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own distress, and dazzled by the appearance of the villain's wealth, suffered herself to give a promise that she would compel Floretta, by her maternal authority, to yield to his desires. The wretched girl, who had always looked upon him with aversion, was now persuaded by her mother, who urged their great distress, which had almost reduced them to starvation. This broke down her resolution. At length won over by the prayers and intreaties of her mother, Floretta consented to accept Francisco's addresses. Her beloved Silvacci was far away-she knew not where-and in an evil hour she yielded her own judgment and her heart's best impulses to the intreaties of a mother whom she loved more, far more, than her own life or happiness. By these means the fiend Francisco, who, in Silvacci's presence, dared scarcely breathe her name, in the space of a few months obtained Floretta's hand.

His bad qualities, which were before studiously concealed, now began to show themselves; and in a short time, his unkindness and want of affection rendered the wretched girl doubly miserable. Her aged mother, who viewed with agonised feelings the declining health and misery of her only child, who had with the utmost tenderness watched over her in health and sickness, and who was now the victim of this barbarian, sunk into an untimely grave. Her miserable daughter did not long survive her loss; a pining and consuming sorrow, by rapid advances, brought her every day nearer to her end, and she sank the premature and wretched martyr to disappointment and woe. It was not long after this that Silvacci returned to his native village. The evening on which he returned was beautiful, and all Nature's works shone forth in bright array; the sun was rapidly sinking below the horizon, and every scene, as he approached the place of his nativity, seemed to inspire some fond recollection of former times, and to cheer him on to the cottage of his beloved. He now entered the village, and met an old associate, whom he questioned concerning her who was the idol of his affections. A melancholy silence,

and an appearance of hesitation in the reply, prepared him for some sinister information. In dreadful anticipation of some accident, he conjured him to unfold to him the truth: maddened by suspense, he followed his friend to a cottage, where he learnt the appalling truth. It would be vain to attempt a description of the grief that swelled his heart, when the destruction of his hopes was thus announced to him; but the bitterest pang of all was, that she whom he adored had been by Francisco's villainy, by her love for himself, brought to an early grave. This roused the bitterest feelings of his soul, and with direful imprecations, his first impulse was to quit the scene of misery; and putting this in practice, he vowed vengeance on her murderer. With headlong speed he hoped to escape the anguish which lacerated his breast. As he hurried from the village, he saw at a distance Francisco-he darted forward with the fury of a tiger upon his prey. Francisco perceived him, and his look was like a baffled fiend; but, as if anticipating Silvacci's intention, he laid his hand upon his sword. This decided his fate. Villain!' cried Silvacci, his quick weapon glancing from its scabbard, this hour shall be the last of one or both of us.'

He spoke no more; the fury of rage and detestation urged him on, and the perfidious wretch sank beneath his arm to rise no more. Silvacci gazed for a moment on his foe, reckless of flight, and viewing the last dying throes of the quivering body which lay at his feet; but every thing behind him seemed dark and drear; he had now no earthly tie-he was a murderer, an outcast. He dashed on with headlong speed, and the next dawn saw him far from the scene of blood and woe. But remorse, with the agonizing pangs of misery and despair, seized on his heart; the malady increased daily, and he sought in the din of battle, and in foreign climes, that peace of mind he was never doomed to enjoy. J-s H-N.

THE PAST.

Riddle! deceitful riddle! Sing, smile, deck, and perfume thy wanton bed; I'll none of thy false love.

Story of a Life; Vol. I. p

You are the sweetest thing

That ever cheated man.- -Pelagrio, (a fragment.)

MAY, May, marigold May!
Chasing all wintery woes away;
Child of blossom, spirit of spring,
Bringing flowers with beamy wing,
Casting thy power o'er vernal love,
Gentle, soothing, as timid dove:
Hie! hie! bright fairy, hie!
Blooming 'mid gems, on thy butterfly.
May, May, Maid-Marian May!
Blessing the earth, and beings of clay,
Soothing with bliss all who know
Saddening care in this world of woe;
Coming like dreams over woman's mind,
Gentle, soothing, timid and kind:
Rove, rove, thou gossamer sprite,
Ere overtaken by gloomy night.

May, May, maidens' May,
Vision of hours, toy of a day;

Theme of their lips, budding with joy,
Singing All hail!' to their beautiful boy!
Buoy of their hopes-thy hope, their care-
Fair as thou'rt fickle, false as they're fair!
May, May, evanescent May,

Thy vows have, like their's, faded away.

May, matrimonial May!

Month of love and marriage, they say ;

Fair, fair, as a woman's tear,

Wild, but timid as aspen-fear;

Playful as blushes on woman's cheek,
And oh ! like her, fragile and weak.
Go! go! to thy withering tomb,
Bright as thou art, death is thy doom.

65.

May, May, marigold May!
Chases all wintery woes away!
Hie, hie, fairy-sheen, hie

To thy grove of light, and dim eastern sky;
Rove, rove, thou gossamer sprite,

Ere overtaken by gloomy night:
May! May! warbling May!
Bright as thou art, death is thy lay!

Musical month, maypole May!
As the hour of eve thou'st fled away.
Evanescent May! maidens' May!

Thy charms, like their's, too lascivious play:
May, matrimonial May,

Spells and promises, all are nay :

Gone! gone! to thy withering tomb,

Such is the world, such the world's doom.

F. C. N.

STANZAS TO MEMORY.

Oh, Love, young Love, bound in thy rosy chain,
Let sage or cynic prattle as they will,

These, only these, redeem life's hours of ill.---Byron.

WHEN sunset sheds its parting ray,

And brightly gilds the azure sea,
And evening brings the close of day,
Oh, then, fair maid, I'll think of thee.

And Memory's dreams, in their fairest form,
Shall picture scenes of brightest joy;
And Hope, which soothes fierce Passion's storm,
Shall promise bliss without alloy.

There is no joy the earth bestows,

Which can the bosom's griefs beguile;

There's nought so well can soothe our woes,
Or charm us, as a woman's smile.

London.

J-s H-N.

THE EPICUREAN,

THE engraving which accompanies the present number is the sixth and last of the series of illustrations for Mr. Moore's delightful romance of The Epicurean. Of the merit of the designs, and of the skill with which they have been transferred by the engravers, it does not become us to say much; and yet, in justice to the artists by whom they have been severally executed, we may venture to hope, that they are worthy of the public favour which they solicit, and suitable to the delightful work by which they have been suggested. With respect to our embellishments generally, we take this opportunity of saying, that the opinions of our correspondents are somewhat at variance, some of them thinking that they should consist entirely of illustrations of distinguished modern works; others, that they should relate exclusively to the contents of our own miscellany. For ourselves, we shall take that which is always the safe course where opinions are conflicting, and endeavour to meet the wishes of all by occasionally giving plates from our own subjects, and at other times from popular living authors. Among several engravings in preparation, is one which will appear in a month or two, taken from an interesting part of Sir Walter Scott's last series of The Chronicles of the Canongate.'

After this announcement and explanation, we proceed to the subject of our present engraving. It is from that part of The Epicurean' in which the beautiful Alethe, after having withstood all the temptations and threats which were held out, to induce her to disavow her belief in the Christian faith, sinks under the treacherous artifice of the accursed tribune. One day of respite is given to her, in the hope that she may yet recant; and as she is led away from the judgmentseat, the tribune orders that there should be tied round her brow one of those chaplets of coral beads with which it was the custom of young Christian maidens to array themselves on the day of their martyrdom.

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