — forget. 
 E'en while the mourner's eye is wet 
 With nature's tears for nature's woe> 
 There is a balm — a solace, yet. 
 For all that wrongs or wounds below. 
 
 My griefs remain — but thine are o'er ! 
 
 My loss thy endless gain shall be ! 
 
 I weep — ^but thou canst mourn no more ! 
 
 I still am bound — but thou art free ! 
 
 My joy was ever bliss to thee, 
 
 — ^Then be thy bliss my solace now; 
 
 Until thy perfect charms I see 
 
 In happier regions, — blest as thou ! 
 
WELSH MELODY. 
 
 AIR — MORFA RHUDDLAN*, 
 
 Away to thy forest, thou down -stooping raven ! 
 
 Away from the banquet the Saxon has spread ! 
 And thou, smiling river, roll on to their haven 
 
 Thy beautiful waters — insult not the dead. 
 Your path is in freedom still, billow and pinion, 
 
 In sunshine, in shadow, have yet a domain ; 
 But, ghosts of my fathers, your plume of dominion 
 
 Shall float in ascendance, no, never again ! 
 
 I heard, in my slumbers, your harps wailing lowly, 
 I dreamt of dishonour, but none would believe, 
 
 Nor deem that in battle for pledges so holy. 
 The sword of the Briton should ever deceive ; 
 
 Woe, woe ! for Caradoc, the gloriously gifted. 
 The last of the Cymri, lies cold on the plain ; 
 
 • In the year 795, a dreadful battle was fought, in the 
 Marsh of Rhuddlan, betwixt the Welsh, under their leader 
 Caradoc, and the Saxon forces, under OfFa, king of Mercia. 
 The Welsh were routed, their commanders slain, and a 
 cruel and indiscriminate massacre took place, by order of the 
 Saxon prince. 
 
 2 A 
 
364 WIDOWED LOVE. 
 
 Woe, woe ! for his standard, triumphantly lifted. 
 Shall never, no, never, be lifted again ! 
 
 The tears be of wormwood, by mother and daughter 
 
 Poured forth, but in frenzy my sorrows are poured, — 
 We are motherless, childless; vowed, vowed to the 
 slaughter. 
 
 The bosom of beauty sheathes victory's sword. 
 O God ! that the bosoms which deepest adore thee, 
 
 Should plead to a spoiler for mercy in vain ; 
 Wales ! ages on ages in joy may roll o'er thee, 
 
 But thou shalt smile never, no, never again ! 
 
 W. 
 
 WIDOWED LOVE. 
 
 BY THOMAS GENT, ESQ. 
 
 Tell me, chaste spirit ! in yon orb of light. 
 Which seems to wearied souls an ark of rest, 
 So calm — so peaceful— so divinely bright — 
 Solace of broken hearts— the mansion of the blest! 
 
 Tell me, oh ! tell me — shall I meet again 
 
 The long-lost object of my only love ! 
 
 -r-This hope but mine, death were release from pain 
 
 Angel of mercy ! haste, — and waft my soul above ! 
 
LUCALPINE. 
 
 BY THE RIGHT HON. LORD PORCHESTER. 
 
 When musing on companions gone. 
 We doubly feel ourselves alone. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 Kind friends and companions of many a long day ! — 
 Should your eye o'er this tablet of verse chance to 
 
 stray, 
 A son of Lucalpine would bid you recal 
 That evening — so lovely and dear to us all — 
 When Rhone's distant murmurs fell faint on the ear, 
 And Cynthia ! thy crescent rose cloudless and clear ! 
 'Twas bright, my kind friends ! as your fancy's bright 
 
 glow,— 
 And calm as each feeling your pure bosoms know, 
 So bright and so calm was her crescent of light ; — 
 How bold — ^yet how lovely — the scenes of that 
 
 night ! 
 Those mountains, like giants, that frowned o'er the 
 
 glade, 
 That forest, so chequered with silver and shade, 
 
356 LUCALPINE. 
 
 Where we silently sat, on the brow of the hill, 
 And our hearts were o'erfraught — though our voices 
 were still ! 
 
 I^ow, farewell to the scenes— to the friends that are 
 
 dear, 
 Whose eyes never streamed with the fast flowing 
 
 tear, — 
 Save tears of such pure and such passionless woe 
 As only the good or the guiltless can know ! 
 But, oh ! when the year, fast revolving, shall bring 
 That evening's return, with the first glow of spring, 
 If hapless — away from the souls who, that night, 
 Made beauty more graceful— enchantment more 
 
 bright, — 
 Where'er fate may find me — 'mid sunshine or 
 
 shade, — 
 My soul shall revert to Lucalpine's green glade ; 
 To the friends who were with me, on Dunrois' wild 
 
 shore, — 
 And each coming year shall but rivet them more ! 
 
EPITAPH ON WILLIAM HAYLEY. 
 
 BY MRs". OPIE. 
 
 " When the ear heard him, then it blessed him— because he 
 delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that 
 had none to help him." 
 
 What though, beloved friend ! around thy head, 
 
 The muse's wreath its graceful foliage spread ! 
 
 Though fame was, long, thy talents rich reward, 
 
 And fashion smiled upon Serena's bard ! 
 
 Though thou wast formed in polished courts to shine, 
 
 And learning's stores and playful wit were thine ! 
 
 Though Cowper's self thy tuneful strains approved, 
 
 And praised the poet while the man he loved ! 
 
 — Cowper, who lives in thy recording page. 
 
 To interest, charm, and teach the future age ! 
 
 Oh ! not on these alone thine honours rest. 
 
 But, that thy name pale want and misery blest ! 
 
 That, — such thy glowing zeal for all mankind, 
 
 So vast thy charity — so unconfined, — 
 
 Thy hand had spread a scene of blessings round, 
 
 If ample wealth thy ardent hopes had crowned ! 
 
 That, whatsoe'er thy bounty could impart, 
 
 Was given to teach the mind, and cheer the heart, 
 
368 EPITAPH ON WILLIAM HAYLEY. 
 
 Neglected talent's drooping head to raise, 
 
 And lead young genius on by generous praise ! 
 
 — Yet, friend beloved ! this higher meed be thine. 
 
 Faith in thy Saviour cheered thy life's decline ! 
 
 Nor, by that God on whom thy hopes relied, 
 
 "Was the sweet recompense of faith denied ; 
 
 He gave thee strength to smile 'midst torturing pain, 
 
 And even the slightest murmuring moan restrain ; 
 
 He cheered with pious hope thy dying bed; 
 
 He on thy soul the Christian's sunshine shed ; 
 
 And crowned, — to prove his favour's blest increase — 
 
 A life of kindness, with a death of peace ! 
 
SONNET ON AUTUMN. 
 
 BY DAVID LESTER RICHARDSON, ESQ. 
 Author of " Sonnets and other Poems." 
 
 How sadly moans the bleak autumnal blast 
 
 O'er faded summer's tomb ! The drifting shower 
 
 Is pattering on the lone deserted bower ; 
 
 While, fitfully, the sear leaves rustle past ! 
 
 Along the troubled sky, lo ! gathering fast, 
 
 In fiercely-frowning hosts, the storm-clouds lower, 
 
 And shroud the struggling sun ! The fearful power 
 
 Of desolation rules, and all is overcast ! 
 
 — Yet mourn not, wanderer ! glories that have been. 
 
 Nor dream of vanished joys ! Though thus depart 
 
 The light and bloom of this terrestrial scene, 
 
 And earthly visions mock the cheated heart. 
 
 There are celestial hopes no fate may part. 
 
 And cloudless realms eternally serene ! 
 
COUNTRY AND TOWN. 
 
 BY HORATIO SMITH, ESQ. 
 
 Horrid, in country shades to dwell ! 
 One, positively, might as well 
 
 Be buried in the quarries ; 
 No earthly object to be seen. 
 But cows and geese upon a green. 
 
 As sung by Captain Morris.— 
 
 One*s moped to death with cawing crows. 
 Or silent fields ; — and as for beaux, 
 
 One's optics it surprises 
 To see a decent animal. 
 Unless at some half-yearly ball, 
 
 That graces the assizes. 
 
 O ! the unutterable bliss 
 
 Of changing such a wilderness. 
 
 For London's endless frolic ! 
 Where concerts, operas, dances, plays, 
 Chase, from the cheerful nights and days, 
 
 All vapours melancholic ! 
 
TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 There, every hour its tribute brings 
 The ftiture comes on golden wings. 
 
 Some new delight to tender ; 
 And life, — deprived of all alloy, — 
 Is one unceasing round of joy. 
 
 Festivity, and splendour. 
 
 So cries the rural nymph ! — while they. 
 The wearied, disappointed prey 
 
 Of London's heartless riot. 
 Sick of the hollow joys it yields. 
 Gladly, withdraw to groves and fields. 
 
 In search of peace and quiet ! 
 
 O, happiness !— in vain we chase 
 Thy shadow, and attempt to trace 
 
 Its ever-changing dances ; 
 Like the horizon's line, thou art 
 Seen on aU sides, — but sure to start 
 
 From every one's advances ! 
 
 361 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 BY T. HOOD, ESa. 
 
 Author <if" Odes and Addresses to Great People. 
 
 The autumti is old, 
 The sear leaves are flying ; — 
 He hath gathered up gold, 
 And now he is dying ; — 
 Old age, begin sighing ! 
 
 The vintage is ripe, 
 The harvest is heaping,— 
 But some that have sowed 
 Have no riches for reaping; 
 Poor wretch, fall a weeping ! 
 
 The year's in the wane. 
 There is nothing adorning. 
 The night hath no eve, 
 And the day hath no morning ;— 
 Cold winter gives warning. 
 
 The rivers run chill. 
 
 The red sun is sinking ; 
 
 And I am grown old. 
 
 And life is fast shrinking ; — 
 
 Here's enow for sad thinking ! 
 
[HflVBRSITY; 
 
WRITTEN AT ROUEN. 
 
 The city of Rouen (formerly the capital of Normandy, .the 
 land of chivalry,) is one of the most extraordinary-looking old 
 towns, in Europe. The extreme narrowness of its streets, and 
 great elevation of its houses, with their overhanging upper-stories, 
 give an appearance of heaviness and gloom to the town, that con- 
 trasts finely with the beauty of its situation. It is surrounded, 
 on all sides, by heights, laid out in Boulevards; receiving first, 
 and retaining last, the rays of the rising and setting sun ; and 
 affording magnificent panoramic views of the windings of the 
 Seine. Its squares and streets are ornamented with fountains. 
 
 The Seine is like a belt of gold, — 
 
 Beneath an autumn sky, 
 
 That floats, in many a crimson fold, 
 
 Like a banner hung on high ! 
 
 The town sleeps, darkly, on the stream, — 
 
 Where lights and shadows play, 
 
 While wave on wave — like dream on dream — 
 
 Smile, as they glide away ! 
 
364 WRITTEN AT ROUEN. 
 
 And here I stand—as here I stood, 
 
 How many years ago ! 
 
 When life danced onward, like the flood, 
 
 AVith music in its flow ! 
 
 But now, my breast, like yonder dome. 
 
 Where sleeps the Lion-heart,* 
 
 Is half a temple — half a tomb. 
 
 But has no earthly part ! 
 
 My spirit keeps the trace— like thee, — 
 
 Of many a lost parade, — 
 
 Dreams of the soul's young chivalry. 
 
 Of many a wild crusade ! 
 
 — Like thee, dark town ! — like thee, in all 
 
 But thy many gushing fountains, 
 
 Yet, brightened, still, by lights that fall 
 
 From heaven,— like thy blue mountains \ 
 
 * The heart of Richard, of England, is dq)Osited in the 
 Cathedral, at Rouen. 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 
 
 BY THE RIGHT HON. LOBD PORCHESTER. 
 
 *TwAS the still midnight hour ! — from his cavern of 
 
 dread, 
 The Astrologer watched o'er the vaults of the dead ! 
 — That cavern so peopled with horrors,— that time 
 So dear to the children of wonder and crime ! 
 Before the dark stranger, unbending, he stood, 
 And his gaze chilled the youthful adventurer's 
 
 blood ! 
 Deep sunk were his eyes, yet shone piercing and 
 
 bright. 
 With a lurid, and wild, and unnatural light ! 
 His black, shaggy locks floated down to the floor ! — 
 His years, they were numbered a hundred or more ! 
 His garment was traced, both without and within. 
 With strange figures of anguish, contortion, and 
 
 sin ! 
 — It sure was a gift from the rulers who dwell 
 In perdition, and worked by the demons in hell ! — 
 A branch of the deadly yew-tree in his hand 
 He held,— as a badge of unearthly command ; 
 
366 THE ASTROLOGER. 
 
 And slowly he lifted it thrice to the sky, 
 And enchanted the planets, revolving on high ! 
 Then, that mystical sign o'er the pavement he drew. 
 That were impious to name, and was dreadful to 
 view ! 
 
 " Speak ! why hast thou sought the astrologer's 
 cave ?"■— 
 And his hollow voice rang hke a call from the grave ! 
 " I know, dreadftil spirit of darkness ! to thee 
 The future is clear — as the past is to me ; — 
 Am I doomed the stem cares of ambition to prove ? — 
 Shall I drink — as I drank — from the fountain of 
 love?" . 
 
 " Can the fountain of love be renewed ? — Where is 
 she 
 
 Who roamed, at thy side, by the bright southern 
 sea, — 
 
 Whose eye was as sparkling — whose spirit as free — 
 
 Whose step was most blithe 'mid the light-hearted 
 throng, 
 
 And who charmed the mute group with her inno- 
 cent song ? — 
 
 And where is that loved one, — who, once, to thy 
 breast. 
 
 With the transport of wildest affection, was prest ? 
 
 How many long months on her lone couch she lay. 
 
 In tears and in solitude wasting the day ! 
 
THE ASTROLOGER. 36? 
 
 How oft did she stand on the desolate shore, 
 
 And await thy return ! — she shall wait thee no 
 
 more ! 
 Never more ! never more ! — she reclines by the 
 
 wave, — 
 Calm and reckless, she sleeps in her cold narrow 
 
 grave ! 
 Fallen I &llen !— as the leaf, that falls blighted and 
 
 sear, 
 When the gale shakes the grove, at the close of the 
 
 year ! — 
 To love and be loved, — but to cherish in vain, 
 And in vain to be cherished, — is writ in thy brain!" 
 
 " I sought not thy precincts. Enchanter ! to know 
 That my youth has been sullied with passion and 
 
 woe ! — 
 Call forth the slow-coming events, from the night 
 Where, pregnant, they slumber, — and drag them to 
 
 Hght I— 
 Tear away yon dark veil, — and, inflexibly true. 
 Be my shame or my glory displayed to my view !" 
 
 " More yet wouldst thou learn ? — haughty stranger, 
 
 forbear ! 
 Nor rend from my bosom a tale of despair ! 
 — When the meed of thy daring ambition seems nigh. 
 And the wreath that has lured thee most bright to 
 
 thine eye. 
 
368 THE ASTROLOGER. 
 
 And the voice of the tempter most sweet to thine 
 
 ear, — 
 Then, the bolt that shall quell thee, for ever, is 
 
 near ! 
 Then the fire and the vigour of youth shall depart. 
 The cold langour of death shall creep over thy heart, 
 And the son of a long and illustrious line 
 Shall be borne to the vault where Ms fathers re* 
 
 cline ; — 
 While the vassal — and child of the vassal — shall go 
 To gaze on their lord, like a holiday show !" 
 
 "Be my doom then fulfilled! — come it early or 
 
 late, 
 I yield not to mortal, — I bend not to fate ! 
 — And ye who, afar, in your glory recline, 
 Shine forth ! — ye bright rulers of destiny, shijie ! 
 Who have shadowed my spring-tide with sorrow, 
 
 and still. 
 Shall darken my manhood, — work out your dread 
 
 wHl! 
 Pour your sinister beams on my closing career ! 
 The doom ye decree — though untimely and near — 
 I quail not to learn — and shall meet without fear !" 
 
REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS 
 
 There was, an' please your honour, a certain king of Bohemia — 
 -Leave out the date, entirely, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby." 
 
 Ernest, or Albert, — I forget which, — a king of 
 Bohemia, was a prodigious lover of hunting, — a very 
 Nimrod, in his way. From Prague, the seat of his 
 Court, he used to make great excursions into all 
 parts of the kingdom ; diving into those thick, dark 
 woods that lie scattered over the face of the coun- 
 try, like the grim and exaggerated cobwebs patch- 
 ing the ceiling of a disused apartment, in an anti- 
 quated mansion. 
 
 One. day, when he had returned from the chace, 
 and had sat down to dinner with his nobles, in even 
 a better eating cue than usual, — and he had a royal ap- 
 petite in ordinary,- and had commenced the attack 
 upon a boar which he had killed with his own hand, and 
 which had been, that day, roasted,— whole, of course, 
 — his chief huntsman, suddenly, entered the dining 
 hall 
 
 2 B 
 
370 llEiCilTER AND HIS STAGHOUNUS. 
 
 " May it please your majesty, a man craves ad- 
 mission to your majesty, who—" 
 
 " Were he kn angel, he must wait the completion 
 of our meal. I thought thou hadst known that, Hans 
 Weller/' 
 
 The huntsman was a favourite, and, after a low 
 inclination of the head, ventured a reply ; 
 
 " He refuses, please your majesty, to wait an 
 instant longer than whilst I can report your an- 
 swer." 
 
 " Ranch und blitz !" exclaimed the monarch, 
 deserting the boar, and springing on his feet, in 
 amazement, — " refuses to wait ! — what mould of 
 man may he be that sends us such a message ?" 
 
 " A little man, your majesty, — scarce as high as 
 his dogs." 
 
 " Dogs !— what dogs ?" 
 
 '' I was about to tell your majesty : he has two 
 dogs, — staghounds. Gutiger Gott ! such hounds !" 
 
 " How !— equal to my Molch ?" 
 
 " Molch is a two months* pup to them ! Germany 
 cannot furnish two such other !" 
 
 " Away with thee ! bring the schelm hither, with 
 his dogs !" 
 
 And the huntsman went. 
 
 Presently he returned, bringing with him a man, 
 scarce four feet high, and whose proportions corres- 
 ponded with his height. The man was perfectly 
 black,— so black, that his eyes had no whites, and his 
 teeth were like polished jet. His clothing was a 
 
HEICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 371 
 
 close dress of dark red, buttoned at jthe neck, and 
 extending midway down his legs. Round \\ia 
 shoulders was slung a loose cloak of blue. His head 
 was uncovered, save by the thick hair which twenty 
 torturing irons appeared to have united in crisping 
 and burning. In his hand he held a leash, that con- 
 fined two mighty staghounds, whose fierce eager 
 eyes, broad chests, and muscular haunches, bespoke 
 their spirit and their power. 
 
 The owner of these animals entered the chamber 
 as unconcernedly as if entering an assembly of 
 Westphalian swineherds. Making an indifferent 
 sort of inclination to the king, he stood still, survey- 
 ing the nobles with a contemptuous curiosity, that 
 bespoke marvellous self-possession. Some frowned, 
 and some muttered. The prime minister, who had 
 been deservedly raised to his station for being seven 
 feet high, and an excellent hand at spearing a boar, 
 —the prime minister frowned at the black man ! — 
 One would think the frown of so big a man ought to 
 have extinguished a creature of four feet.— The prime 
 minister might as well have frowned on a stone. 
 
 " So !" said the king ; " is it thou that canst not 
 wait our leisure ?" 
 
 " Yea !" said the Black. — His voice was like the 
 roar of a fiimace. 
 
 " Who, and what art thou ?" 
 
 " Who am I ? I have no name, though I am 
 called by many names. Thou mayat call me Reichter 
 
3/2 REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 
 
 BranA.— What am I ? Why, I am the owner of 
 these dogs, — which is all it concerns thee to know." 
 
 " Thou art, at least, a most impudent bosewicht," 
 said the easy king. " But, what of thy dogs ? - bring 
 them nearer I" 
 
 The king and his courtiers examined the dogs, 
 with the eyes of sportsmen. The animals were 
 faultless, and raised admiration by their size and 
 apparent strength. 
 
 " Wilt thou sell these dogs, Reichter ?" asked the 
 monarch. 
 
 " It was therefore I came hither." 
 
 " What is their price ?" 
 
 " Hear me ! you shall, to morrow, hunt with 
 these dogs. All they kiU shall be mine, and the 
 dogs are yours !" 
 
 " Man !" exclaimed the king, rejoicing at the easy 
 terms upon which the owner of the dogs insisted, 
 " thou shalt have more than thou askest ; thou 
 shalt not only have the game, but wherewithal to 
 buy sauce, I warrant thee ! A hunt to-morrow-morn- 
 ing, my lords !— you will not fail us." 
 
 " Stay !" exclaimed the bishop of Prague, "your 
 majesty must be informed that to-morrow is St. 
 Martin's day ; on which you are bound, by your vow, 
 made on the recovery of the royal lady, your daugh- 
 ter, from a dangerous illness, to partake of no amuse- 
 ment, to take no meat, and, save the pure spring, 
 to taste no liquor." 
 
REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 373 
 
 " Thou art right — thou hast done well to remind 
 us ; — we must delay, till the following day, our in- 
 tended sport. Thou shalt lodge, meanwhile, to thy 
 liking — so hold thee in readiness !" 
 
 " I may not stop here," replied Reichter, " after 
 to-morrow ; therefore determine !" 
 
 " May'st not stop !" Why, what, in heaven's 
 name, should be the mighty need for such an one as 
 thou to be a stickler for times ! Wait, man ! — thou 
 shalt gain the more for thy dogs." 
 
 " Not for thy treasury, king of Bohemia ! — to- 
 morrow, or never !" 
 
 " Obstinate schelm !" exclaimed the king ; " thou 
 shalt stay ; — dost thou dispute with us ! Stay thou 
 shalt ; let to-mon-ow pass — the day after it we will 
 hunt, and the dogs shall be mine." 
 
 " That they shall, and without condition or price, 
 if thou find me here after to-morrow noon," re- 
 turned the unabashed Black. 
 
 " 'Tis very well," replied the king ; " seize him ! 
 — a day's confinement may cool this madman's 
 temper." 
 
 An eminent lord of the treasury stepped forward 
 to obey the monarch's command. But he was stayed ; 
 and, to his astonishment, found himself suddenly 
 laid prostrate, and under the foot of one of the dogs, 
 which detained him with the hold of a lion. 
 
 The Black drew olf the dog. " Has your majesty 
 determined ?" said he. 
 
 The overthrow of the courtier had redoubled the 
 
$7 A REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 
 
 king*s an^ety to become the owner of tliese power- 
 ful animals. "I know not," said he, doubtingly; 
 " I Would St. Martin had had some other day. 
 Canst thou not," addressing the bishop, " absolve me 
 from this vow ?" 
 
 "- 1 may not," returned the prelate ; *' it was made 
 before the Pontiff himsdtf ; I cannot, and dare not, 
 dissolve it." 
 
 The king blasphemed inwardly. " I see not," 
 said he, made a casuist by the emergency, " if I 
 kept holy some other day, — or say two, which I 
 would not grudge, — in lieu of to-morrow, why the 
 saint might not be as well pleased. Where is Pierre 
 le Tambour ? — fetch him hither !" 
 
 Now, when Madam Nature compounded the es- 
 sentials and the accidentals of Pierre le Tambour, 
 and placed him in the age of this king of Bohemia 
 of whom we are talking, — she played one of those 
 freaks from which the old lady is not wholly free, 
 and anticipated some centuries. Pierre le Tambour 
 was a Frenchman ; he was, likewise, un philosophe, — 
 one of that species of philosophers of whom the race 
 was well known, some twenty or thirty years ago, 
 when they saw fit to philosophize the wits out of all, 
 and the heads off many of their countrymen. 
 How he came to be bom so many years before his 
 time, heaven knows ! — how he became a member of 
 the Court of the king of Bohemia, befeU thus. Hav- 
 ing, publicly, preached the doctrines of Epicurus, at 
 Montpellier, the canons of that place made it much 
 
KEICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 375 
 
 too hot to hold him ; so, flying to Bohemia, where it 
 appeared to Le Tambour that men approached more 
 nearly to an unsophisticated state, he addressed 
 himself' to the king, — who, finding himself unable to 
 comprehend a syllable of the philosopher's doctrines, 
 Avas mightily struck with them ; and Le Tambour 
 was immediately domiciled into the palace, with a 
 pension of fifty guilders per annum. And, — despite 
 of the opposition which the new comer, of course, 
 experienced from the aborigines of the court, who 
 prophesied the downfall of all boar-hunting and re- 
 ligious principle, in the encouragement of the new 
 philosophy, — he maintained his ground. Fortunately, 
 however, the philosopher, — finding, in his new situa- 
 tion, abundant supplies of the necessaries of life, — 
 became fat, and of opinion that he had already done 
 enough for the world at large; so that, instead of 
 lecturing in person, he now contented himself with 
 privately expounding to the monarch the doctrines 
 of liberality, — which, had his majesty understood 
 them, would, possibly, have produced marvellous 
 changes in the moral and political state of Bohemia. 
 
 When Le Tambour entered the chamber, the king 
 hastily addressed him ; 
 
 " Come hither, Le Tambour, and solve me this 
 difficulty." And he stated to him the perplexing 
 case. 
 
 The philosopher was not a moment at a loss — your 
 philosopher never is ; — " AUons," said he, *' ce n'est 
 rien — it is not necessary for you to have scruples; — 
 
376 REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 
 
 the reason is manifest — attendez. If you break your 
 promise to the saint, the saint is defrauded, and a 
 moral guilt incurred; — but, give the saint two days, 
 in lieu of one, — he is benefited and not injured. — 
 Where is the evil then ! apprenez-vous ?" 
 
 The king apprehended well enough, as most other 
 people do, an argument seconding his own inclina- 
 tions. So, for a moment, he elevated his eyebrows, 
 pressed his lips together — probably to guard his 
 teeth during his temporary abstraction, — meditated 
 five seconds, and exclaimuig, " I am satisfied"— pro- 
 claimed the morning's hunt; and, giving especial 
 charge that Reichter and his dogs should be well 
 accommodated, turned to the table, with a " Push 
 tTie bottle about;" — to hear which delighted the 
 courtiers, who loved the philosophy of the Epicureans 
 in the concrete more than the abstract. 
 
 The following was a bright, sharp morning.— -The 
 leafless branches were clothed with a white bril- 
 liancy. — The stag, as he rustled from his lair, shook 
 off the hoar frost from his coat, and bounded away 
 on delighted feet. Great was the assemblage before 
 the palace, at Prague, prepared for his destruction. 
 There were the king and his nobles — the huntsman, 
 with his assistants — and there was Reichter Brand, 
 with his dogs. A neighbouring wood had been 
 searched by the rangers, who reported the discovery 
 of a noble game ; and the monarch and his retinue, 
 being mounted and equipped, rode gaily forward, all 
 lightsome and joyous,— except that a shadow, which 
 
REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 3/7 
 
 occasionally crossed the royal countenance, beto- 
 kened some remnants of a scruple which the logic 
 of the philosopher had not wholly dispersed. 
 
 By the side of the king, rode Reichter, —mounted 
 on a beast as black as his own visage, and scarce 
 larger than one of his dogs. There was something 
 in his countenance keenly sarcastic, which occa- 
 sionally deepened into malignancy. His eye, ex- 
 cept the pupil, was dull, opaque, and unreflect- 
 ing; but the pupil was bright, and gleamed with 
 intermittent flashes, that lightened over his whole 
 countenance. He spoke not, save when addressed 
 by the king; — but his royal companion started, at 
 times, to hear him, as it were, inwardly murmuring 
 a self-colloquy, in a language that seemed devoid of 
 articulation. 
 
 " The stag ! the stag !" exclaimed the huntsman 
 and his rangers. The cry was answered by the 
 halloos of the rest of the party. On the brow of a 
 hill, at some distance, they saw the antlered brute 
 stand for a moment at gaze. He tossed aloft his 
 proud brow, as if in disdain of his pursuers ; then 
 ranging around with his eye, he selected his path, 
 and bounded away from sight, down the declivity. 
 The king's pack — of hounds, that is — opened their 
 mouths, and bayed a pursuit ; and among and above 
 them all, rose the quaking voice of Reichter's dogs. 
 Away they went, — hounds, horses, and men, — amid 
 the beating of hoofs, the clamour of the dogs, and 
 the sonorous excitement of the clanging horns ! 
 
378 llEICHTEK AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 
 
 But, eager as was their pursuit, its termination 
 was, even in the view of the most sanguine, very 
 uncertain. The swiftness of the game surprised the 
 oldest and most experienced sportsmen. The dogs, 
 themselves, seemed astounded, and cast beAvildered 
 glances at each other, — all, except the two new 
 hounds, which, excelling the rest, kept about mid- 
 way between the pack and the stag. 
 
 On they dashed, over hill and plain— through 
 wood and water ! The wild scenery, on either hand, 
 vanished like a dream ; and trees and rocks seemed 
 chasing each other, in very madness ! 
 
 This had continued more than an hour, when they 
 found themselves on a level plain, apparently of 
 some miles extent, and circled by the darkest 
 forests of Bohemia. The stag was bounding away, 
 with unabated pace. Reichter's dogs still preserved 
 the same relative situation. No other object broke 
 the continuity of the plain, until a man — it might 
 be a weary peasant —was discerned, traversing slowly 
 towards the hunters. He raised his cap in saluta- 
 tion, though yet distant from the sportsmen ;— he 
 had not replaced it, ere one of the two dogs, devi- 
 ating from the direct track, sprung at his throat, and 
 bore him to the ground. None heard the death rat- 
 tle that sounded in his throat, as life deserted his 
 convulsed and quivering limbs. 
 
 " Mine — mine— mine !" shouted the Black, with a 
 roar of laughter, that rung back on the ears of the 
 terror-struck hunters, from the mockery of a thou- 
 
REICHTEH AND HIS STAGHOUXDS. 3/9 
 
 sand echoes. At the same moment, the horses of 
 the Black and of the trembling king seemed seized 
 with a preternatural swiftness. Sooner than thought, 
 they had reached the spot where lay the yet shud- 
 dering corpse. Ueichter stooped from his steed, as 
 they passed, and flung the load on his left shoulder, 
 — where it hung, as if fastened with fifty cords. 
 
 The respiration of the monarch was impeded, as 
 much by the horror with which he was seized, as 
 from the haste with which his courser spurned the 
 ground. He looked on either side ; but his compa- 
 nions of the chase and their dogs were vanished, — all, 
 save his hideous companion, and the two terrible 
 hounds. 
 
 Intermission there was none to their course. The 
 plain was crossed, and the crashing of the interposing 
 branches marked the progress of the riders through 
 the depths of the forest. Every animal fled at their 
 approach, — but the toad, that stared at them with his 
 glittering eyes, and the owl, which here, shrouded 
 in a perpetual gloom, pursued them with redoubled 
 hootings. 
 
 They left the thicknesses of the forest behind 
 them ; and entered a smiling valley, whose sides 
 were clothed with evergreens, lit up with the beams 
 of the noon sun. They passed a neat habitation, 
 before which two lovely children were gambolling. 
 The happy mother sat by the casement, rejoicing in 
 the smiles of her offspring. The king grew sick at 
 heart— he closed his eyes with a shudder. There 
 
380 REICHTEll AND HIS STiVPHOUNDS. 
 
 were two savage barks, and a scream that would 
 have pierced a demon. "Mine — mine — mine!" 
 The Black laughed louder than before. 
 
 The king unclosed his eyes ; — he saw the valley no 
 longer. The steeds were tramping over a rough 
 and uneven road, whose only limit was a far off 
 craggy mountain. The poor king grew out of pa- 
 tience ; for the road was such that his horse jolted 
 him, villainously, — which, to a man riding after the 
 rate of seventeen English miles an hour, was no 
 light infliction. " Miserable man that I am !" said 
 he, " why did I break my vow ! and why — oh, 
 why was I tempted, with this bloody schelm and 
 his butchering dogs !" 
 
 The swiftness with which they rode was too great 
 for mortal endurance, — coupled with the fatigue which 
 the Bohemian monarch had, already, experienced. 
 His eyes waxed dim, and the rapid and loud pulsa- 
 tions of the horses' hoofe sank less shrilly and dis- 
 tinctly on his ear. He breathed thickly, and heavily ; 
 — his lips were black and parched. He ceased, at 
 length, to see, or to hear ; - he ceased even to be sen- 
 sible to the dismal jolts on the crupper, which had 
 hitherto so much annoyed him. Yet, at intervals, 
 his senses were, for a moment, aroused by the fear- 
 ful bark of the hounds, and the rushing voice of his 
 companion, reiterating the fatal word, as a new vic- 
 tim was added to his burden. 
 
 At length, he was sensible of the cold night breeze 
 whistling around him, and slowly recovered from 
 
•REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 381 
 
 his lethargy. His steed moved smoothly along, over 
 a path, which seemed to be of the closest and most 
 even turf. He looked around — the night was dark 
 and chill ; — two or three lonely stars seemed shiver- 
 ing mournfully in the sky. The Black was visible 
 by his side, in a dim outline. The load he carried 
 was fearfully increased. 
 
 The king mustered up all his courage. " Wretch 
 that thou art !" he exclaimed, " whither are we 
 going, and wherefore ?" 
 
 " Thou wilt presently know." 
 
 " Tell me, then, who thou art ?" 
 
 " I have already told thee. I am Reichter Brand ; 
 — by some, I am called the Swift Rider — by some, the 
 Red Huntsman— by none aright !" 
 
 " Tell me, then, that right name by which I may 
 call thee." 
 
 " For why ? Thou seest yon dim stars — yon dim- 
 mer hills— dost thou not ?" 
 
 " The stars I see — the hills, hardly." 
 
 " Enough ! The earth we ride on — it is firm, is 
 it not ?" 
 
 "So it seems ; — but what is this to the purpose ?" 
 
 " Listen ! - hearest thou the roar of the cataract ?" 
 
 " I do ;— but, once again — " 
 
 ^ Peace ! The stars should drop from yon sky — 
 the hills should be rent — the firm ground be shaken 
 to its original atoms — the cataract should stay in 
 the midst of its fall, to hear— though but in a whis- 
 per, too light for thine ears to catch— the name of 
 
382 REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 
 
 him that rides by thee ! Peace !— the Red Hunts- 
 man rides with thee. Ply whip and spur,— our 
 course is scarcely half done." 
 
 At every word, the blood of the Bohemian king 
 ran colder and colder. " Would," said he, " that 
 my vow were unbroken ! — and, oh ! would that my 
 saddle were stuffed with somewhat softer material !" 
 
 On a sudden, the king discerned, through the 
 gloom, not half a bow-shot from them, a seemingly 
 perpendicular rock. " Stay— stay !" he cried, " we 
 shall be dashed to pieces, against—" 
 
 As he spoke, his horse sprung forward, into the 
 solid rock, as if it had been the unresisting air. Two 
 bounds more, and they stopped, with a suddenness 
 that threw the monarch from his seat. He sprung 
 to his feet ; — for a while his eyes were dazzled. 
 
 He found himself in a cave of vast dimensions. 
 Its sides and lofty arch were decked with stalactites, 
 that flamed like the diamonds of the east. In the 
 centre of this strange apartment, stood a table, fur- 
 nished with costly dishes and loads of food. Around 
 it, were placed twenty and one. stools — nineteen of 
 which were occupied. 
 
 The company were habited in the garb of hunts- 
 men. They rose to receive him, and the president 
 pointed to one of the vacant seats. The king took 
 it ; and his companion, tossing his burden from his 
 left shoulder, sat down oif the other. 
 
 " Eat !" said the Black, helping the king to a slice 
 of venison, " or drink !"— handing him a. flagon. 
 
REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 383 
 
 " It is too new," said the king, as he replaced the 
 vessel on the table. 
 
 " Better shall be got," said the president ; " we 
 have waited long to fill our number, and shall not 
 grudge the best bin to a welcome comer. But eat ! 
 —thou must, perforce, hunger, after such a ride." 
 
 " I thirst more," said the king, recurring to 
 the flagon. Then, seizing his hunting knife, he ap- 
 plied himself to the repast. It was delicious ; and 
 the king forgot, for a time, all that had passed. At 
 length, his appetite was satisfied. He rose from his 
 seat, and approached a fire, which blazed from a pile 
 of logs, — when his eye rested, for a moment, on the 
 load which Reichter had cast down. He shuddered, 
 and looked, with a horrid suspicion, at the dishes he 
 had quitted. 
 
 " Fear nothing," said the president, " thou hast 
 eaten, in truth, the flesh of deer. The game thou 
 loathest so we keep for our betters." 
 
 The king was satisfied. But, soon, he grew sad. 
 " What do I here," thought he, " with beings 
 whose natures I dare not guess ? Oh, Bohemia ! — 
 Oh, palace of Prague ! — when shall I revisit ye !" 
 
 " Never," said a voice, in a whisper that thrilled 
 through his frame. He started, — turned, and beheld 
 the president standing by him, — a tall, thin man, 
 worn with time, and pale as death. 
 
 " How," exclaimed the king, " remain here for 
 ever!" 
 
 " For ever. Yet, there is one condition to which 
 
384 REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. 
 
 all who come hither are entitled, ere the cavern's 
 walls are sealed for ever." 
 
 " What,— what is it, for heaven's — " 
 " Peace ! " interrupted the conjoint voices of all 
 around. " Speak not the word again, or perish !" 
 
 " Listen !" continued the president. " Thou shalt 
 mount again ; — Reichter Brand, thy friend, shall 
 ride away — thou shalt follow. If, in four and twenty 
 hours, thou canst overtake him,— thou art free." 
 
 " I would willingly delay, for a day, this trial," 
 returned the monarch, " especially, if the roads are 
 rough in this country " 
 
 " Not an hour !— not a minute ! —see, thy friend is 
 mounted !— away, Reichter ! — mount thee, king, and 
 foUow !" 
 
 As he spoke, the Black sprung through the side of 
 the cavern, as they had entered. The king was not 
 slow in mounting ; — a moment, and he was, again, 
 galloping in the midst of darkness, tracking Reichter, 
 by the sound of his horse's hoofs. Indeed, the latter 
 seemed disposed to yield him every advantage ; for, 
 ever and anon, he laughed aloud, and the laugh di- 
 rected the pursuer. Sometimes, he turned his head ; 
 and the king saw his eyes gleaming, in the night, 
 bluely and fearfully, like sepulchral fires. 
 
 Over hill, valley, and plain, — through stream and 
 flood, — the one fled, and the other pursued. Dark- 
 hess fled, and day broke. —The king found himself in 
 a desart and uncultivated region. Above a mile 
 before him, on the summit of a hill, he saw the 
 
heichter ani> his staghounds. 385 
 
 accursed Black. He spurred his steed,— he arrived 
 at the summit of the hill. Beneath him lay the 
 waves of a tranquil sea ; in the middle of which he 
 perceived the Black, whose horse bore him, stoutly, 
 through the waters. The king did not hesitate a 
 moment, in following. He plunged into the sea, and 
 urged the pursuit. 
 
 Suddenly, the sky darkened ; the surface of the 
 water began to crisp into a gentle foam ; and the 
 Vind arose, with a low moaning voice. The storm 
 was nigh — it came nearer and nearer, till it burst in 
 its rage. The loud laugh of the Black rose above its 
 fury, and directed his pursuer. 
 
 , A gallant vessel was beaten to and fro by the 
 waves. She stemmed their fury ; when a flash of 
 lightning kindled her, in a moment, from prow to 
 stem. The king was near the vessel,— he saw the 
 crew lower a boat, which was instantly filled. In 
 a moment more, he saw the Black, who spurred his 
 horse into the overladen boat. It overturned ; and 
 the yell of agony was drowned, again, in the exul- 
 tation of the destroyer. But, in glutting his ap- 
 petite for death, Reichter had forgotten his pursuer. 
 The monarch sprung forward, and caught the Black 
 in his gripe : " Mine,— mine,— mine !" shouted the 
 king. 
 
 " God and St. Martin defend us ! " exclaimed 
 the archbishop of Prague ; " your majesty, in starting 
 
 2 c 
 
386 REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS. . 
 
 from your nap, has overset the table, and torn my 
 ears off, as near as may be." 
 
 " Peace !" said the king of Bohemia, in a royal 
 tone ;— " but what is this ? — where am I ? — Oh ! I 
 have had such a dream !" — and he recounted it to the 
 listening courtiers. 
 
 " It is very strange !" said he, on concluding, — it 
 was so like reality ; — that hideous voice ! — my ears 
 tingle yet." 
 
 " So do mine !" said the archbishop of Prague. 
 
 " And what is worse," continued his majesty, 
 " I feel, as I think, the effects of that cursed crupper, 
 yet !" 
 
STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 BY CHEVIOT TICHBURN, ESQ. 
 
 Whek the morning awakes in the valley, 
 And the dew in the sun-beam is bright, 
 
 Then, forth, with light foot, let him sally 
 Whose heart — ^like his footstep — is light ! 
 
 But he whose worn spirit is failing, 
 AVhose heart but exists as a tomb, — 
 
 Will roam when the mists are prevailing. 
 In the cloud-woven veil of the gloom ! 
 
 For the gloom to his spirit is meeter, 
 
 To the shade of his fortunes more true; — 
 
 And the scent of night's flowerets is sweeter, 
 — Like the last faded hopes that he knew ! 
 
FOUR UNPUBLISHED POEMS. 
 
 BY THE LATE JAMES THOMSON, 
 Author of " The Seasons." 
 
 1. 
 
 In Murdoch's Life of Thomson, mention is made of his being 
 frequently a visitor of Sir William Bennet, of Grubbat. The 
 following Lines were written when Thomson was about 14 years 
 of age. 
 
 A POETICAL EPISTLE, 
 
 TO 
 SIR WILLIAM BENNET, OF GRUBBAT, BARONET. 
 
 My trembling muse your honour does address ! 
 That it's a bold attempt most humbly I confess. — 
 If you'll encourage her young fagging flight, 
 She'll upwards soar and mount Parnassus' height. 
 If little things with great may be compared, 
 In Rome, it so with divine Virgil fared ; 
 The tuneful bard Augustus did inspire, 
 Made his great genius flash poetic fire ! 
 But, if upon my flight your honour frowns, 
 The muse folds up her wings and — dying— justice 
 owns ! 
 
HYMN TO GOD'S POWER. 
 
 Hail, power divine ! who, by thy command, 
 
 From the dark empty space. 
 Made the broad sea and solid land 
 
 Smile with a heavenly grace ! — 
 
 Made the high mountain and firm rock, 
 
 Where bleating cattle stray, 
 And the strong, stately spreading oak 
 
 That intercepts the day ! 
 
 The rolling planets thou mad'st move, 
 
 By thy effective will, 
 And the revolving globes above 
 
 Their destined course fulfil ! 
 
 His mighty power, ye thunders ! praise, 
 As through the Heavens you roll. 
 
 And his great name, ye lightnings ! blaze. 
 Unto the distant pole. 
 
 Ye seas ! in your eternal war, 
 
 His sacred praise proclaim ; 
 While the inactive sluggish shore 
 
 Be-echoes to the same ! 
 
390 UPON MAY. 
 
 Ye howling winds ! howl out his praise. 
 
 And make the forests bow, 
 While through the air, the earth, and seas. 
 
 His solemn praise ye blow ! 
 
 O, you high harmonious spheres ! 
 
 Your powerful Mover sing, 
 To him your circling course that steers, 
 
 Your tuneful praises bring ! 
 
 Ungrateful mortals ! catch the sound. 
 
 And, in your numerous lays, 
 To all the listening world around 
 
 The God of nature praise ! 
 
 UPON MAY. 
 
 Among the changing months, May stands confest 
 The sweetest, and in fairest colours drest ! 
 Soft as the breeze that fans the smiling field ; 
 Sweet as the breath that opening roses yield ; 
 Tair as the colour lavish Nature paints 
 On Virgin flowers free from un odorous taints ! — 
 To rural scenes thou tempt'st the busy crowd, 
 Who, in each grove, thy praises sing aloud ! 
 
THE MORNING IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 When from the opening chambers of the east, 
 The morning springs, in thousand luxuries drest, 
 The early lark his morning tribute pays, 
 And, in shrill note, salutes the blooming day. 
 Refreshed fields with pearly dew do shine. 
 And tender blades therewith their tops incline. 
 Their painted leaves the unblown flowers expand, 
 And with their odorous breath perfume the land. 
 The crowing cock and chattering hen awakes 
 Dull sleepy clowns, who know the morning breaks. 
 The herd his plaid around his shoulders throws. 
 Grasps his dear crook, calls on his dog, and goes 
 Around the fold : he walks with careful pace. 
 And fallen clods sets in their wonted place ; 
 Then opes the door, unfolds his fleecy care, 
 And gladly sees them crop their morning fare ! 
 
SONNET.—SUN-RISE. 
 
 BY DAVID LESTER RICHARDSON, ESQ. 
 
 How gloriously yon gorgeous monarch rears 
 His bright majestic brow ! — His robes of light 
 The green hills mantle, and his tresses bright 
 Float on the golden clouds ! All nature wears 
 A smile of gladness ; — the resplendent tears 
 Shed, by the tristful spiidts of the night. 
 On verdant meadows, vanish from the sight, 
 Like rain-drops on the sea ! The warm beam cheers 
 The drowsy herd, and thrills the feathered throngs 
 Of early minstrels, whose melodious songs 
 Are borne upon the breeze. Now, mortals send 
 Their orisons above ; — while, shrub and flower 
 Perfume and bloom celestial sweetly blend. 
 To charm and consecrate the morning hours ! 
 
GO, BEAUTIFUL AND GENTLE DOVE !"^ 
 
 From an unpublished Oratorio. 
 BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES. 
 
 " Go, beautiful and gentle dove ! — 
 
 But whither wilt thou go ? 
 For, though the sun shines bright above, 
 
 Forlorn and waste is all below ! 
 
 Nor love nor pity thou shalt find, 
 
 Earth's dreary circuit o'er ; — 
 Then hasten to thy mistress kind. 
 
 And she, poor bird ! will love thee more !" 
 
 The dove flew on, with hopeless flight, — 
 
 Flew on from dawn till dark ; 
 And then, amid the gloom of night, 
 
 Came weary to the ark. 
 
 * Mr. Bowles has set to music, and published, some words 
 beginning with the same line, and, also, forming part of the 
 same Oratorio. None of these verses are, however, included 
 in his publication. 
 
394 GO, BEAUTIFUL AND GENTLE DOVe! 
 
 " Oh ! let me in," — it seemed to say, 
 " For long and lone has been my way ; — 
 Oh ! once more, gentle mistress ! let me rest. 
 And dry my dripping plumage on thy breast !** 
 
 The dove went forth, when morning rose, — 
 
 But oh ! what transports fill 
 Their hearts who mark, at evening's close, 
 
 A green leaf in its bill ! 
 
 So, heavenly hope — when pain and grief 
 
 The sinking soul have tossed, — 
 Brings back one token of relief, 
 
 That says, " all is not lost !'* 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 BY T. HOOD, ESQ. 
 
 1. 
 
 I remKmber, I remember 
 The house where I was born, 
 The little window, where the sun 
 Came peeping in, at mom ; 
 He never came a wink too soon. 
 Nor brought too long a day ; 
 But now, I often wish the night 
 Had borne my breath away ! 
 
 2. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 The roses, red and white. 
 The violets, and the lily cups— 
 Those flowers made of light ; 
 The lilacs, where the robins built, 
 And where my brother set 
 
396 STANZAS* 
 
 The laburnum, on his birth-day, — 
 The tree is living yet ! 
 
 3. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing. 
 
 And thought the air would rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing ; 
 
 — My spirit flew in feathers, then, 
 
 That is so heavy, now ; 
 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow ! 
 
 4. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The fir trees, dark and high ; 
 
 I used to think their slender spires 
 
 Were close against the sky ; 
 
 It was a childish ignorance, — 
 
 But now 'tis little joy 
 
 To know I'm further off from heaven, 
 
 Than when I was a bov ! 
 
THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 1. 
 
 A YEAR — another year — has fled ! 
 
 Here let me rest awhile, 
 As they who stand around the dead, 
 
 And watch the funeral pile . 
 This year, whose breath has past away, 
 Once thrilled with life— with hope was gay ! 
 
 But, close as wave is urged on wave. 
 
 Age after age sweeps by ; 
 And this is all the gift we have. 
 
 To look around — and die ! 
 'Twere vain to dream we shall not bend. 
 Where all are hasting to an end. 
 
 3. 
 
 What, this new-waking year, may rise, 
 
 As yet, is hid from me ; — 
 *Tis well, a veil, which mocks our eyes. 
 
 Spreads o'er the days to be ;— 
 Such foresight who, on earth, would crave, 
 Where knowledge is not power to save I 
 
398 THE KEW YEAR. 
 
 4. 
 
 It may be dark, — a rising storm. 
 
 To blast, with lightning wing, 
 The bliss which cheers— the joys that warm !- 
 
 It may be doomed to bring 
 The wish which I have reared as mine, 
 A victim to an early shrine ! 
 
 But — be it fair, or dark — my breast 
 Its hope will not forego ; — 
 
 Hope's rainbow never shines so blest 
 As on the clouds of woe ; 
 
 And, seen with her pliosphoric light, 
 
 Even affliction's waves look bright ! 
 
 But I must steer my bark of life 
 Towards a deathless land ; 
 
 Nor need it fear the seas of strife. 
 May it but reach the strand 
 
 Where all is peace — and angels come, 
 
 To take the outworn wanderer home ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Zf^ OJ TH33 ^^ 
 
 [tJiriVBRSITT] 
 
Preparing for publication, by HuRST, Robinson, and Co, 
 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, 
 
 SKETCHES, 
 
 Selected from the Note Book of the late Charles 
 Hamilton, Esq. 
 
 BY T. K. HERVEY, ESQ. 
 
 Author of " Australia," Sgc. 
 
Published by Hurst, Robinson, and Co. London ; and Archibald 
 Constable, and Co. Edinburgh : 
 
 AUSTRALIA, 
 
 Wiitfi otter ^oms, 
 
 BY THOMAS K. HERVEY, 
 
 Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 
 Second Edition, with additional Poems, foolscap 8vo. 6s. 
 boards. 
 
 " Where almost every line is beautiful, selection is difficult ; 
 and were we to indulge our admiration, by selecting every part of 
 this elegant poem which claims it, our extracts would subject us 
 to the charge of piracy." — British Critic. 
 
 " We have a small volume of Poems, lately published by Mr. 
 Hervey, called ' Australia, &c.' which have attracted, as they de- 
 served, considerable notice Our friend Hervey has feeling 
 
 and fancy." — BlackwoodCs Magazine. 
 
 " This beautiful little volume is from the pen of a young poet, 
 
 who is coming very rapidly into notice This Poem is executed 
 
 in a very bold and masterly manner." — European Magazine. 
 
 " This little volume is warm with the healthful glow of 
 
 a fancy, young and pure. It is rich in description, full of tender 
 thoughts, and holy meditations. The versification is peculiarly 
 chaste and elegant ; and, on the whole, we can pronounce it, ex 
 Cathedra, to be one of the most promising volumes which youth- 
 ful ambition has submitted to our critical judgment." — Gentle- 
 man's Magazine. 
 
 " If, as we fear is the case, we have quoted too largely from this 
 beautiful Poem, the delight we have felt in its perusal must be 
 our apology, for going beyond our usual limits : there arc, how- 
 ever, we suspect, few persons who will be satisfied without read- 
 ing the whole." — Literary Chronicle. 
 
 " This little volume is one of the gems which we occasionally 
 find among that mass of frigid mediocrity, constantly heaped upon 
 the tables of our reading rooms We cordially recommend 
 
 
!t to those who have a relish for feeling, taste, and truth." — Me- 
 tropolitan Literary Journal. 
 
 " We take leave of our young poet by assuring him, that his 
 little volume of Poems contains more beauties in a given extent, 
 and fewer blemishes, than we usually expect in a first essay ; and 
 should he still court the Muses, with the devotion and good taste 
 apparent in his present work, he cannot fail, eventually, to enrol 
 his name with that of the * Poet of Nature,' — Oliver Goldsmith." 
 — Somerset House Gazette. 
 
 " The minor pieces of this collection possess more attractiorl 
 and spirit than even ' Australia' itself, beautiful as it is. We gave 
 
 a little song, of great beauty, from this volume last week,- 
 
 and we are perplexed what other now to choose, so many are pos- 
 sessed of brilliancy and pathos." — News of Literature and Fashion. 
 
 " Mr. Hervey's thoughts are always elegant, and often noble ; 
 — his sentiments pure and patriotic : — and his verses are ex- 
 tremely harmonious." — St. James's Chronicle. 
 
 " It is pleasing to find a young author pursuing the 
 
 old, manly, patriotic, virtuous course, which can alone give last- 
 ing fame to the poet, and delight and instruction to the reader. 
 Were this the only excellence of the Poem under consideration, 
 it would be a great one ; but it has others, which also deserve ho- 
 nourable mention. In the design there is boldness, and in the 
 execution there are energy and spirit" — New Times. 
 
 " Mr. Hervey is one of the very few poets of this day who pre- 
 fer inspiration to ebriety. He and Mr. Campbell are, perhaps, 
 the only modem poets of eminence who have followed, systema- 
 tically and successfully, the lights that guided the greatest names 
 which brighten our Parnassus • < • • His lines are bold and nervous, 
 glowing, and harmonious; imagination fills the sail which sweeps 
 him along the ocean of poetry, but judgment sits for ever at the 
 
 helm The ♦ Australia' is so well known, and has been so 
 
 often reviewed, that it would be superfluous to make extracts 
 from it here. But the minor Poems which accompany it have 
 been less frequently selected, and many of them are of the most 
 exquisite beauty." — Sun. 
 
 " The strain of thought in • Australia,' is manly ; and the lan- 
 guage, in general, rich, graphic, and eloquent. Often as Italy 
 has been panegyrized, we know not where its picturesque pomps 
 have been more happily seized." — Universal Review. 
 
 See also " New Monthly Magazine," " Literary Gazette," 
 " Critical Gazette," " Eclectic Review," " Lady's Magazine," 
 .** Sunday Examiner," Provincial Newspapers, &e. &c. 
 
 2 D 
 
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 5.— MAY YOU LIKE IT. Volume the Se- 
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 7.— MINOR POEMS, including "Napoleon." 
 By Bernard Barton. Second Edition, with Additions. 
 Foolscap 8vo. 7s. boards. 
 
 " The adm.irers of Mr. B.'s former works will find in this the 
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 8.— CHEMICAL AMUSEMENT: being a 
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 For other favourable Characters of this Work, see also the British 
 Critic, Gentleman's Magazine, European Magazine, Sfc. ^c. 
 
 Sold by Longman and Co. Paternoster-row, London, and 
 all other Booksellers. 
 
This day is published, Price 3s.— Proofs on India Paper, 5g. 
 
 AN ORIGINAL PORTRAIT 
 
 OF 
 
 THE LATE RIGHT HON. LORD BYRON, 
 
 Engraved, hy permiasion, 
 From a Miniature, by Lady Caroline Lamb. 
 
 ^rim]^ 
 
 lONDON : 
 
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/^. 
 
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