drearily on her couch, the old woman told her a thousand tales of the days of olden time, of fairy love--of spirits who return to avenge the wrongs of perjured love-of spirits separated in life who are united in death. More than all, loved Emelka to hear the legend of the Willi-dance, which the crone always thus began-" Every maiden "who dies, when she is betrothed, is called a Willi. The Willies wander "restless on the earth, and hold their nightly dances wherever roads "meet; if any man then meets them, they dance with him till he dies; "he is then the bridegroom of the youngest Willi, who thereby at last "is enabled to rest; such a one is my sister. Ah! often have I seen "her in the moon-beam,"—and then followed the tale of the lover, the sorrows and the death of the poor young maiden. In stories like this, of the region of spirits, the luckless Emelka sought to forget the bitterness of earthly suffering.

When spring returned, and the Baron one day returned from Temetsving, he announced to his daughter that she was betrothed; the betrothed of the Lord of Temetsving. Emelka knew her father's sternness of purpose, and retired in silence; the Baron looked joyfully over the wide valley before him. "Here," thought he, " to the "right and to the left, over mountain and valley, shall I and my stepson "rule." In the despair of her heart, Emelka prayed to heaven to deliver her, and heaven did deliver her, she became paler and paler, the roses of her lips decayed, the light of her blue eyes became dim, her raven hair languished unringletted over neck and arm, as if death had cast his mantle over her-she died. "Father! I forgive thee for send"ing Gyula from me," were her last words; but they pierced the heart of the Baron like arrows tipped with poison; and when she lay indeed a corse before him, he left his castle and the wide spreading domains of Lowenstein and Temetsving, and entered into a cavern, where he buried his daughter with his own hands, commenced the life of a hermit above her grave, and never spoke again.

With unwonted swiftness, the tale of the desolation of Lowenstein spread into Croatia: Gyula roused himself from his first sorrow, and returned homeward. "Is not my life," said he, " like a flower "cut down in the prime of its beauty? Well, then, let its scattered "leaves yet be strewn above the grave where my happiness lies "buried. Will the Baron grudge me watching over the grave with "him? he may now kill me himself, but thence will I never depart."

It was late in the evening when he approached Lowenstein, after many weary wanderings. A nameless power attracted him into the recesses of the wood; near him there was a sound like that of autumn branches shaken by the wind, and a sweet tone like the song of the unseen nightingale; a faint glimmering like that of a thousand glow worms streamed from the bushes, the morn burst forth in all its splendor of fullness: the convent bell struck twelve-he stood in the circle of the Willies. Softly swelled their voices into a song, breathing of tender sighs; and the lays of disappointed love flowed into harmonian concord from the lips of the shadowy beings; swifter and swifter the dance went on; the rings on their fingers, and the myrtle

crowns, shone in the light, and their ringlets flowed like clouds upon the air; one of them advanced to him, and seized him by the arm; he looked at her and shrieked, "Emelka." He gazed upon her eyes, till he grew wild; she pressed him to her heart, his own ceased to beat, and when she kissed him, he was dead.

On the following morning, the Baron roamed into the valley, and found the corse lying on a bank of roses. He recognised the features of his former squire; "forgive my sins," was the language of the supplicating look he raised to heaven. He lifted the hapless youth upon his shoulders, and buried him with tears by the side of his daughter. From that time after frequently appeared to him the young lover and Emelka in his dream, shining like the morning star, and gazing on him with looks of consolation and forgiveness.

THOUGHTS ON HIS BIRTH-DAY.

I do not know what distant air
May fan thy cheek, or wave thy hair;
But know, I'd have that air for thee,
From every breath of evil free.

Unknown the land (that land, how blest)
On which thy feet may rove or rest,
I do but know, I would, for thee,
That land a paradise might be.

Ah! thou to-day will often hear
In tones, not fonder, but more dear,
Such wishes as are breathed for thee
By one thou wilt not hear nor see.

Their wishes will with smiles be heard,
And answered by some grateful word;
But tender look or tone from thee
Will ne'er be sight or sound for me.

Yet, with that sweet reward in view,
My wishes would not be more true:
It is not what I am to thee,

"Tis what thou art, that conquers me!

ACHSAH

STARLIGHT ON MARATHON.

1.

No vesper breeze is floating now,
No murmurs shake the air;

A gloom is on the mountain's brow,
And quietude is there.

The night beads from the breathing grass,
Fall brilliant as my footsteps pass.

2.

No wakeful tones disturb the scene,
The clouds are lull'd to rest-
'Tis like a calm, where grief hath been,
So welcome to the breast!

The day-god's rayful splendor's gone,
And starlight gleams on Marathon.

3.

I look around from earth to sky,
And gaze from star to star;
The Grecian host seem gliding by,
Triumphant from the war:

Like restless spirits from the dead,
Revisiting where once they bled!

4.

The stony records of each name
Have mouldered from the soil;
But valor leaves undying fame,

Which Time may not despoil :-
Can patriots roam th' Hellenic plain,
Nor wake the dead to life again?

5.

Oh! to have seen the marching bands,
And heard the battle clash,

Have seen their weapon-clenching hands,

And eye's defying flash :

Their bossy shields, and pluming crests,

And corslets on their swelling breasts!

6.

Then said the mother to her son,
And pointed to his shield;
"With it! return, and conquest won,
"Or, on it! from the field!"
With valiant hope, and tearless face,
They clung in silent, firm embrace.

7.

Here met the foes-and martial peals
Once trembled o'er the ground,
And gory wounds from plunging steels
Flow'd on each clotted mound:
Here freemen strew'd the Persian dead,
And Grecians vanquish'd while they bled.

8.

But past the days of Freedom's sword,
And cold the patriot brave;

When slaughter'd there, the slavish horde
Found Marathon their grave;

And swarthy despots left the free
Unfetter'd as their own blue sea!--

9.

Still, starlight sheds the same pale beam
For aye upon the plain;

And musing breasts might fondly dream,
The Grecians free again!

For empires fall, and freedom dies,
But changeless beauty lights the skies:

10.

May He whose glory gems the sky,
God of the slave and free;
Hear every patriot's burning sigh
That's offered here for thee-
For thee, fair Greece, and every son
That fights the Turk on Marathon!

R. M.

BOARD AND LODGING,

"Two (LARGE) GENTLEMEN of respectability are desirous of obtaining board and "lodging in a genteel private family. They are of regular habits, and would be found "no intruders on the regulation of the domestic circle. Letters addressed (post paid) "to X. Y. at TIMES.

"Half-a-guinea a week for coals!" thought I, "throw coals to the "dogs, and the landlady with them, before I submit to this brumal "chicanery."-" Half-a-guinea a week for coals!" re-echoed my friend Dapper, throwing himself backwards in his chair, and elevating his legs to an awful height-" No, no, Mrs. Ramsbottom, we'll "follow Keeper on his travels first." The encroaching dame rubbed her hands with a washer-woman-like grace, muttered some unmeaning mumble, and made her exit. Friend Dapper and myself are two bachelors (one of us is a Bachelor of Arts), and not being burdened with a troublesome load of income, we have united our purses, and by this social juncture, have contrived to board and lodge together in a more convincing style, than either of us could have done separately. Our gracious landlady came into existence on the top of some mountain in a Swiss canton, and certes retains to this day a frostiness of disposition, that would vie with the coldest avalanche in her country. We have resided in her house for something more than three months, and have generally escaped civil wars and domestic broils. To be sure, we have occasionally been favored with her petulant eloquence, for tripping up stairs with unwiped shoes, slamming doors with impatient vengeance, and rousing the inmates sometimes from their midnight snooze-but this is allowed to be "all in the family way." We have scarcely ever glimpsed her horned spouse: for aught we know, he may be sometimes taking an airing in his wife's coal-hole for spousal disobedience, or be seated on the mantle-piece, and compelled to squat there, till taken down again. At all events, he is quite an underling in our present domain, and serves instead of his wife's bell, to call the servant, and carry messages. His stature is very dwarfish, and he is of such a ghastly paleness in face, that he would terrify in a dark passage: to the personages already introduced, add, one frowsy good-tempered housemaid, and a superannuated tom-cat, reader, and you have at once before you all the live stock in our premises.

After Mrs. Ramsbottom's departure, and a momentary mutual gape of suspense, Dapper and myself consulted on future proceedings." To pay, or not to pay, that was the question," we perceived it was most convenient to our pockets to do the latter; without hesitating to enquire whether" 'twas nobler" to bear the "sting" of "outrageous" pay, determined on a speedy removal.

"When will the advertisement appear, sir?" "On Thursday next," replied the silver-haired old clerk, brushing my crown-pieces