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father with a word and a look that that covered the coffin now covered kindled all present. • Son and heir him, and ere he arose, a decanter of of Airaumery,' said he, with a deep wine, blood red as it happened, was and slow voice, mark my words. spilt about him. He was helped to That shrouded clay has made ye lord his feet, and as he disencumbered of gold, yellow beaten gold-houses himself of the untimely garment, warm and many- and lands broad down gushed from the stem of his and wide that gold, those houses, bonnet a spoonful of wine o'er cheek
and those lands, were gathered and and chin-he thought it life's blood at I wilt gotten in a way of which God will least-yelled, with pure dismay, till
require an account-be kind to the roof and rafter rung--and home he the widow, the orphan, the hungry heart, ran howling for help, and all the dogs the old
and the houseless head-and who of the gate-end barking in full chorus oted a knows but the curse that clings to after him.
your name may be suspended it can “It was in the evening of this event
never be removed.' On my father ful day that I returned from a singingshould gloweredmye have no English word school, knowing nothing of my faatens ? to match that the hopeful heir with ther's adventures and I found him
eyes gray and covetous, opened wide preparing to take the book ;-I joined
anger-and unable to speak. Not so Unfortunately the parish precentor cerned by the Gudeman of the Drum--a hot had framed the compass of my voice, Laine Episcopalian- neighbour southern and I scrupled not to give my father ciesto to boot-a near neighbour to Air- ill-prepared as he was for a renewal of een doi naumery's; and one, beside, who prided any kind of competition-a sample of hit himself in having by heart the very my might in psalmody. Though the Scorpio prayer that Archbishop Sharpe prayed tune was Stroudwater, and the psalm
when he turned his coat on the cove was the eighth--prime favourites of my
words havé no weight at all, and, and with many a warning look and til F with something between a stroke and wink, sought to repress my ill-timed
a push, he put his predecessor aside, rivalry. i mistook her signs, and my
prayer, where he had never found mind him ;-by the seven seals of the his match--that, too, by an Episco- covenant, I'll break his voice for him ! palian-to be smitten on the cheek so saying, he commenced the hundred and over the banner of the covenant and nineteenth psalm, to the roaring to have the twice turned coat of the tune of the Bangor, and we sung it great apostate hung waving and from end to end : iny voice was still triumphant-tell it not in Gath. So unbroken and triumphant, so I had to up rose my father's round neeve, and fly from the face of my father, and down went the Gudeman of the Drum with a sixpence in my pocket, a shirt, with the coffined defunct on the top and years sweet seventeen' on my of him. There lay be on the floor back, I forsook the roof of my home, the mortcloth of fringed black velvet and began my wanderings."
(To be continued.) Vol. VI.
the tips :
THERE is a small cloud in the sky, And for an hour an evening hour
Of rural solitude,
I come to view the field and flower, The linnet sings its song.
And stand, where I have stood ! A gentle breathing air is out,
Like gushing rills, a thousand thoughts With lonely sound it grieves ;
O'erpower my sinking mind; It bends the grass, it plays about
Within my heart, the well known spots The inside of the leaves.
Their pictured image find. It stirs the surface of the lake,
And dreams, that have been long subdued, In wrinkles bending far,
In fair succession rise; Until the marge they gain, and break Dim shadows o'er my bosom brood, Where water lilies are.
And tears bedim mine eyes. The flowers of spring are beautiful, With her, who was the source of bliss, And well their sight may cast
I never else had found, Before our visions, fresh and full,
'Twas heaven, on such an eve as this, The memory of the past.
To tread this very ground ! The spirit alters : ne'er again
I see her smiles-I list her words Will life restore the hours
Her winning looks I see; Of innocence, when, free from pain, The very music of the birds Our day was like the flowers !
I hear from yonder tree ! No doubts to check, no fears to dim 'Tis well the brightest things of earth Our cloudless destiny;
Are half with shade o'ercast ; Like little barks, 'twas ours to swim I could not wish my present mirth Upon a summer sea.
To emulate the past. The playfulness, the pride of heart, The hills, the fields, the woods, the sky, -As seasons journeyed by
Are fair, as fair can be; Were quenched,
and youth came to impart They are not altered to the eye, More thoughtfulness of eye.
The change pertains to me. And passions, that without a wing, But yet, methinks, my soul could share Lay sleeping in their cells,
The glories of the scene ; Came forth, as, at the touch of spring, My heart its vanish'd frame repair, The dewy buds and bells.
And be what it hath been! But thou the princess wert of all,
Ah! no—my bosom could not melt Delicious, holy love,
With thoughts, that once had mored; Adored in cot, and palace hall,
We cannot feel, as we have felt; In city, and in grove.
Nor love as we have loved ! What marvel, then, that I should be And holier far the thoughts must be A worshipper of thine ?
Of things, whose relics sleep That I should leave the world, and flee In silence, 'neath the whelming sea, To kneel before thy shrine !
Than such as sail the deep. Long years have past and hope, and grief, The weeds that rustle o'er the grave, And fear, and doubt, and strife,
When evening lowers around,
Than any living sound.
A double charm impart,
And lessons to the heart.
The bell's sonorous chime hath died away
The tribes of lower nature, even the mass
Over the summit of the dark green trees,
them life and being-eyes to see
Oh ! holy is the noon of sabbath day,
Embalmed in Recollection's silent eye
Our life is but a journey. Happy eves !
THE AURORA BOREALIS.A SONNET.
'Tis midnight; and the world is hushed in sleep:
Distant and dim the southern mountains lie;
The stars are sparkling in the cloudless sky; And hollow murmurs issue from the deep, Which, like a mother, sings unto its isles.
Sure spirits are abroad! Behold the north
Like a volcano glows; and, starting forth, Red streaks like Egypt's pyramids in files Lo! Superstition, pallid and aghast,
Sterts to his lattice, and beholds in fear, Noiseless, the fiery legions thronging fast,
Portending rapine and rebellion near: For well he knows that dark futurity Throws forward fiery shadows on the sky!
LAND of the muses, and of mighty men!
A shadowy grandeur mantles thee; serene
In ecstasy, and wist not where to stray.
Beautiful Greece! more glorious in decay Than other regions in the flush of spring : Thy palaces are tenantless ;-the Turk
Hath quenched the embers of the holy fane ;
Thy temples now are crumbling to the plain,
[We have been prevented from giving our promised analysis of one of Oehlenchläger's tragedies this month: but
shall certainly redeem our pledge in next Number. The following article consists of a translation of one of the short tales of the Baroness de la Motte Fouqué ma lady whose compositions, both in verse and prose, enjoy, at present, great popularity all over Germany. She is the wife of that Baron de la Motte Fouqué whose beautiful story of Undine has been translated into English and whose MAGIC-RING, WALDE, Mar the Pilgrim, and EGINHARD and EMMA, ought all to be translated immediately. We hope soon to make our readers better acquainted with the genius both of husband and of wife,
The French sound of their name may surprise our readers : but, we believe, the fact is, that the present Baron de la Motte Fouqué is the lineal representative of a Huguenot nobleman, who left France at the period of the revocation of the Edict of Nantz, and acquired considerable estates in the Prussian dominions. Many villages, and even whole towns, in the western parts of old Prussia, are almost entirely inhabited by the descendants of these French refu. gees, among whom the language of their forefathers is still spoken. The Baron, however, writes in German--and few authors of his day write more purely or more energetically. His lady is, we believe, of a Saxon family of high distinction.]
The Cypress Crown, a Tale. By the BARONESS, CAROLINE de La Motte FOUQUE'. The promises of peace, which for many ly child, stationed in an high bow. months had been depending, came at window, raised its round white arms last to be fulfilled. The army return on high, and receiving from its weeped home; with seriousness and solem- ing, turned-away mother, a coronet of nity they entered once more the libe- leaves, threw it down
pasrated and wonderfully rescued capital. sing troops beneath. A lancer, who
It was a Sunday morning. Since happened to be the first to notice this day-break, young and old had been occurrence, good-humouredly took up pressing through the streets towards the the wreath on his lance, while he gates. The guards could with diffi- playfully nodded to the fair little angel culty keep any degree of authority in above. He had his eyes still directed the storm of unrestrained and irresisti- in this manner, when his commanding ble joy.
officer, riding on, exclaimed, “ Ha! Crowded, squeezed, and as it were, Wolfe !ma cypress wreath! How twined and twisted through each other, came you by such a thing-it may
be stood this expectant assembly; and thought an unlucky omen !" Wolfe as the wished for moment approached, put the crown on his right arm, howbecame the more deeply and inwardly ever, and not without some discomaffected. There was scarcely a sound posure rode on ! audible in the multitude, when at last After a long tedious delay, employe the powerful yet melancholy voice of ed in putting up the horses in the rethe trumpets gave their first greeting gimental stables, giving them water from afar. Then tears fell from a and provender, the quarter-billets at thousand eyes; many a breaking heart last were distributed. Wolfe, on rewas chilled ; and on the lips of all, ceiving his ticket, had the mortification low and anxious whispers trembled. to perceive that it directed him to the Now shone the first gleams of armour house of a well-known rich butcher ! through the open gates.Scattered His comrades wished him joy-rallied flowers and garlands flew to meet him on the good eating which awaited them ; for every tree had paid its tri- him; and profited by the opportunity bute; every garden had granted a share to invite themselves frequently to be from its variegated treasures. A love. come his guests. He, meanwhile, took