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you did not attend any public place or than usual; however, the next morning Rose ball."

was bright with smiles. “I am going," she By all means, come to our hotel; but do whispered to her conscience, “so the handsome not be astonished to find us departed. We nobleman and I can not meet for three years, leave Paris for Italy in the morning."

before which time he will either have married or “How unfortunate,” cried Lord St. John; forgotten the moss-rose. And I need not tell “I shall return to London then, or else die! Mary, for a lecture would be the result." But will you not give me that rose-bud? Do; you, beautiful Rose, can spare one flower which borrows a shade of loveliness from yourself. A year and a-half of the allotted time had There! Your mother's carriage is announced ! passed; the Spencers were wintering at Rome, I must have the rose; and I swear, when next when an event occurred which caused no little we shall meet, to present you with that very disturbance in the family. Mr. Spencer having flower, or one bright as your lip."

occasion to visit his daughters' private sitting“No-I can't; I won't,” said Rose, pettishly room, where they studied without interruption, covering the flower with her ungloved hand; or amused themselves in seclusion, a voice of "I am so fond of flowers—and you can have some one pleading earnestly in impassioned them from some other."

accents struck him; and as he lingered outside “The Honourable Mrs. Spencer's carriage,” the glass-door in amazement, he became conwas again proclained. Rose saw her mother scious that the young clergyman, Edward Mon. handed in. “Your sister is just taking her tague (he who had been his son's tutor) was place;

; your turn will be soon. The rose, I making a declaration of love to his daughter. entreat, or we part for ever as enemies ! Be One glance convinced him that Mary was no quick-give it to me!" said Lord St. John, as unwilling listener. She sat, her hands clasped Mr. Spencer desired his daughter to follow over her eyes; while the young man stood, half quickly. The rose was detached from the group, leaning over the agitated girl. Mr. Spencer's and held with the glove in her hand, she pre- first notion was to enter and to separate them pared to ascend the steps, and gave her little eternally; but Mary raised her tear-stained face, fingers to Lord St. John for the necessary and the stern man melted into the pa assistance; he closed his with a grasp over Mr. Montague drew the sorrowing Mary them a second, and on opening it, felt she had fondly to him; "Yes, Mary-my long-loved, left flower and glove in his possession. The dearly-prized,” he said aloud, “we must part, door shut, the carriage moved on, a head looked and trust to time for the future. It is on from the window. Lord St. John kissed his this account that I have so delayed my confeshand eagerly; and it was very long ere those sion to you; for how shall we live under the two, who had become so suddenly intimate, met same roof and love only in secret? Yet we were again.

happy, dearest! each felt secure in the other. As Lord St. John turned to seek his party, he Oh! what are words that a tale you have so saw the two friends on each side of him. “Ha! long known must separate us ? Mary, I dare De Valmont; you here?” he said, caressingly. not tell your father our secret; I could not

“Yes, St. John,” answered the Frenchman endure mockery on your account, and I am not addressed, with a peculiar twinkling of his rich enough, or in any way competent to possess eyes, and sarcastic tone, “I have just been a myself of what could render me so happy. Lord witness to your success with that English girl, Belvidare has promised me his interest and who looks as though love and revenge were patronage. I have not yet despaired of brighter striving for mastery within her. You are a days !" fortunate fellow. Ha! ha! every one in love Mr. Spencer heard thus far-then turned with you! Of course you will never again away, and met Rose; who, without noticing her smile on Julie--poor forsaken Julie !"

father's gloom, detained him to relate some galNonsense, my dear De Valmont; the young lantry of her admirer, the Compte de Vavie. girl is off for the south, by sun-rise. Your And are you also, Rose, whom I considered şister, Mademoiselle Julie, is very different from so noble-minded, wooing another protector withher." Lord St. John thought of all the money out my knowledge ? Speak the truth, and fear he owed this friend, so he did not dare to put not,” he said, in an accent Rose knew meant reany slight on his sister. After a moment's proach. pause he said again-“ Mademoiselle is too “Wooing! loving! Oh! no, papa. I recharming to be forgotten for a stranger." fused the whiskered Prince Henri last week,

The morning's sun saw the Spencers en route without even telling you; and I am only talking for Italy, all anxiously wishing for variety and to the poor Count. I would not marry a foreigner! change of scene ; even the gentle Mary, who I think I shall reserve myself for some English. disliked the publicity of a residence in one of man, though I never could love any—and I have the most fashionablé hotels of Paris ; while a tried often. But for whom do you fear? Is it few hours of reflection on her return from the Hubert ? He was writing poetry this morning, theatre convinced Rose that she had, on too so I looked over his shoulder and saw at the slight an acquaintance with Lord St. John, head – A portrait of Aurora,' which, sans doute, given him a token of her admiration. To regret refers to the lovely Madame Duval, whose name it now was useless, yet she did regret it longer is Aurora. This Italy is a sad place! Love is

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the business of their lives. I hate being obliged, there depicted, then withering scorn usurped its to do anything ; so I won't love them, if they place. Ha! I loved like thee, Mary," he cried died for me!”

aloud, “one, fair, simple-looking, lovely-a very Mr. Spencer was cheated into a sinile; but he angel! as you seem on ivory, Emily Harcourt; answered—“ Remember, Rose, you have made a but it was only seeming! And not one remnant promise; I shall expect you to keep it. Send of the girl I worshipped ever dwelt in the Mary to my study; I have a few words to say woman who married me, because I had a small with her.”

independence which could ensure her dearly“Mary's secret is discovered, I think,” said prized vanities. I was scarcely wedded ere I Rose, as she turned to obey her father; "I knew learnt that your tongue had never spoken from it long since, but it could not be helped. And your heart.' Then the beauty which had won Edward Montagne I could love myself, if he me faded! I could have seen it all perish for were not so grave.”

one glance of affection! How differently Mary Rose sighed; but she smiled the next minute. looked when she spoke of him whose love is ber A large mirror reflected her radiant figure. all! And yet, my child is so like this fair girl." “That stupid Count," she continued, “told me A step outside caused Mr. Spencer hurriedly I was too beautiful by half for an English girl; to conceal the picture, and to turn with his usual I wish I could try the effect of those 'peerless solemn manner to meet Mr. Montague. charms’-as he says-on the Londoners ! But It was not long ere the whole family were I am not vain. Why should I be?”

made acquainted with the engagement of Miss Meanwhile Mary attended her father's sum- Spencer and Mr. Montague; but certain restricmons, with an anxiety to be traced in the slow tions were laid on the young people, which they motion and deeply-coloured cheek. A few words pledged themselves to keep inviolate. No cortold her all was known to him ; and the in- respondence of any kind was to pass between genuous girl—who longed to confide in some them for the remainder of the time they resided one--with tears and entreaties that he would abroad, and it was to form no subject for conforgive her, confessed, without reserve, her versation with either party-matters still concherished affection for Mr. Montague.

tinuing in doubt of realization. The former “I might have guessed this,” said Mr. restriction was given as a test to their affection, Spencer ; " but I thought the close acquaintance and thereby offering a reasonable time to Lord of childhood had banished all chance of the Belvidare for fulfilling his promise of patronage teacher merging into the lover. He is worthy, to the young clergyman. 'Within a few days and I could with pleasure call him son, if he the betrothed husband set out for England, possessed sufficient to maintain you as you have after exchanging the usual quantity of vows with been accustomed to be maintained. I overlook, his beloved Mary, who acquiesced sorrowfully Mary-though many would not--your secret ac- to the mandate ; for a separation uncheered by ceptance of his vows, because I have been letters-those records so full of hope and terms equally at fault; but such is a bad precedent in of endearment—would have shortened a year the family. Let not your sister know of this and a half of probation, but Mr. Spencer was folly, as I expect Mr. Montague will fulfil his immoveable. promise of returning to England."

Nothing of consequence occurred to our “ But, papa,” interrupted Mary, suddenly be travellers during the rest of their sojourn abroad, coine fearless in her lover's cause,“ may we not except that Rose—with little feeling, and a vast wait engaged for a time. We shall both be quantity of coquetry--scornfully refused the content. Do but see Mr. Montague on the sub-Comte de Vavie; who, in his turn exasperated, ject for a few minutes."

declared “He never again should look at an “ Mary,” answered her father, with more soft- Englishwoman.” Shortly afterwards the Spenness than he generally spoke,

cers arrived in England, just three years having dulging in vivid hopes about the future ; it is passed since they had departed for the Continent. my duty to tell you that I never can consent to

(To be continued.) a marriage with any one who has not some prospect of comfort. Of course you have my example, and think, as I did once, that an elopement seals your happiness for ever. Did you

THE BANDIT'S LOVE. know the misery which mine entailed! the doubts

(A Sketch.) which sprang up! the truth which slowly came to light—but has ever since been held in my memory—you would curse, bitterly as I might, a rash marriage! Yet, now the world has ceased The sun was sinking tow'rds the brilliant west, either to vex or please me, and I pardon many Stream'd on the clouds that hung around his orb,

Effulgent with his glory ; lambent light things for your sakes. Go, now; send Mr. Montague here.”

And form’d his evening court; half veiling him

With sable mantle canopied by fire, Mary silently kissed her father's hand and And half disclosing to the lovely earth Jeft the room. Mr. Spencer was alone! He His parting radiance. On the mountain's side stood up and unlocked a desk, drew from a Fruit-laden vines disclosed their clusters large. recess therein a small, exquisitely painted minia- Ting’d with the rich reflection, ruby drops ture, one look of agony he cast on the beauty Hung in profusion amid emerald bowers:

you are in



White orange-flowers shed perfume on the air, Upon a shelter'd column. Pensiveness
And each breeze-sigh that stirr'd the red rose-leaves Mark'd her demeanour, and the heavy sighs
Wafted mild fragrance from far myrtle groves. She vainly strove to stifle, told a tale

Of secret suffering and a broken heart. 'Twas a fair scene. Retir'd in pleasant shade,

She bad devoutly, truly lov'd: her soul An ancient temple stood, defaced and grey :

Concentrated every hope of future joy Its pillars all were broken ; the high friere,

In one dear object; to which love was given Erewhile adorn'd with sculpture unsurpass'd, Return'd affection, fervent as her own. Was worn to nothing; and the climbing plant, Ah ! love must always meet tempestuous hours, That amid desolation always thrives,

That close too oft in darkness, unillum'd; Curl'd wantonly about the mouldering shrine,

And flowers that spring beneath his earliest steps,
Mocking with verdant beauty mournful marks, In his continued presence fade away.
Deeply indented by Time's fingers there.
Perchance, in other days, the laughing god,

Hapless LANTHE's maiden heart was given,
To whom its leaves were sacred, claim'd those courts, with the confiding trust of innocence,
And haply there the pæan shouts arose

To one who shortly fell beneath the ban
Of vine-crown'd bacchanals, when, mad with wine,

Of ruling powers-an outlawed mountain chiefAnd fired with mystic frenzy, in strange dance A bandit ! Start not, reader, at the name; They join'd by moonlight, while the sombre woods

Nor with unthinking baste deem every one Gare echo to their fear-inspiring songs.

Whom tyrant sway-curse of our genial life-
But now no longer in that roofless fane

Compels to such worst course, is evil all.
Such frantic throng was seen : green mosses spread Pride of his village had young Guido been-
O'er altars where for years no Hames had burnt ;

The joy of every eye that gazed on him ;
And the shy lizard found a resting-place

Noble his form, cast in the choicest mouldAmong dark weeds and columns overthrown:

Mighty his intellect, albeit unlearn'd, The sun's slant rays diffus'd a mellow light

Save in the simple lore by Nature taught. O'er those majestic shafts which Time had spar'd, He knew high feelings : in his secret soul And deck'd the ruin with a thousand hues,

Nourishing thoughts and hopes, that well became More chaste than it had worn beneath high noon. A true descendant of the gallant race,

Once monarchs of the world, though vassals now. 'Tis a sweet hour, when cooling zephyrs sing

With these were blended milder passions, too : A requiem for the fading day, and light,

Beauteous IanTHE waken'd in his breast
The dazzling sunlight leaves the tranquil sky,

Visions of love ; and they were blest awhile,
Where the queen-moon assumes her pale mild reign; Mutual affection linking their young hearts
Or one by one in the blue vault appear,
Unnumber'd stars amid pure ether hung.

Till happiness grew perfect. Oft they met

Beneath Italian sunset's matchless light, Lone hour of beauty! yielding to thy sway,

Near a forsaken fane, and truer vows Man's heart turns eagerly from scenes of woe

Than e'er were breathed to Pagan Deity Earth's dark realities-to seek awhile

Beside its desolated shrine exchanged ;
In Fancy's glorious regions holiest joy;

Together, when the vintage season shone,
And the rapt spirit pictures to herself
Scenes shadowy as fair ; whilst empty hopes,

Gather'd the blushing clusters of the vine,

Or stripp'd the golden orange from its tree.
Not less intoxicating because vain,
In swift succession greet her-to her dreams

This was not long to last. There rang a voice Lur'd by the magic power that caus'd ber rest.

Proclaiming freedom through that pleasant landO peaceful time! Still will I welcome thee,

A mighty flood of war career'd along Congenial as thou art unto my soul !

That swept down all before it. Many thought

The hour arrived to cast their fetters off,
How soft thy chasten'd light sinks on the vale,

And reassert Italia's ancient fame.
Where all is hush'd except some tinkling stream,
And the dull droning of the dusky fly,

'Mongst these was Guido found; he took up arms,

And for a time the cause of Liberty That on mail-shielded wing in drowsy course Sweeps past me through the gloom. Can noon's hot Triumph'd o’er every foe. Soon follow'd change : glare,

Each lovely scene became a scene of woe, Her countless insects and incessant hum,

Pillag'd by bands uncouth ; fierce rapine spread The noise of never-resting multitudes,

Throughout each province—where was Gvido then? Yield aught of pleasure like the quiet eve?

He would not bend again 'neath foreign yoke,
Nor stoop to the oppressor; so he tied
To those high mountains, where, in unknown caves,

The rude banditti held a desert home.
On that sweet evening, by the crumbling shrine,
A maiden leant, so pale and motionless :

They found him moody and disconsolate,
Save for her bosom's rapid rise and fall,

As one who sorrow'd for his country's wrongs; You might have fancied her a noble work

But brave of soul, fitted for enterprise ;
Of olden art, spared ’mid the general wreck.

And in short space their leader he became.
Beauteous she was ; yet in her lineaments
Appear'd a sorrow that seem'd most unmeet

Yet did he ne'er amid distress forget
To mar so soon surpassing loveliness.

Gentle IANTHE: memories of her proved – Luxuriant tresses, like the raven's wing

The sweetest solace of distracting hours-
In hue, but richer far, in braids profuse,

All that remained to him of happiness.
Hung down her neck, with silken ribands bound. Often, when twilight shadows veiled the world,
Her lustrous eyes were fixed upon the sky,

He left his dreary haunts, and sought the plain
As if it sooth'd her grief to contemplate

Where dwelt his love ; there, in that lonely spot Its tranquil glory. One white band was press'd Which heard their earliest vows, they secret met, Close to her pallid lips ; the other lay

And fresh ones interchanged of endless faith,



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Mingled with tears, and hopes of future bliss
Hopes like the pale merereon's lovely flowers,
That blossom on an almost leafless bough.
Then, long ere sunbeams tinged the eastern sky,
He left the temple, with elastic steps
Scaling the mountains to the Bandit's cave.
Some months passed so; in which Ianthe felt
All that uncertainty of heart, those hours
Alternate cloud and sunshine, that soon pale
The rosiest cheeks, and blanch the darkest hair.

The morning gazed upon his suffering,

And night is closing o'er his tortured form; The carrion-birds, that hover'd with black wing

Above his fearful couch, with life-blood warm, Have left him, and the shadows of the night Hang like a living pall above the scaffold's height. And as the wild glare of the torches throw

A gleam upon its outline-at its base, Kneeling with clasping hands, and head bent low,

And dark hair streaming o'er her marble face, A woman's form ; alas! what doth she there, Girt round with blood-stained men, dark night, and

wild despair With a high purpose, and a heart whose might

Is not of earthly giving, hath she come
Beneath the shelter of the awful night,

When desolation only hath no home,
To raise-ob, bitter task !-high hopes within
Another's heart, when hers lie withering.

She sought one evening the accustom'd spot With a sick heart, and all the tedious night Waited his coming-oh, how anxiously! But Guido came not: still she linger'd there Till the last star had quench'd its twinkling rays; Then faint and drooping hasten’d to her home. A day of misery succeeded. Eve Mantled the earth; again IANTHE stood Within the ruin'd temple; but, alone! And deep despair possess'd her anguish'd soul. With the first light of morning tidings came Of desperate conflict in the mountain wilds; The bandit's lone retreat had been surprised ! Long was the struggle dubious ;-bravely fought Those gallant outlaws and their youthful chief; Until a random bullet stretch'd him dead, And then, dispirited, o'erpower'd, they fell. The news spread widely round, and all rejoiced Except Ianthe; yet she grieved not loud; Her breast had been too sharply agonized To give its sorrows utterance; so conceal’d The rankling wound which heaven alone could heal. In solitude she brooded o'er her loss, Embalming with true tears his memory On whom her life reposed. But life for her Had lost all sweetness ; she desired to die To die was to rejoin her Guido. Health Soon fled, and her cheeks lost their damask hue, While grief sate heavily upon her brow ; And nightly, when the moon uprose in heaven, She sought the ruin where her vows were pledged When first she listen'd to love's fatal words; That spot evoked soothing remembrances. Strange, that in careless woe we haunt those scenes Which best remind us of departed joy. All saw that she was dying; though none knew Or guess'd the cause. As a young lily droops Upon its stem, smote by a hidden worm, So droop'd, so died she. Just before her death The secret was reveal'd.

Banks of the Yore.

God! she hath climb'd the scaffold, and sinks down

Beside that broken form. Is there no wreath Wherewith “ fidelity to death" to crown?

No bright immortal, which the dulling breath Of earth's decay--the ashes, and the tombMay leave to coming years in their first bloom? Not since the stars looked down on Mizpah's head,

Keeping her watch upon the rock alone Beside those heavy sleepers, her loved dead,

They, in their thousand years, have never shone Upon so sad a sight-woe, woe for love ! The rose blooms at its feet, but cypress waves abore. There, kneeling by his side, with fearless heart

She pour'd the music of her voice in prayer, Keeping her bridal vow till death should part

In his life's anguish-as its joys to share Her sweet reward-his latest whisper'd breath, “This is-oh, loved and true-fidelity to death !"


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" This, my Gertrude, is fidelity to death."-The last

words of the Baron Von der Wart to his wife.

He leaves his home at the early dawu,

With a step of stealthy lightness ;
The sunbeams smile upon tower and lawn,

And the lake reflects their brightness :
In the field the cheerful milkmaid sings

While the lowing kine surround her, And my first spreads forth her sheltering wings,

And gathers her young around her. O'er the wanderer's road the wild-rose bends,

But his path seems sad and dreary-
He is shunned and scorned by his former friends,

And his soul of life is weary;
He strayed in youth from the path of right,

By the hand of Pleasure beckoned -
Then sin assailed him with withering blight,

And she proved to him my second. He gathers my whole he grasps it fast ;

Oh! fearful infatuation ! Support him Heaven-give him strength to cast

On the earth the vile temptation ! Its power may his future welfare mar,

It may bid dark fetters bind himAnd hurl him to woes more bitter far

Than the worst he leaves behind him!

A scaffold-wheel, and victim doomed to die

With broken limbs, and an exuding brow; Whose sighs are heart-sobs wrung by agony,

Whose prayer is unto Death, as to a Saviour now,

And Horror, with pale cheek and spiral hair,

And teeth fast clenched, and eyes drawn deep within Their close-knit brows, is gazing in despair

Upon that ruthless spectacle of sin ; And guards keep watch around, as if in fear Those shattered limbs should leave their bloody bier,

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Part I.

“ Hast thou forgotten how often I have entreated thee to give up this occupation, which is

so utterly profitless? Whither can poetry lead * Forbid thou the silkworm to spin."

GÖTHE. “Whither?" replied Eliza, her girlish features

beaming. Perchance to fame, chere mamma!

“ Fame was never intended for us women!" It was in Nantes. At the window of a small said Madame Merceur, while in secret her white house that mirrored itself in the bright mother's heart beat high with pride. waters of the Loire, sat a young maiden writing. And why not, mamma? We are often des. It was yet early in the morning ; the streets were tined to fame.". silent and empty, but such was the excitement “ And dost thou think that thou art, Eliza? of the young scribe that the loudest uproar Fie! I had not believed thee so vain.” would scarcely have attracted her attention. “ Nor am I indeed! But can I help it if Lost in the ecstatic mists of her inspiration, her thousands of thoughts, scenes, and pictures will very soul seemed pouring itself out in the rapid crowd my spirit, until I feel as if I could motions of her pen. The bloom of youth was scarcely breathe if I might not pour them out on that fair face, contrasting strangely its fresh- in poetry. Oh, if thou couldst only know how ness with the wrapt enthusiasm painted on each elevated, how happy I feel while writing, thou feature; rich dark tresses, too luxuriant to bear wouldst not grudge me those joyous moments. the restraint of the comb, flowed around her Thou askest whither poetry will lead me; to countenance, and half veiled her ivory shoulders happiness, perhaps to fame; if the latter is beand bosom; her lips were bright as the pome- stowed on me I will receive it modestly, kneeling granate blossom, and, as a smile parted them, as a king to receive his crown: should it never two rows of small pearl-like teeth were disclosed. be my portion, I shall not miss it; therefore be The maiden's dress was very simple, and the not anxious about me, but let me go on. Thou furniture of the room in which she sat, although knowest, mamma dear, that I never allow fancy scrupulously neat and clean, bespoke almost and poetry to make me forget the duties of poverty; but there were flowers in the windows, reality. However full my head may be with and a canary-bird springing from perch to perch beautiful visions, they never make me forget to in his little cage, so that perfume and song, explain a dry rule in grammar, lecture on Greek nature's choicest luxuries, were not wanting in or Roman history; detect a false note or an errothat small mean abode.

neous calculation. And surely when I have Eliza wrote on; pausing, however, occasion- been fagging all day with my pupils, trying to ally, and leaning back in her chair with half- drive learning into their little heads, thou wilt closed eyes, as if to shut out the external world not refuse me permission in my short leisure to and confine her gaze to the bright realms of amuse myself my own way?”. imagination ; then her countenance would light My dear child !” exclaimed her mother, up, her bosom heave, her lips part with an “ My good and dutiful Eliza, who although so almost triumphant smile, and her pen again fly young art my support, my comfort, my blessing. over the paper as if impatient to outstrip the Were it not for thine industry what would berapid thoughts. The door was gently opened, come of me? I am a sad burden to thee,

my and a neatly dressed, middle-aged woman entered. Eliza heard her not until that well known Say rather my happy Eliza,” replied the voice called her by name; then she looked maiden, throwing her arms affectionately around quickly up, and the inspired Muse became in an her mother. “ Dost thou think that it is not as instant a gentle, affectionate, obedient child. delightful to work for thee as to She coloured like a child caught doing some- "As to write poetry, thou wouldst say. Listen, thing wrong, and hastily endeavoured to conceal Eliza, and I will tell thee whence arise



At thine age all over-tasking, either of mind or "What is it thou art writing, Eliza?” said body, is to be avoided; for it is only too likely Madame Mercaur gently, yet gravely.

to impair the health, perhaps throughout life. The young maiden replied only by a look of Thou hast, in thy daily routine of duty, already deprecating entreaty.

sufficient to task thy strength to the utmost :

poor Eliza !"

the still wet paper,

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