I was as they who cities rear

On palsied, false, volcanic ground:
The earthquake rattles deep; and where
They stood, dead ruin lies around.
I'd faith in friendship, next to God;
That faith as pure as sunlight burn'd:
When lo! as turn'd the prophet's rod,
My friend into a serpent turn'd.
Be shunn'd the face that nothing shows
Of what is passing in the brain :
But blest those eyes that all disclose,
Transparent as a crystal pane.

Yet why it comes that love and sin-
The frightful with the fair-should
Together thus, as though akin,

go

Doth trouble mortal wit to know.
Some looks there are, however new
To simple man,-in woman's eyes
More eloquent than tongues, whereto
The bounding blood alone replies.
Such did I chance, by chance, to see—
And would to heav'n I had not seen
!-
Pass, to my lasting misery,

My Judith and this friend between.
Both false-And I, the cheated fool,
The tickled trout,-the ass asleep!-
The butt for jest and ridicule,-

'Twas I that won, and could not keep!

Ay, laugh!-sneer at me,-scoff, and gibe:-
I'm sport legitimate and fair!

The meanest clown may gall my kibe,-
Chous'd, trick'd, and swindl'd by my dear!

My sweet!-my angel!-Pah, my devil!
My plague, my leprosy, my curse :
My deep below hell's lowest level,

And worse than this, if there be worse!

What itch or scab more foul than this?
What vice so vicious is, or black?
What rottenness more loathsome is?
We'll kiss behind my husband's back!

Ay, kiss, hug,-clasp,-be quick,-time flies ;-
And deep this vitriol passion burns!

Let's peer in one another's eyes,

We cannot do't when he returns!

No, no!-Beware!-This washy thing,
This watery turnip of a man,
This very mud o' th' human spring,
MAY seek for vengeance when he can.

Ay, true! -This noodle, tame and sleek,
Of gentle speech and simple brains,
Has yet some courage on his cheek,
And liquid fire along his veins !

V.

I wait for my Revenge, and adopt an old Stratagem.
I waited. It is sweet to wait :

To keep the dainty for the last;
To grow an epicure in hate,

And feel the feast is not yet past!
This waiting doubles one's delight
In bright reflections on the fact ;
And keenly edges appetite

With action's dream before the act.
But, venom-swoln, we hasty grow ;-
This jealousy wont wait for long :
It must in earnest strike the blow,
And perish in revenge of wrong.
A stratagem, grown long since stale,
I yet resolv'd again to try :-
Like fish, these women seldom fail

The baits men caught their mothers by.

I plann'd a journey, and I made
Long preparation for it too :

Then, mov'd with seeming grief, I bade
That woman false, as false adieu.

But first the servants all I bought:
Her trustiest page to me prov'd truer ;
For, to my hiding-place he brought
A letter written to her wooer.

"Meet me to-night”—'twas thus it spoke-
My hideous husband's gone at last,

At dark-hour be beneath the oak

Where all my best of life is pass'd."

Yes, madam! you shall meet your lover-
'Twill be THE FIRST, though-not the second.

And woe to you when I uncover

A deadlier viper than you reckon'd.
That dark-hour shall be dark indeed!
Nor darker e'er passed o'er thy head;
Thou'lt own 't a privilege to bleed,

And wish in vain that thou wert dead!
Thou still shalt live-poor Virtue's lie;
A daylight sin, a guilty fame,
Expos'd i' th' sun, till thou may'st die

Of blushes, nakedness, and shame!

VI.

I disguise myself, waylay my Friend, and meet my own Wife under the Oak.

The page went to his journey's end,

And took the scroll for whom 'twas meant:

I lim'd this twig to catch my friend,

While on his friend's dishonour bent.

It chanc'd a fordless river lay

Between him and the place of meeting,

I plann'd to kill him on the way,

And in his dress give her the greeting.

Disguis'd, I took the boatman's place
To ferry passing travellers over :
I felt all bloodless grow my face
When in my wherry stepp'd the lover.
He knew me not, but I knew him;
He took me for a simple man.
The night was growing rather dim,
And darkly swift the river ran.
I ne'er before a river saw,

Nor since, nor e'er again shall see
A simple river wear such awe
As that that ev'ning wore to me.

It look'd intensely undefin'd ;

It blobb'd and gurgl'd as if dying;

And strange dim things half seen, half blind,
Seem'd on its surface to be lying.

The trees stood sharp against the skies,
The copper skies were changing black :

That fool saw Love before his eyes,

But I saw Death behind his back.

Unthought on and at one fell blow
I swept him into his for ever,
I stripp'd, then let his carcass go
Down, cold to cold, into the river.
He knew not who had done 't nor why:
Nor did it matter much-enough

Had he to do just then to die

Untroubl'd with all other stuff.
Thus half the sin was wip'd away:
I took the sinner's cap and cloak,
And in the thicken'd twilight gray

False Judith met beneath the oak.

VII.

The Meeting-The Result-The final Punishment of Judith.

I heard her light and sinful feet
Haste eagerly along to crime;

And thought my wilful heart would beat
The secret out before its time.

Before my mind rose other hours,

Unlike-and yet most like !-to this;
Ere Sin had trampl'd on life's flow'rs,
And cast us down this dire abyss.

When we were young, and youthly pure!-
When Faith spun on an endless chain;
When Truth itself could not be truer,
In hearts undarken'd yet with pain !
Oh God, Thou know'st mine agony!
Heard'st in my soul my unheard groans;
Saw'st tears no mortal eye might see,
And rare as dew distill'd from stones.

My passion faded off in grief;
Extinguish'd-fairly beat-by tears.
For in that bitter moment brief,
I saw the buried joy of years.

487

Lost was the present in the past;
One kiss for memory I gave:
It was the only one, the last

That linger'd o'er affection's grave.
The trait'ress took me for another!
My passion like a storm return'd;
Nor scarce hypocrisy might smother
The in-bred fires that deeply burn'd.
"Thou miscreant angel, know 'tis I!
Behold thy husband in thy lover,
Thou curs'd in all eternity,

Whose sin the very grave can't cover!
"He whom thou deem'd I was, is gone
Where no intrigue can work returning.
And thou thyself must follow on

To join him in perpetual burning!"

She would have shrieked, but fail'd; and dropp'd Down at my feet a lifeless heap.

Her guilty heart abruptly stopp'd,

Crush'd and o'erwhelm'd by terror deep.

It only woke again to beat

Time to a lasting song of sorrow.

Dark was her way for stumbling feet,

Through life's long night with no to-morrow.

Still my revenge was yet unta'en;

New, fresh revenge more dire than death,

I plotted how to lengthen pain

Till life grew sick of its own breath.

took her to a desert shore,
Where she and I dwelt all alone.
I spoke not to her ever more,
But pass'd her like a living stone.

I saw her not, I heard her not,

I heard no sigh and saw no tear :

I treated her like one forgot,

And liv'd as though she were not there.

A conscious death her life became,

And oft, in truth, my heart was aching; Yet would not I have spoke her name,

Though it had sav'd that heart from breaking.

Sometimes her tearful eyes I caught
Fix'd on me in such speaking wo—
Though seeming not to see, I thought
Her grief unparallel'd below.

Yet I relented nought, nor changed,
Until this dead-life frightful grew;

And to her wavering mind, derang'd,

True things look'd false, and false things true.

Nor might she long this grief withstand

She died, nor sought I once to save :

I buried her upon the sand,

Nor left a mark to note her grave.

Now from this tale of foul disgrace,

And murder done, you well may guess

The causes all-the feelings trace
That keep me in the wilderness.

THE OPERA.

LE PAS DES DÉESSES.

We thought the season was getting fainter and fainter,—that it was decidedly on the wane, and that although it would not actually terminate its bright existence till the middle of this month, August, there would be no more novelty, nothing for us to talk about. Therefore we resolved to write our summary. It is indeed bad manners to send for the undertaker before the patient is dead, however old or however feeble he may be, but a nice graceful epitaph written by a friend, and paying him a smart compliment during his lifetime, is not without precedent. Why not? If Anacreon asks

τί σε δεῖ λίθον μυρίξειν ;
τί δὲ χεέιν ματάια.

That is to say, what is the good of perfuming and wine-pouring, when the nose that ought to sniff and the lips that ought to taste have retired from the scene, and left a dull lump of stone as an inefficient proxy. We ask in our turn, why should not the same argument apply to that sweetest of all odours-commendation?

Therefore did we take up our new pen-no, we did not, we use steel, and "new pen" belongs to the cant of the quill days;—therefore did we take up our steel pen, and send our memory scenting, diving, and penetrating through all the crannies of the past months, that it might bring us fragments of treasure for our fancy to arrange into a graceful heap, just as the ants used to pick up bits of gold for the benefit and behoof of the griffins. In this condition were we, when our eyes fell on an advertisement, "Pas des Déesses-Madlles. Taglioni, Cerito, Grahn, M.M. Perrot, St. Leon," and so on. It was but one action to see this and to order our horses to be put to our carriage. Starting from our little fantastical gothic cottage, we reached in a short time our box on the grand tier.

No more thoughts of the summary till September! The season takes a new life, and a birthday ode were fitter than an epitaph-if, indeed, a birthday ode were ever fit for any thing, since compositions of the kind are usually dull, "slow" affairs, while an epitaph, melancholy though its subject be, has still the merit of brevity. It is as though one "bored" a man when he came into the world, and gave him a light nod when he walked out of it. Did the Thracians, who used to pay visits of condolence on the occasion of a birth, and think a death the luckiest thing in the world, originate the two descriptions of poems ?

But hang the Thracians, -as they used to hang one another in sport, to the great offence of Dr. Cornelius Scribblerus, for they keep us away from our subject. To the pas-to the pas.- C'est le premier pas qui— Nonsense!

Long rows of thick clouds, with long rows of Pagan deities sitting upon them, to see the other deities dance below. Very well behaved,

* Don't believe it, reader. Our reporter called a cab, and went to the back of the pit. The "gothic cottage" is an apartment never-mind-how-many-pair-back. -Printer's Devil.

Aug.-VOL. LXXVII. NO. CCCVIII.

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