THE PROSE AND POETRY EUROPE AND AMERICA: CONSISTING OF IITERARY GEMS AND CURIOSITIES, AND CONTAINING THE CHOICE AND BEAUTIFUL PRODUCTIONS OF MANY OF THE MOST POPULAR WRITERS OF THE PAST AND PRESENT AGE; A RARE AND VALUABLE WORK ]ODR TB LIBRARY OR THE BOUDOIRt, AND AN ELEGANT GIFT-BOOK FOR ALL SEASON8 COI PILZD BY G.'.~ MORRIS AND N. P. WILLIS. COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. NEW-YORK: L E AVITT & ALL E N. (8UoCzBSsORB To LEAVITT. Co.), NO. 27 DEY-STREET. 1853. Ur REM Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, ,.* * YP XORRIS AND WILLIS, '.'fla,e Cierk's Office of the District Court of the Southern i.srict of New York a * I P RE F AC E. IF you have ever looked with the feeling of paternity on the first green buds of a plantation of choice trees, dear reader, you can comprehend the pleasure with which we turned over the leaves of this voluine-the product of much care and pains-taking. The work is now completed, and fit for a choice cabinet, or fitter still for the occupancy of a centre-tabl)le, to b-, taken up in any mnood, and read at any length, or with any degree of abstraction. What rich variety in its contents! What more delightful than such a book, every word of which is part of a choice treasure of literature? What better idea was ever started than that of these sands of gold, sifted from the flood of English literature-a rescue of capital things, wastefully adrift, and giving a number of the most brilliant prose tales ever written? Here are gems from the master-spirits of the by-gone time-and here is sweet and earnest Barry Cornwall. What is there, in the way of lyric poetry, better* worth keeping by you? And here are Pinckney's finished poems, that have been scattered over the world, untraceable to their author, till now; and the deathless efforts at invention, by the three magicians of fancy, Drake, Praed and Keats; and the poems which are the marrow of Moore's immortality; and the long lost and splendid "Angel of the World," by Croly, coupled with the enchanting narrative of "The Rimini," by Leigh Hunt. And who will not rejoice in our bringing together the inimitable songs of the bard of poor Jack, immortal and heart-stirring Dibdin? Who that has feeling or taste, piety or love of purity, will not thank us for the incomparable sacred poetry embodied in this work-for Saturday evening and Sunday reading, inestimable treasures; and also for the beautiful selections from Goldsmith, Byron, Wordsworth, Scott, Montgomery, Hood, Campbell, Breton, Mrs. Hemans, Miss Landon, and a host of others, whose productions adorn this delightful volume? What book, published in this, or any other country, ever boasted I I i .,D I D PREFACE. so rich and novel a variety? Here we have succeeded in getting into presentable shape, such choice productions as we used to lend upon bond and mortgage, so precious were our copies of them, and so fearful were we that they would pever be returned. We have been years and years in making these selections, and this Library is our pride. With the assurance that the work contains nothing which is not amply worthy o)f preservation, it is submitted to the public as a tr,sure of rare story, poetry and moral, well worth every one's owning. IL 4 *I THIS VOLUME CONTAINS SELECTIONS FROM THE WORKS OF THE FOLLOWING AUTHORS AND MANY ANONYMOUS PRODUCTIONS OF STERLING MERIT, HERE COLLECTED FOR THE FIRST TIME. Acton, Eliza Akenside, Mark Addy, Mrs. Ameiia,D Addison, Arne, Michael Ainsley, Hugh Aa(I.ms, Jean Auistin, Dr. Beckforth, WilliamD [treton, Nicholas Barton B. Bryant, W. C. Bulwer, E. L. Bird, James Byron, Lord Brown, M. A. Bowering, Dr Bayley, I'. H Barrets, E. S Beaumont and Fletcher Boyse, Samuel Burns, Rober t Burleigh, William Buchanan, Rev. H Bonna, A. R. Buchanan, John Brown, J. Barton, Bernerd Ballentine, James Blanier, Miss Keats, John Knowles, J. Sheridan Kappa, J. Keble, C. Moore, Thomnas Montgomery, Jamiies Malcolm, John Montgomery, Robe.t Mitford, Miss Milman, Dr. Milto n, John Mason, William Moir, D. M. Macaulay, T. B Muller, F. Marriot, A. Marsden, John Macneil, HectoR' Monk Lewis May, John Mackay, Charles Gregory, Dr. Goldsmith, Oliver. Gay, John Gillespie, Rev. W. Good, J. M. Grant, Edward Grant, Mrs. Gilfillan, R. Grinfield, J. Heber, Bishop Hauff, Wilhelm Hood, Thomas Itemans, Mrs. Hervey, J. K. Hart, J. Hogg, James Herrick, Robert Howitt, William Huie, Dr Hodson, W. Howitt, Mary Hall, S. C. Hamilton, R. Hallet, George Irving, Washington Imlah, John Ta ylor, Ernly Tennyson, Alfred Tannahill, Robert Townsend, H. Thomson, James Taylor, Miss Jane Toplady Thomnson, C. W. Tucker, D. Thorn, William Walker, Mrs. Wordsworth, William White, Henry Kirk Wilson, Mrs. C. B. Watts, Dr A A. Waller, Edmund Wolfe, Rev. Charles Wastell, D. Wilson, Professor Walton, C. Willard, Mrs, Wesley, Rev. ohn Walker, John Wilson, Alexander Wilson, W Praed, William Macworth i Percival, J. K. Pembroke, Earl of Peterborough, Earl of Prior, Matthew Pierpont, Rev. John Peabody Plauche, J. R. Pollok Paul, W. Percy Pinckney, Edward Coate I I I i I I i i Dale, Rev. T. Downin-, Mrs. Dibdin, Charles Dibdin T. Delta Dacre, Lady Daniel, Samuel Dryden, John Doane, Bishop Dickerson, E. Douglas D'Arfrey, John Dunlop, Dr. Ettrick Shepherd P:Iliott, E. East, William Johnson, Dr. Samuel Jonson, Ben Jenyns, Soame 'Jewsbury, Miss - Johnson, Miles Jeffreys, C. -Redding, Cyrus Rogers, Samuel Rochester, Lord Randolph, Thoma Roscoe, William Raffles, Rev. T. Richardson, C. H. Read; William' Ramsay, Allan Riddle Rev. H. S. i I I Scribe, Eugene Smith, Horace Shakspeare, Williarn Spenser Swain, Charles Southey, Robert Shelley, P. B. Scott, ir Walter Su(-kliii, Sir John St,-inley"T'homas Sc,nierv Ile, William Sedley, Sir Charles Slienstone, William S,,)i-ithw(-Il, Willihrn Sigotirriey, Mrs. Stewart, Mrs Dovale Spittall, Dr Landon, Miss E L. Lyle, Thoinas Lovelace, Richard Lyndsay, l,ady -Aiiiie Laidlaw, Williai-,i Fletcher, Miss Fitzadam, J. Florian Fletcher Phineas Fletcher: Gile. Fraser, Robert Ferrier, Miss Groly, Rev. George Campbell, Thomas Cowley. Williai-n Clare, J. Cornwall, Barry Cowper, William Campion,_ Thomas Carraw, Thomas Cowley, Abraham Cunningham, John Crabbe Coleridge Conde.-, Josiah Cherry, Andrew Cobb, James Cockburn, Mrs. Clurie, Rev. John Ci-awfo,d, Archibald Cramer, Julian Norton, Hon. Mrs. Neele, Henry - Nicholas,.T. G. Noel, Rt. Hon. B. Drake, Joseph Rodman I *CONTENTS. Love Nursed by Solitude.. 292 A Girl at her Devotions..... 292 The Neglected One..... 293 When should Lovers breathe their Vows. 293 The Emerald Ring...... 293 A Night in May........... 294 The S~ultana's Remonstrance... 294 Warning........... 295 The Nameless Giave......... 295 Think of Me......... 295 Song of the hunter's Bride.. 296 The Woodland Brook.... 296 I Pray Thee Let me Weep To-ni;hit.. 296 The Wreath. 296 The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies. By TTomAS Ms HOOD....... 297 The Dream of Eugene Aram... 305 A Retrospective Review........ 307 Fair Ines.......... 308 What can an Old Man do but Die.. 308 Hytrin to the Sun.......... 308 To a Cold Beauty.......... 308 A Lake and a Fiir-y Boat....... 309 The Thankless Girl....... 309 Ruth... 309 The Sea of Death...... 309 The Exile....... 309 To an Absentee........309 The Demon-Ship......... 310 The Forsaken..,.. 310 The Stars are with the Voyager... 310 Ode to Melancholy......... 311 To. 311 Sigh on, Sad Heart...... 312 The Water Lady........... 312 1 Remember, I Remember..1l111 Silence.. 312 To an Enthusiast........ 3'2 The Beauties of GOLDSMITH3-containing The Deserted Village..l... 313 The Traveller, ora Prospect of Society.. 316 The Hermit. A Ball ad.... 319 - The Captivity: an Orato rio....... 320 A'hrenodia Augustali s..... 323 The Haunch of V enison.... 325 TLhe Double' transformation....... 326 The Logicians Refuted........ 326 A New Sienile..... 326 A Prologue...... 327 On a Beautiful Youth...... 327 The Clown's Reply...... 327 Epitaiph on Dr. Parnell..... 327 Lines....... 327 Prologue to Zobeide.. 327 The Gift... 32& Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.. 328 On the Death of Wolfe. 328 Description of an A uthor's Bed-chamber. 328 Elegy on the Glory of her Sex.'.. 328 Stainzas on Woman. 328 When shall I Marry me?.. 328 The Album of Love-containing Invitation. ANON..329 Love. Bv COWLEY..... 329 To Love. By SPNSERm. 329 Love? I will tell thee, &c. BY CHARLES SWAIN..,...... 329 Dans uin delire extreme. By ELIZA., CTON. 330 IT,,ve should he like that, &c.... 330 T.,)ve is lilke( t'e gla:~.s. Be MsI LAN'iJ,ON. 330 V~ oan'sn Lose. I3yr JOH.~ C~ARK.., 30 PAGE Judith, or the Opera Box. By EvUGENE SCRIBE.. 17 The BegFgar-Girl of the Pont-des-Arts. By WILHELM HAUF........ 26 The Pic-,\ic Party. By fiORACE SMITH.. 41 The Wife. By WASHINGTON. IRVIG..... 47 The Epicurean. By THOMAS MOORE... 49 A Father's Legacy to his Daughters. By DR. GGE oonaz.............2.0 81 Trials and Tempt ations of Woman. ANON... 90 Lalla Rookh. By rT OMAS MOORE... 97 The Culprit Fa y. By JOSEPH TODMAN DRAE. T n V s. 153 L illian. Bv By WI LLI AM. DCKW ORTH PRAED.. 158 The Eve of St. Aynes. B y JOHN KEATS.. 163 The Loves of tie Angels. By THOMAS MOORE.. 169 The An,el of the World. By Rev. GEORGEo CROLY. 185 The Story of lirmini. By LEIG H HUNT... 189 The World before the Flood. ByJA.tES CMONTGOM ERY..... 201 The Longing of a Biessed Heart. By NICHOLAS BRETON.....,.. 223 Stanzas. Bv GREFrNFIZLD...... 226 flome. By B. BARTON...... 227 Where are they? By JOHN MI*ALCOLM,... 227 The Village Funeral. ANON...... 227 The Dying Mother. ANON-..... 227 Evening Hymn. ANON....... 228 Stanzas. By BISHOP HEBER. 228 A'lihought Suggested by the New Year. By THO MlAS (.'AMIB"$Lr....... 228 Love Enduring. By B. BARTON..... 228 The Pastor's Marriage. ANON.... 228 Charity. ANO....... 229 The Sky-Lark. Bv WOltDSWORTm.... 229 Little Streams. ANON. 229 Lines to a Friend on his Marriage.'By IOGERS.. 229 The Poet to his Wife. ANON...... 229 April. ANON......... 230 The Return of Spring. By MALCOMB.... 230 The Hurricane. By BRYANT...... 230 On a Sleeping,, Boy. ANON...... 230 The Voice of God. By EMILY TAYLOR.. 231 Right of the Poor to Education. By WOnDSWORTII. 231 MIercy. By HART....... 231 Invocation to Night. By J. F. HOLLINGS... 232 A Lament and fieply. By MRs. FLETCHER... 232 The Evening:Star. By Miss LANDON.... 232 Evening Prayer. By REv. T. DALE..... 232 The Odes of Anacreon. By THOMAS MOORE... 233 Remarks on Anacreon.... 246 Rhymes on the Road. By'THOMAs MOORE... 247 Alciphr.n. A Fragment. By the Same.. 256 The Passion Flower. By Miss LANDO. —containing The Irnprovisatrice...... 265 The Venetian Bracelet...... 275 l,ove, Hope and Beauty..... 279 The Lost Pleiad...... 280 Inex....283 A Summiner Evening's Tale.... 284 The Painter's Love. 285 love's Last Lesson..... 286 A Village Tale....... 287 The Indian Girl. 288 Can Y'ou Forget Me.... 289 The Lily of the Valley... 289 Disenchantment....... 290 The Change........ 290 Love...... 290 Juliet after the Masquerade.... 291 The; Fairy Quiee-n Sleeoiig..... 291 A C lild S, reenitig a lDove fi om a Hawk.. 291 Cup d and. Sw-:fiiows Is lying from WJintt r.. 292, CONTENTS. Love's last Eve ning. By J. K. E4uVE5. Le veritable amour ne, &c. By FLORIAN. Love's Daring. By SHERIDAN KNOWLES. Love is a gift. By SCOTT. The Farewell. By ISHMAEL FITZADAM. Mercenary Love despised. By Sir E. L. BUL WER.. The Sailor Lover. By Sir E. L. BULWER. Domestic Love. By THOMPSON. Flowers Love's Language. By. LANDON. Love's Remembrance. By ELIZA ACTOR. Love. By J. BIRD. 'Tis sweet to hear. By BYRON. The Sailor's Farewell. By SCOTT. Love, like the grave. By NEELE. The lg etreat of Love. By BYRON. Th.e Love of later Years. By B. BARTON. The Bridal. By ROGERS. The Echo. From the German. Thy life was all one oath, &C. By SHERIDAN KNOWLES.. Song of the Aged Minstrel. By SCOTT. Wilt thou be mine. By T. MOORE. -. Bridal Greetings. By J. MONTGOMERY. I loved thee once. By SHERIDAN KNOWLES. It is the spirit's bitterest pain. By LANDON A silver lute, a minstrel hand. By H. B. The absent lover. By DELTA. Ambitious Love. By SHAKSPERE. Unchangeable Love. By T. MOORE. Love Auguries. By LANDON. ~ The Wealth of Love. By Sir E. I,. BLILW!:'. * On Parting. By BYRON.. ~ Jamais nous ne verrions, &c..... The Reproach. By WORDSWORTH. Love's Artifice. By SHERIDAN KNOWLES. A Wife to her Husband. By MILTON. The Trance of Love. From the Italian. Sonnet. By A. TENNYSON. Love is a thing. The Faith of Love. By Mrs. ~IEMANS. The Betrothed. Oh! cast thou not, &c. By Mr'. HEM aNS.. A woman's heart By J. BIRD Give me but my love. By DELTA. When the heart is full. By R. MONTGOMERY. Meet me at Sunset. By A. A. WATTS. Love's Minstrel Lute. By Mrs. C. B. WILSO) What spirit e'er so, &c. By Lady DACRE. Love. By NEELE. A Husband to his Wife. By BYRON.. Love in Absence. By BARRY CORNWALL. Love's sooner felt than seen. By PHINEAS FLETCHER. Beauty, Wealth, and Love. By MIrs.'G. B. WILSON. Oh! where is there the, yc. By LANDON.. Oh! Love hath spoken, &c. By J. K HARVEY. Lady! sweet maid. A Solemn Conceit. By N. BRETON. An Ode. By SAMUEL DANIEL.. Sonnet. By SAMUEL DANIEL. Of Lingering Love. By ANONYMOUS. My Mistress' Face. By THOMAS CTMPION.. Sigh no more. By SHAKSPERE. Conquest by flight. By THOMAS CARErW. The Primrose. By THOMAS CAREW.. Love is a Sickness. By SAMUEL DANIEL. Drink to me only with, &c. By BEN Jo0 SON..... Power of L_ove. By BEAUMONT AND FLETCH ER.... L~ove hath no P:hysician.~.. hove in the Coulntry. By Earl of PEMB.ROKE. Inconstancy of Love. By Earl of PEMBRnoKE Still to be neoat~ BY BEN JONSON... Tell me, dearest, &c. By BEAUMONT AND FLE~TCHER.... To the Virgins. By ROBERT HEnRICK.. The Bleeding Hand. By ROBERT H{EnRX(;K.. TO the *N,illow'lree. By the Same. The Rose. By5 EDMUND) WALLER.. A Dialogue between a Nymph and ShEe~pierd. By 1THOMAS R/ANDOLPH.~. 1-[. o Trhe:Kiss. —A Dlialogule. }By l-\OaT. ERRICK A Wedding. By Sir JOHN SUCKLING... The Change. By ABRAHAM COWLEY.. To B. R., in return for a Bracelet From "WV~it Restored."... PAGE Amour! toi seul remplis, &c. By FLORIAN. 330 No telling how Love thrives By SHERIDAN KNOWLES................330 Love the Victor. By Mrs. HEMANS.. 330 The Return. By Sir E. [,. BULWER. 331 How silver-sweet sound, &c. By SHAIrSPERE 331 The First Avowal. By LANDON.... 331 Passionate young Love. By Miss LANDON. 331 Alas! how light a cause, &c. By T. MOOR. 331 Woman's Constancy. By JAMES BIRD.. 331 Eastern Love-letter. By S. C. PERCIVAL..331 Still there clings. By Miss LANDON....331 To the Altar. By JAMES BIRD... 331 What is love. BIy SHELLEY..... 332 Love uncherished-dies. By Mrs. DOWNING. 332 I love thee. By ELIZA ACTON... 332 Woman's Love. By R. MONTGOMERY. 332 If music be the food of love. By SHAKSPERE. 333 To Love. By HouGG...... 333 A Lover's Praise. By SHAKSPERE.. 333 Love's Empire. By MOORE......... 333 Love Secrets. By CHARLES DIBDIN.. 333 The Supplication. By Mrs. HEMANS.. 333 If in absence we can trace. By Miss LANDON. 333 Sonnet. By BARRY CORNWALL.... 334 The Diffidence of Love. By HENRY KIRCI WHITE....... 334 The Pride of Love. By Miss LANDON.. 334 The Proposal. By Mrs. C. B. WILSON. 334 Unrequited Love. By Mrs. HEMANS.. 334 Love's Heralds. By SHAKSPERE.. 335 Love Sympathies. By BYRON... 334 Love's Wishes..335 Oh! for some fairy talisman. By Sir E. L. BULWER.. 335 The Trystini Hour. By THOMAS LYLE. 335 Love. By M. A. BROWNE........ 335 Oh! there are looks. By THOMAS MOORE.. 335 Love nursed by Solitude. By LANDON.. 336 Genius singing to Love. By Mrs. HEMANS. 336 It is the soft and silent hour. By Mrs. WALKER....... 336 Slighted Love. By N. P. WILLIS.. 336 The Minstrel's Love. By ISHMAEL FITZADAM. 336 Yes! so it is. By THOMAS MOORE... 336 Lover's Parting. By SHAKSPERE~.. 337 Hard is the heart. By COWPER... 337 Love's Echoes. By THOMAS MOORE.. 337 Song of the Absent. By KAPPA.. 337 With thee for ever. By COWLEY.. 337 Love. By E. ELLIOTT........ 337 They sin, who tells us, &C. By SOUTHEY.. 337 Amour, l'ont doit benir, &c....... 337 Woman is the Light of Love. By J. BIRD.. 337 Song of the Forsaken. By Hon. Mrs. NORTON. 337 The Hour of Love. By BYRON... 338 Sonnet............ 338 The Love born of Sorrow. By B. BARTON. 338 Perhaps I love. By Miss MITFORD.. 338 He who would stem a stream. By Sir W. SCOTT....... 338 Fragment. By ROBERT TANNAHILL.. 338 Where is the heart that, &c. By LANDON. 338 God gives us love. By TENNYSON.. 338 L'Absence et le Retour. By FLORIAN... 338 True Love Diffident. Bv DALE... 338 Power of Love. By H.'OWNSEND:.. 339 Fain would I sing. By BOWR1NG... 339 The Vow. By Lord PORCHESTER.. 339 Song. By BAYLEY........ 339 The Prayer of Earthly Love. By Mrs. HE MANS......... 339 do love violets. By LANDON.... 339 Wedded Love. By CAMPBELL.... 340 O Love, first learned in, &C. By SHAESPERE. 340 The Confession. By E. S. BARR~ET... 340 A Royal Bride. By MII.MAN.... 340 The two Fountains. By T. MOORE.'. 340 Oh! if thou lovest. By LANDON.... 340 t.ove's Bondage.......... 340 Love's young Dream. By T. MOORE.. 340 Sonnet. By SHAKSPERE...... 340 Look through mine eyes. By TENNYSON.. 341 Woman's Love.......... 341 Her name. By COWLEY........ 341 The Bride. By J. BIRD.... 341 5 he Honme of Love. By Mrs. HEMANS. 341 i,OVe. By LANDON......... 342 Wake, oh, wake! By T. DAm:... 342 Ah me! fur aught that, &c... 342 a PAGN 342 342 342 342 343 343 343 343 343 343 344 344 344 344 344 344 345 345 345 345 345 345 345 345 346 346 346 346 346 347 347 347 347 347 347 347 347 347 348 348 348 348 346 349 349 349 349 349 349 350 350 350 350 350 350 350 350 351 351 351 351 351 351 352 352 352 35'S 352 352 353 353 353 353 353 353 353 354 354 35F CONTENTS. PA-GE'~ ~PAOs Good night! Good night I 379 Why does azure deck the sky. 379 To Rosa....380 Fly from the world.... 380 Fanny dearest........... 380 Think on that look.... 380 The Catalogue......... 380 Mary, I believ'd thee true.... 380 Take back the sigh..... 381 To Cloe.-Imitated from Martial., 381 The wreath and the chain........ 381 The sale of loves........... 381 To a boy with a watch........ 381 Remember him thou leav'st behind... 382 Reuben and Rose...... 382 Anacreontic........ 382 That wrinkle, when first I espied it... 383 Is not thy mind a gentle mind?.. 382 When I lov'd you, I can't but allow... 382 Why, let the stringless critic chide... 383 To Julia...... 383 The Shrine........... 383 To a Lady........... 383 To Julia........... 384 Sweet lady, look not thus again.. 384 Nature's Labels..... 384 To Julia........... 384 A Reflection at Sea........ 384 Cloris and Fanny........... 384 The Shield....... 384 Dreams.... 385 To Rosa........... 385 To Julia, Weeping......... 385 The Wreathe you Wove.. 385 The world had just began to steal.. 385 Never mind how the pedagogue proses.. 385 On the death of a Lady........ 386 In witching slumbers of the night.,, 386 Inconstancy........... 386 Elegiac Stanzas......... 386 To the large and beautiful Miss..387 A Dream......................... 387 With all my soul, then, let us part... 387 Anacreontic............ 387 To Julia......... 387 Hymn of a Virgin of Delphi........ 387 Love and Marriage..... 388 To Julia. 388 The Snake............ 388 To Rosa...... 388 Elegiac Stanzas..... 388 The Tear.............. 388 Anacreontic........... 388 The Surprise..... 389 I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies.. 389 The Wonder............ 389 Lyin............ 389 The Philosopher Aristippus.... 389i To Rosa............ 390 This tribute's from a wretched elf.. 390 Light sounds the harp........ 390 Fill high the cup with liquid flame... 390 The Ring........ 390 The Resemblance..... 391 To the Invisible Girl........ 391 They say that Love had once a book.., 391 Here is one leaf reserv'd for me... 392 Put off the vestal veil.... 392 How oft a cloud with envious veil... 392 Mc n h tsa ttl3 Peace and Glory........... 392 The Kiss........... 392 To a Lady, on her Singing..-... 392 NATIONAL AmIs. By THOMAS MoorEt-contain ing A Temple to Friendship..... 393 Flow on, thou shining River.... 393 All that's bright must fade........ 393 So warmly we met............. 393 Those Evening Bells........,. 393 Should those fond Hopes......,. 394 Reason, Folly, and Beauty... 394 Fare thee well, thou lovely one!... 394 Dost thou remember........ 394 Oh, come to me, when daylight sets... 394 Oft. in the Stilly iNight............... 394 Hark! the Vesper Hymn is stealing.. 395 There comes a Time.... 395 Did n.3l[oveaand Hope..... 395 !ed ofmy Harp has one unchanging Theme.. N91 PAGE To Althea, from Prison. By RICHAltD Lovz LACE........ 355 On a Girdl. BY EDMUND WALLER... 355 Fond Lover. By Sir JOHN SUCKLING... 355 To Amoret. By EDMUND WALLElt.. 355 To a fair Young Lady. By JOHN DRYDEns.. 355 The Ell raptured L over. By THOMAS STAN LEY....356 Speaking, and Kissin'g. By the same... 356 'rhe Resolve. By the same..... 356 ilhe Superannuated L over. By W,. SOMER VILLE....... 356 The Rclapse. By THOMAS STANLEY... 356 Fair, sweet, and young. By JOHN DRYDEN. 356 Amatory Lines. By THOMAS GRAY.. 356 How sweet it is to love. By JOHN DRYDEN.. 357 Indifference excused. By CHAS. SEDLEY. 357 Evening Ode-To Stella. By SAM. JOHN SON..'..... 359 l said to my heart.' By Earl of P'ETERBO 1'OUGI... 357 The Dissemblers. By MATTHEW PRIOR.. 357 'Twas when the seas, &c. By JOHN GAY.. 358 Chloe Hunting. By SOAME JENYNS... 358 On Platonic Love. Bv SAMUEL BOYSE. 358 Unless with my Amiianda, &c. By JAMES THOMSON.. 358 'The shape alone let, &c. By MAIKAKKE: SIDE.. 358 For ever fortune.. By JAMES THOMSON.. 358 The Scholar's Relapse. By WILLIAM SHEN STONE.. 358 When first I dared. By WILLIAM MASON.. 359 Holiday Gown. By JOHN CUNNINGHAM. ~ 359 Address to the Woodlark. By ROBT. BURNS. 359 Where shall the lover rest. By Sir WALTER SCCTT. 359 On a Faded Violet. By P1ERCY B;S'SHE SHELLEY.... 359 Love's Philosophy By the same.. 360 Mourn not, sweet maid. By HENRY N.EPLE. 360 Go, forget me. By REV CHAR:LES WOLFE.. 360 I,ove. By Lord BYRON.. 360 Lines to an Indian Air. By PERcy BYSSHE S-r, LLZV...... 360 Stanzas for Mlusic. By Lord BYRON.. 360 Trhe Farewell... 360 E,.NINGS IN G.REcE:. By THOMAS IMOORE.. 361 As o'er her loom the Lesbian Maid.. 362 Weeping for thee, my love..... 362 When the Balaika.. 363 Raise the buckler-poise the lance... 363 As by the shore, at break of day.... 364 I saw, from yonder silent cave... 36;4 The group that stood around, to shade.. 364 Oh. Memory, how coldly..... 364 Ah! where are they?...7 365 Here while the moonlight dim.... 365 SECONI EVENING. When evening shades are falling.... 365 As once a Grecian maiden wove. 367 Up and march! the timbrel's sound... 367 No life is like the mountaineer's... 368 Thou art not dead-thou art not dead I.. 3644 Calm as, beneath its mother's eyes... 369 As love, one summer eve, was straying.. 369 Wcho comes so gracefully 7.... 370 Welcome, sweet bird...... 370 Up with the sparkling brimmer.. 370 March! nor heed those arms that hold.. 371 'T'is the vine...' 371 THlE SUMMIER FETE:. Array thee, love, array thee, love..... 373 Some mortals there may be...... 374 ()ur home is on the sea, boy................ 375 Smoothly flowing through verdant vales.. 375 Waltz Duet........ 376 Bring hither, bring thy lute..... 3?6 On one of those sweet nights that oft... 377 Oh, where art thou dreaming...... 3177 W'no 11 buy?-'tis Folly's shop..... 377 The Luevee and Coulchee...... 378 If to see thee be to love thee................. 378 lSISCELLAN'EOUS POEMS. If l swear by that eye....... 318 ~,X hen timne, echo steals our years away.. 379 Hlave you not seen the timid tear................379 Did not........, 379 Friend of my soul........ 379 9 de CONTENTS. PAGIC PAei Oh, no-not even when first we loved. 395 Nights of Music....... 409 When Love was a Child..... 395 Shine out, Stars!.....409 Hear me but Once...... 395 From Life without Freedom... 409 Common Sense and Genius..... 396 Here's the Bower. 409 Joys of Youth, how Fleeting!. 396 I see the Mo(,'- rise clear... 409 Gayly sounds the Castanet..... 396 Love and the Sun Dial. 400 Then, fare thee well...... 396 Love and Time.. 41C Peace be around thee...... 3Love, wandering through the golden Maze. 41C Love is a Hunter- Boy.............. 396 Merrily every Bosom boundeth... 410 Oh, Days of Youth...... 397 Love's light Summer Cloud... 410 When first that Smile..... 397 Remember the Time...... 41C Peace to the Slumberers!. 397 Love thee 7........410 Conic, chase that starting Tear away. 397 Oh, soon return...... 410 Who'll buy my Love knots?.... 397 One dear Smile........411 H,ow oft, when watching Stars. 397 The Day of Love...... 411 When thou shalt wander... 397 When T'wilight Dews.... 411 Say what shall be our Sport to-day 7 398 Lusitanian War-Seoag.... 411 Farewell, Theresa!......398 The young Rose... 411 Sce, the Dawn from Heaven.. 398 How happy, once.... 411 Nets and Cages..... 398 I love but'l'hee.... 411 The Crystal-Hunters...... 398 Yes, yes, when the Bloom. 412 Row gently here.... 398 When midst the Gay I meet.... 412 Bright be thy Dreams...... 399 Young Jessica....412 Go then-'tis Vain....... 399 Let joy alone be remembered now. 412 When through'the Piazetta.. 399 Love thee, dearest q love thee'. 412 Go now, and dream. 399 My Heart and Lute. 412 ITake hence the Bowl... 399 Peace, peace to him that's gone... 412 When the first Summer Bee... 399'Tis all for thee..... 413 [boup i'tis all but a Dream-... 399 The Song of the Olden Time..... 413 Where are the Visions. 399 Rose of the Desert....... 413 Wind thy Huon, my Hunter-Boy. 399 Wake thee, my Dear....... 413 When the Wine-Cup is smiling. 400 The Boy of the Alps..... 413 Where shall we bury our Shame? 400 The young Indian Maid.... 413 Ne'er talk of Wisdoin's gloomy Schools. 400 For thee alone......414 Here sleeps the Bard.......400 Her last Words at parting. 414 Do not sav that Life is waning. 400 Song of Hercules to his Daughter.. 414 The Gazelle....... 400 Love's Victory....414 No-leave my Hear/ to rest..... 400 Let's take this World as some wide Scene. 414 Oh, Guard our Afibction..... 400 The Homeward March...... 414 If in loving, singing...... 400 The Dream of Home...415 Slumber, oli lumber.... 401 They tell ine thoti'rt the favored Guest. 415 Bring the bright Garlands hither. 401 Wake up, sweet Melody.... 415 Thou lov'st no more...... 401 Calm be thy Sleep..... 415 Like one who, doomed...... 401 The Exile... 415 When abroad in the World....401 Still when Dayiight.:... 415 O say, thou best and brightest.. 401 The Sumnier Webs...... 415 When Night brings the Hour. 401 The Fancy Fair.... 416 Keep those Lyes still purely mine. 402 If thou wouldst have me sing and play. 416 Hlope comes aabin..... 402 Mind not though Daylight. 416 lear not that, while around thee. 402 They met but once. 416 'Vihen love is kind..... 402 With Moonilight-beaniing. 416 The G irland I send thee......402 Beauty and Song..... 416 Spring and Autumn...... 402 Child's Song. From a Masque... 417 Love Alone....... 402 The Halcyon hangs o'er Ocean... 417 How shall I Woo? 402 The World was hushed...... 417 l.ZOgE,,NDARY' BALLADS. By the same-containing'[he two Loves. ~.417 The Voice....... 403 The [Legend of Puck the Fairy... 417 Cupid and Psychie.... 403 When thou art nigh......417 The high-born Ladye...... 403 Song of a Hyperborean......418 Hero and Lecander..... 404 Thou bidst me Sing...... 418 The Leaf and the Fountain... 404 Cupid Armed.. 418 Yo'ith and Age....... 4041 Round the World goes.''418 Cephalus and Procris. -... 4041 Oh, do not look so bright and blest.. 418 The Dying Warrior....... 404 The l,angua:.,c of Flowers... 4. The MIagic Mirror..... 405 The Musical Box. 419 The Stranger.........405 When to sad Music silent you listen.. 419 The Indian Boat....... 405'he Da wn is breaking o'er us... 419 The Pilgrim. M... 405 Young Love.........419 SETr or GLt.EE:s_ By the same-containing TIo sibh, yet feel no pain..... 419 The Mecting of the Ships... 406 Spirit ofSjoy........419 Say, whait shall we Dance?...........406 Wheni Leila touched the Lute... 420 Hush, Hush...............406 Boat Gilee...................420 The ~ v~nina Gun..... 406 Oh think, whun'a Hero is sighing...420 The Watichma i................406 Song.......................420 The Partin= before the Battle....- 407 Cupid's Lottery..............420 Hiphiphitra.407{ Gazel.......................420 BALL.ADs, SONOS AN M5IISELLA~NEOtrS POE:Ms' By Love and H-ymen.............42 Toheay dea cent'lningu s...! SonOs lRNo THEq GRgEEK ANTHOL,OGY. By the'same To ~v dcrest s ours -. -407 — containing Dea Fanny................ 47 Here at thy Tomb...............2 Poor brok~eu [,'lower.'...............407ti My Mopsa is little......- 421 Tell her, oh, tell her. -... 407 i[ To weave a Garland for th~e Rose. -.. 421 Poor wounded Heart.....- 407 Sale of Cupid... 421 When on the Lip the Sigh~ delays ~. 408: Twin'st thou with lofty wreatha ihy'brow? 42 The East Indian.....- 4081 When the scad World...............422 Oh, call it by some better'name. -... 408i Still, like itie Duw in silence falling.. 42 Itere, take my Heart....... 408i Up, Sailor Boy,'tis Day...........2 Black and Blue Eyes........... 48 IMrt.WeSth...............2. Thu ottg Mletcreof renda. 408 Why'it-c s s~'o ~o Ion?' delay?...........42'? Our first youngt love................4086. lUrt'nLIC.'u,-;;(I:;c,s &-... By th. eat.. — o itaini: The Pretty Rose Tree...............409 i Not!',:;: tie 10..................1. to aONTENTS. PAGIB Dear Harp of my Country. 439 In the Morning of Life..... 439 As slow our Ship... 439 When cold in the Earth....... 439 Remember Thee... ~. 439 4Whene'er I see those smiling Eyes.. 439 Wreath the Bowl...... 440 If'Thou'lt be mine. 440 T'lo Ladies' Eyes.... 440 They may rail at this Life. 440 Forget not the Field...... 441 Sail on, sail on..... 441 dSt. Senantis and the Lady..... 441 The Parallel.... 441 Drink of this Cup..... 441 Oh for the'Swords of former Times.. 442 Ne'er aslk the Hourr..... 442 The Fortune-Teller..... 442 Oh, ye Dead!.......442 O'Donohue's Mistress...... 442 Thee, Thee, only Thee....... 442 Echo...... 443 Oh banquet not..... 443 The Mountain Sprite...... 443 Sweet Innisfallen. 443 Quick! we have but a Second.'.. 443 Fairest! put on a while.... 444 Oh, the Sight entrancing. 444 And doth not a Meetinglike this... 444 Ti'was one of those- Dreams... 444 As vanquished Erin.. 445 Shall the t arp, then, be silent... 445 Desmond's Sung.... 445 E4 Though hutimble the Banquet.. 445 They know not my Heart.... 446 I wish I was by that dim f~ake... 446 Sing-sing-Music was given... 446 She sting of Love.... 446 Sing, sweet Harp....... 446 Song o: the Battle Eve...... 447 The wandering Bard.... 447 Alone in Crowds to wander on... 447 Song of Innisfail....... 447 The Night Dance...... 447 I've a Secret to tell Thee.... 448 There are Sounds of Mirth...448 Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore.. 448 Lay his Sword by his Side.... 448 Oh, could we do with this World of ours. 448 From this flour the Pledge was given.. 448 The WNine-Cup is circling.... 449 'I he Dream of those Days..... 449 Silence is in our festal Halls.... 449 SACarF,D Soz,as. By Thiomas MooRe.. Thou ait, oh God...... 449 This World is all a fleeting Show... 449 The Bird let loose...... 450 Fallen is thy Throne.... 450 The Turf shatll be my fragrant Shrine.. 450 Who is the Maid?....450 Oh, Thou! who dryest the Mourner's Tear. 450 OeWeep not for those...451 Sound the loud Timbrel-Miriam's Song. 451 Go, let me weep.....451 Come not, oh Lord..... 451 S.Were not the sitiful Mary's'Tears.. 451 T As down in the sunless Retreats... 451 Angel of Charity... 451 But who shallftsee.... 452 By tht Lak, whoe glomy Sore. 434 Almighty God —Chorus of Priests.'.. 452 Aveneng aid bight.................435 Behold the Sun..............452 Lebi btha eaig ye.. 45Sister..................452 One Bumpr at pating.... 435 Lord, who shall bear that Day?...452. Fareell!-bu whneve yo welometheOh, teach Me to love Thee..... 453 Hour..... 436 ~~~~~Weep, Children of Israel.....~....... 43 Has Sorow th youngDays saded ~. 436 Like Morning, when her early Breeze... 453 No,no moe elcme...............36 Come, ye disconsolate...............453 Oh! dubt m'lo....................436 Awake, arise, thy Light is come... 453 Youremmbr Elen................36 There is a bleak Desert..............454 When frst I et the. 436 Since first thy Word................454' Come o'er the Sea...... 437 Hark!'tis the Breeze............454 WhileHistoy's Mse..................437 Where is your [;welling,'ye saintedi?. 454 The Tue I'v lostin woong... 437 How lightly mounts the Muse's Wing..454 I sawfrom he Bech..................437 Is it not sweet to think, hereafter~.. 454 Whee s he lae?................38 War against Babylon...............454 Com, estinths Bso..............38 Go forth to the Mount.... 455 ID il te Buperfair.................438 NOTES........~.......... 455 ~~.y g~~Tet tle Hr...~.. 43 lhSn... 451, PAGE. (Juess, guess.... 423 Ask not if still I love 42oLo. 3 De,,,,? Yes.... 423 Unbind thee, L i ove.. 423 The Russian Lover...... 423 Bright foonr.. 423 Long years have passed:. ]. 423 Wh'~en Love, who ruled.... 424 Still thiou fiiest.... 424 Thei,-n first from Love.... 424 flusii, sweet Lute.... 424 Dreaming for ever.. 424 'l;oi,ough liglhtly sounds th~e Song I'sing. 424 21sH INE;LODIES. By the Same-cortaining Go where glory waits thee... 425 ()hi! b,'eathe, not his Name..425 Erin, the Terand the Sm~ile, in thine. Eyes.. 425 Reinem-ber the glories of Brien the Brave.. 425 When lip who adiores l hee. 426 q hle Harp that once, through T'ara's' Hall's..426 Fly not yet.. 426 Think not my spirits are always as'light. 4261 Thoughi the last glimpse of Erin with Sorrow I see.. 426 As a beamp o'er the F'ace of th~e Waters' may glow.... 426 The Meeting of'the WVaters... 426 Rich and rare were the Gems she wore..427 How dear to me the Hour... 427 Take back the Virgin Page...427 The Legacy... 427 We,nay roan, tlhrough this world...427 How oft has the Benshee cried... 428 Eveleen's Bower... 428 Come, send round th~e Wine... 428 The Song~ of Fionnuala.. 428 Let Erin rememubrr the Days of Old. 428 Believe me, if all those endearing young Charms... 428 Sublime was thae Warning... 429 Erin, oh Erin.... 429 Oh! blame not the 13ard'.. 429 III Omnenis..... 429 Drink to Her... 430 While'g~iziug on the MIoon's L_ightJ.. 430 Before the Battle..... 430 After the Batlei.. 430 The Irish Peasant to'his M[istress.. 430 'Tis sweet to think..... 431 Of] Music.... 431 Weep on, weep on... 431 It is not the TIear at this M,'oment shed.. 431 The Orig,in of the Harp... 431 I saw thy Form in youthful Prime...431 What the Bee is to the Floweret... 432 "['is the last Rose of Summer... 432 At the mid flour of Night... 432 Love and the Novice. 432 This Life is all chequieredi with~ Pleasures andi Woes.... 432 Oh the Shiamrock..432 Oh! had we some bright little Isle of our-own. 433 The Song of O'Riiark.,..433 The young May Moon.... 433 I'd mourn the Hopes.... 4S3' She is far from the Land... 434 The Prince's Day.... 434 Love's young Dream.... 434 Nay, tell me not, dear...434 .I I II CONTENTS. PAGI Vision of Belshaz zar... 471 Were my Bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be....... 471 Herod's Lament for Mariamne.... 471 Sun of the Sleepless........ 472 The Destruction of Jerusalem by T'litus.. 472 'I'he Lament by the Rivers of Babylon.. 472 The Destruction of Sennacherib... 472 From Job........ 472 T'he Prayer of Nature....................472 SACRED ROSARY. By various authors. God. By BOWRiNG........ 473 Hymn of P'raise. By MILMAN.. 474 On the Death of a Younig Girl. iBy V. H. BURLEIUtA.. 474 My Child. By -{ev. J. l'IERPONT.. 475 Weep not for her! By D. M. Mol a... 475 Hymn to, the (universe. Paraplhrased fromn GOETHE.... 475 i'yre. LYRA APOSTOLICA..... 475 A Poet's Prayer. By BERNARD BARTON.. 47(; The Mother and Chilt. By Bishop DO,n-E. 476 lThle Misisionary. By W\ILLIAM E OWITT.. 476i A're)ary et ive to Prayer. By SOUTHWELL.. 477 Consohltti)n,s of Rligion to the Poor. By PER ClTAL... 477 Hymn of N\aitilre. By'EABODY... 477 Mortality of Man. By WASTE:LL. 477 Who is }iy Neighbor? ANONYMoUS... 478 Paul and Silts it Philippi. By PlERPON-,r 478 Missions. By SGiOURNEY..... 478 TThe lPilgriti's Song Bv KEBLE.. - 478 Excellency of Chrilst. 3y GILES FiLEI'CHiER. 479 Distant Church Bells. THE CATHEDRAL.. 479 The Christian Martyr. By Rev. HAMILTON BUCHANAN. 479 The Cloud. By WILSON..... 479 Sabbath T'houghts. By MIANT... 450 A Cottage Scene. By Mrs. SIGOURNEY.. 480) Where is Lie? By NEELE........ 480 Jacob's Dreani. By CROLY...... 481 The Martyrdom of Cranmer. By ANDREW R. BONAR... 481 Hymn for Children. By'JANE TAYLOR.. 481 Morning in Judea. By KNOX... 431 Nature By Rev. W. GILLESPIE.. 482 Consolation. By CRABBE...... 482 Too late. By Mrs. ABDY..... 482 Pilate's Question. By Dr. HUiE.. 482 Address to Poets. By KESLE... 483 The Meteor. By BARTON..... 483 ' Saul journeying to Damascus. By ROScOE. 483 Hymin for the Opening of a Church. By PIER PONT,~..-..... 483 Character of a happy Life. By WOTTON. 483 The Huguenot's Battle Hymn. By T. B. MACAULAY...... 484 Laborers' Noon-day Haymn. By "'oRDs WORTH. 484 Christ in the Garden. By DALE... 485 The Dying Christian. By'TOPLADY. 485 'The Restor-ition of Israel. By T. G. NICHOLAS. 485 'I The Crucifixion. By MILMAN.... 485 An Alpine Hymn. By COLERIDGE. 486 Hymn. By HEBER.... 486 Stanzas. By JOHN BUCHANAN.. 486 Song of the Stars. ANONYMOUS... 486 Christ stilling the Tempest. By Mrs. HEMANS. 487 Messiah's Advent. ANONYMOUS... 487 Best Wishes. ANONYMOUS...... 487 The Mercies of Redemption. By HODOSOn. 487 Christian Warfare. By C. ELIZABETH.. 488 A Church-yard Scene. By JOHN WILSON. 488 D Pulpit Eloquence. By AMELIA.... 489 The Daisy. By J. M. GOOD......... 489 S Power and Benevolence. By BARTON... 489 To the Rainbow. By T. CAMPBELL... 490 - The Dead Sea. By Rev. G. CnOL~... 490 Parted Frienids. By C. W. THOMPSON.. 490 The Stars. By F. MULLER....... 490 The Aspen Leaf. By Miss JEWSBUrY... 491 JIha DThe Maniac. By BARTON.... 491 0I s aThe Critninal. By SWAIN.... 491 | Verses written after recovering from. dl(angferSong oSlfesous Illness. By MARRIOT... 492 lw Christ's Nativity. By CAMPBELL... 492 S}4 Christian l'riumphs. By JOHN BowRsINO. - 492 |llis VRecollection. By JAMES EDMESTONE... 492 Thy Dnfant's Prayer. By \EELE........ 49? Wrr The Pilgrims of E'itimaus By Cowrres.. 493 PAGE Christ stilling the Tempest.... 457 The Israelite's Lament.... 457 Or ascending a Hill leading to a Convent. 457 Evening Song of the Weary........457 Paraphrase of Psalm cxlviii.... 458 The Hour of Prayer. AD458 The Hour of Death...... 458 Hymn for Christmas O f. 459 Night Hyml'l-at Sea.. 458 Chr'st's Agony in the Garden... 459 The Minister.... 459 Hymn of the dNouintain Christian.. 459 Mother's Litaniv by the Sick-bed of a Child. 459 A Prayer of Aflfection...... 460 Invocation...... 460 Invocation Continued...... 460 The Song of Miriam...... 460 Ruth...... 460 The Vigil of Rizphli... 460 The Reply of the Shunamnite Woman.. 460 The Annunciation...... 461 The Song of the Virgin. 461 The Penitent anointing Christ's Feet.. 461 Mary at the Feet of Christ. 461 The Sisters of Bethany after the Death of La zarus...... 461 The Meimorial of Alarv... 461 The Women of Jerusalem at the Cross.. 461 Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre. 461 Mary Magdaleie, bearing'lTidings of the Re stirrection....... 461 The Sacred Harp....... 461 To a Family Bible.... 462 Repose of a Holy Family.'. 462 Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers. 462 On a Reiiir. itbered Picture of Christ... 462 The Children atwhonm Jesus blest.... 462 Mulntatin Sa-nctiaries...... 462 The Lilies ),f the Field..... 462 The Birds of the Air... 462 The It;rising of the Widow's Son... 462 The Olive''ree.... 463 Thie D)arkness Of the Crucifixion.... 463 Places or Worship..... 463 Old Chlurch in an Eii,glis!i Park..... 463 A Clhuirch in North Wales..... 463 l,ouise Schce)ler. 463 Lines to a Buttt,rflv r sting on a Scull... 463 Church Music... 464 Thoughts prom an Italian Poet... 464 A Father reading the Bible..... 464 Hymn by the Sick-bed of a Mother... 464 A Dirge....... 464 The Penitent's Offering.... 464 Come to Ale, Dreams of Heaven... 465 The, Angels' Call..... 465 The Fountain of Marah..... 465 Things that change...... 465 The Poetry of the Psalms..... 465 The Sabbath........ 465 The Voice of God....... 466 A Prayer....... 466 Prayer Continued. 466 He walked wvith God...... 466 The Rod of Aaron. 466 A Prayer. 466 The Ocean. 466 The Trumpet. 467 The Stars....... 467 Dirge of a Child..l.... 467 The Landing of the'Pilgrim Fathead... 467 The Hebrew Mother..... 468 Spanish Evening Hymn..... 468 Death of an Infant...... 468 SSYKEw MELODIES. BY LORD BYRon. She walks in Beauty...... 469 The Harp the Mona~~h - instrel ~Wept.. 469 If that high World....... 469 Tpe W~ild Gazelle........ 469 O weep tbr Those....... 469 On Jordan's Banks...... 469 Jephthah's Daughter...... 470 O! snatched away in B~eaulty's; Bloom... 470 -My Soul is dark....... 470 Song of Saul before his last B3attle... 470 I saw Thee weep........ 4'/0 Saul.~ 470 " All is Vanity,'saitlh the P)reacher.";'. 47 Thy Days are done.., 471 Then Coldness wraps this Suffering Clay. 471 n CONTENTS. The Happiness of the Godly. Wisdom.. The Welcome Sabl)ath... Youth and Age... Sabbath Evening.... Is there an Unbeliever.. Oh, Judah!.... Sound an Alarm! Angels ever Bright and Fair. Hagar in the Desert.. Rocked in the Cradle of the Dee5p. Friendship which never shall Fade. Charity..... s Hymn of the Hebrew Maid.... The Star of Bethlehem.. The Heavenly Jerusalem.. The Day of Wrath.... The Burial Anthem.... The Day of Judgment.. The Hour of Prayer.... The Nativity....5 God Glorified in all his Works The Rainbow. T'he Communion of Saints... The Exemplary Wife.... Hymn before the Sacrament. Hymn of Praise... God Visible in his Works. A Domestic Scene... The Sabbath...... A Prayer to Jesus..... The Rest of the Grave.. Saturday Night.... Christ a Present Help.... Mary Magdalene.. The German Watchmen's Song. Missionary Hymn.... What is Time?.... The Better Land. SONGS3 AN'D BALLADS. BY CHiARLES blBD'IN. Poor Jack. The Good Ship the kitty. The Jolly Young Waterman.. Farewell and Return. Poor Tom. The busy Crew. The Signal to Engage. Jack Rattlin. Yo, Heave; Ho! When last from the Straits. Life's Troubled Sea. The Heart of a Tar. Each-Bullet has its Commission. Sweethearts and Wives. The Soldier's Gravee. Saturday Night. Bonny Kate. Ben Backstay. Little Ben. The Sailor's Maxim. The Anchor Apeak. Soldier's Adieu. The Soldier Dick. The Tar for all Weathers. Happy Jerry. Tack and Tack. True-hearted Sailor. Grieving's a Folly. Bleak was the Morn. Poor Shipwrecked Tar. Tom Tackle. Lovely Nan... Tom Bowling..... True Courage...~~ Forging the Anchor.... Love me evermore.... Honesty in Tatters.. Con stancy... Jack come Home... Nancy.....-. Nature and Nancy. Anna, Annie, Nan, N ance: or Nqancy. Brother Jack... The Manes of the Brave... Sailor's Journal... The Nancy.... Ben Block... The Canary-Bird.~~ The Lm~ly's Diary.. Rational Vanity..... PAGE The Hour of Prayer. By Rev T. RAFFLES. 493 Pra~ er. By J. MONTGOMsDRY.. 493 The Grave. By MARY H OWITT... X 493 The Death of the Righteous. By J. HABRIS. 494 The Sabbath. By WILLIAM HOWITT... 494 Spiritual Worship. By BARTON... 494 Heynn to Virtue. ANONYMOUS... 495 The Budding Leaf. ANONYOS..................... 495 The first Grave. By Miss LANDON... 496 Stanzas. By TucV5 Y............... 496 There is a Tongue in every Leaf. ANoNYMoUs. 496 P rayer B N s. B.... 496 O de t o Duty.'By WORDSWORTH... 406 The Tomb of Cyrus. ANONYMOUSso. 497 Who loves me best. By MARY ANN BROWN. 497 The Sister's Voice. By BROWN.... 498 G od an unfail ing Refuge. By WOTDSWORTH. 498 1 The Christian Poet. By ['OLLOK... 498 To-morrow. By J. BROWN..... 499 The Offb ring. By JOSIAH C,ANDDEI.. 499 O n the New Year. By F. DICKINSON. 499 Farewell to a departed Friend. By HEBE,B. 500 The Crucifixion ANONYMOUS.. 500 Th e Offering By L. I. L...T.. 501 The parted Spirit. By MAL COLM... 501 Earth and Heaven. By RICHARDSON... 501 The Wizard. By JEWSURY...................501 Adven t Hymn. By MILLMAN.., 502 The Pilgrim' s Home. ANONYMOUS.. 5 602 The Mother's Grief. By DALE... 502 The Raising of Lazarus. By DAE.. D. 502 The Clouds. By HALL......................503 The Land which no Mortal may know. By BARTON...... 5603 A Mother's Love. By EMILY TAYLOa.. 604 Eveninm Ti.ne. By MONTGOMERY. 6o~04 Night. By IONTGOMERY.... 504 " VVatch ye." ANONYMOUS..... 504 The Celestial Sabbath. RUSSIAN POETRY. 604 3 S rns s FOR THE SA iHATH. By many auth ors. The W orks of Creation H n. 605 Th e W orl d......... 505 Life Fading. 505 C hristia n Hope.........605 Early Piety..... 505 He aven and Earth...................505 The Day of Judgment. 505 Frailty of Man... 506 Man is Vanity....... J. 606 The Star of the East. 6506 Rachel Weeping...... 506 The Guidance of Go...........06 The Works of God......................606 Man's F railty... 507 Emblem of a Departing Saints ].. 507 Superiori t y to th e W orld.. 507 The Providence of God...... 607 The Christian Warrior Triumphant in Death. 607 Heaven....... 608 Longing for Heaven. 608 God's Preventing Grace.,... 508 Uncertaintt of Life. 608 Jacob Wrestling with the'Angel. 608 A Father Leaving his Family to God... 509 A Reflection at Sea. 509 The Heavenly Jerusalem..... 509 Self- Examination. 509 Litany.. 509 What are Meetings, here, but Partings?, 510 The Brevity of Life...... 510 A New Yhear......... 510 The Law of Love........ 510 Tine.....,...10 Frailty of M~an........ 610 'Shortness of Time....... 610 Innocent Earthly Pleasures...... 511 Resignation........ 511 Dependence on'God...... 511 Family Hfarmony...... 511 Watchman! What of the Night?... 511 The Seasons....... 611 The Harmony of Love....... 511 What is Life?...... 512 The Waves......... 512 Morning......... 612 God Unsearchable........ 512 M'y Dying Mother...... 513 Blessed be Thy Name for'Ever.. t 1 C:ommnitting our Ways unto the Lord.. 5 13 Prayer.......... 513 I is' . 613 . 513 . 614 . 514 . 614 . 614 . 514 . 514 . 514 . 514 . 514 . 515 . 515 . 515 . 516 ~!5 . 516 . 516 . 616 . 516 . 517 . 617 .- 517 . 517 617 . 518 . 518 . 518 . 518 . 518 . 519 . 519 . 519 . 519 . 619 ~ 520 . 520 . 520 . 521 . 521 . 521 . 622 . 522 522 522 522 . 522 . 523 . 523 ~ 523 . 623 . 523 . 523 . 524 . 524 . 524 . 524 625 . 525 . 525 . 525 . 526 526 . 526 . 526 . 527 . 527 . 527 . 528 . 528 . 628 ~ 528' . 529 . 629 . 529 . 530 . 530 . 530 . 530 . 531 . 531 . 531 . 532 532 . 632 . 53~ uaer tile \-.lTer to C;i1arile. ANONYMOUS.. 5JS I The Tears I shed. By, MIrs. DUGALD STEW ART.............. 539 Thou art gaine awa'. ANONYMOUS.. * 540 hi he aeather Ball. By Dr. SPITTAL.. 540 Connel and Flora. By ALEXANDER WILSON. 540 T l,nmd o' the Leal. By RORERT BURNS.. 540 The Lass o' Gowrie. By WYLLIAM REID.. 541 Annie Laurie. By DOUGLASS.... 541 | Mary Dhu. By D. MI. MIota................ 541 The Harper o' Mull. By I A,aAIrIILL.. 541 Within a Mile of Ldinbu rgh. By JOHN D' URFEV.... 541 On wi' the Tartan Es HIUGH AINSLIE.. 542 Lolihaber. By ALLAN I~AMSAY.... 542 I'll lo'e thee, Annie. By R. HAMILTON.. 542 Bonnie Prince Chitlie. By JAMEs HoGe.. 542 Jenny Danig the Weaver. By Sia ALEXAN DER BOSWEL.. 542 O Saft is the blink o' thine E'e. By JAMEs BALLErTYNE........ 543 The e's nae luck about the House. By JEANT A DAMS......... 543 For Lack of Gold. By Dr. AUSTIN.. 544 Draw the Sword, Scotland. By J. R. PLANCHE. 544 Whit'S a' the Steer, Kimrner? ANONYMOUS. 544 Ohi I lo'ed my Lassie weel. By ROBERT FR4aZER......... 544 Highland Mary; By Hon. Mrs. NORTON.. 544 W hen I roved a Young Highlander. By LoRD BYRON......... 544 Roy's W\ife o! -,ldivalloch. By Mrs. GRANT. 545 Logan Braes. By JOHN MAYNE....v. 525 Oh, dinna ask me. By DUNLAP... 545 Elird of the W ilderness. By the ETTRICK SHEPHERD. ~ 545 What ails this Heart o' mine., By Miss'BLA' un.t will a' the Lads do? By the ETTRICK To6 SHFPiIERD... on.. 546 Earl March. By THOMAS CAMPBELL... 546 Logic o' Buchan. By GEORGE HALKET.. 546 The Banks of Allan Water. By M. G. LEWIs. 546 Sonei love to roam. By CHARLES MACKAY. 547 Bonnie Jeannie Gray. By W. PAUL... 547 Laddie, oh! Leave me. ANONYMOUS.. 547 Jock o' Hazeldean. By Sia WALTER SCOTT. 547 Donald and Flora........ 547 'the Flowers of the Forest. By Mrs. COCK-T BURN. 5........ 548 l The Bonnie House o' Airlie. Old Ballad.. 548 a Tak yer auld Cloak about ye. Old Ballad. 548 I I lo'ed ne'er a Laddie but ane. By Rev. JOHN II CLUNIE............. 549 Sl There lives a Young Lassie...... 549 lel Bonnie Mary Hay. By ARCHIBALD CRAW- M5 FORD.............. 549 B Saw ye Johnny conmin'. ANONYMOUS... 549 Laird o Cockpen. By Miss FERRIES~. 550 A5 Is my Lover on the Sea? Constancy.... The Mistletoe.. A Bacchanalian Song. ] ]:: The N ights...... rhe Stormy Pe trel..... Song of the Soldier to his Sword.. To a Nightingale at mid-day... Earth and Air. Hurrah tor M~erry England. q he Happy teups.... Peace! what do Teals avraill The Wood-Thrush..... Counst Baitbazar. Why doth the Bottle'stand~?~ WVhen Frienlds look dark and cold. The Night is closing round, Mother.. Midnight Rhymnes.... A Love Songr............ Song in praise of Spring... Belshazzar...... The Blood Horse..... The Stranger........ The H eart-Broken..... Song of the Outcast..... A Phan tasy.... Life....... A4n Irish Song..... Home —a Duett.... The Evening Star..... 1 he V{intage Sog...... ~. a. The Return of the Admiral.... Love and Mirth...... Song offer a Child......... The Night before the Bridal.... A Deep and flighty Shadow~.. The Landsman's Song.... Perdita...... The Weaver's Song.''.. Sleep on.......... Love the Poet, P'retty One.... Lucy....... The Wooing Song............. Hermione....... The Owl..... The Humber F~erry.'.... Marion....... A Repose...... The Remonstrance........... Sing, Maiden, Sing..... M~/aureen,..... Wine...... Unequal L~ove.''' Sing! Who mingles withl my'Lays? I love my Love, because he loves me.. Miriam..... Babylon.... Tallk not to mec of Love.... A Dilemma.... 556 . 556 . 557 . 557 . 557 ~557 .557 558 558 558 . 568 .558 . 558 ~559 569 . 559 . 559 ~559 . 560 . 560 . 560 . 560 . 560 . 560 . 561 . 561 561 561 * 561 . 561 . 562 . 562 . 562 . 562 . 563 . 563 . 563 . 563 . 563 .563 . 564 . 564 ~564 . 564 . 564 . 664 . 565 . 565 . 565 . 565 . 665 . 565 . 566 . 566 . 566 . 5i66 . 566 . 567 . 567 CONTENTS. PAGE I die for thy sweet Love.... 580 What use is all the Love I bear thee'.. 580 Song for our Father Land..... 580 To the Snow-Drop........... 580 Wilt thou leave me?...... 581 In commemoration of Haydn.,. 581 On the Portrait of a Child,..,. 581 Inscriptions............ 581 She sate by the River Spring.... 581 Wilt thou go ].....,...,...581 Golden-Tressed Adelaide........ 582 Love Flying....,........ 6582 A Dreamer's Song........... 582 A Poet's Thought........... 582 Wishesr m.....6 Wi.h.. 582 To a Lady Attiring Hierseif........ 582 Wilt thou remember me?... 582 I go, and she doth miss me not!.. 582 A Petition to Time........... 582 Napoleon........ 583 A Prayer in Sickness...... 583 To a Voyager..... 583 On the Death of a Child........ 583 Song from a Play........... 6583 To a Poetess......... 583 A Night Song..... 584 To Adelaide........,..... 584 A Conceit....... 584 Seashore Stanzas........... 584 A Question and Reply.......... 584 - An Epitaph........ 584 A Parting Song............ 584 A Farewell.... 584 THE MISCELLANEOUS POEMS OF EDWARD COATE PINKNEY............. 585 Italy...............587 The Indian's Bride...... 587 A Picture Song,....... 588 The Voyager's Song......... 588 Lines from a Portfolio.-No. 1... 589 Lines from a Portfolio.-No. 2... 590 On Parting............. 590 EFlysium............ 591 Evergreens...... 591 We break the glass.......... 591 Look out upon the Stars...... 591 I need not Name thy thrilling Name.. 591 A Health.............. 592 Prologue............ 592 The Widow's Song.. *.. 592 To, with Wordsworth's Poems... 592 'Twas eve; the broadly shining Sun.,. 593 Those starry eyes........... 593 Day departs the upper air........ 593 The old Tree. -... 593 Rodolph A Fragment... 594 BR OGRAPH1C oaL NOTICE OF EDWARDA COLE TE. )][ 599 Nzv. By WI1LLIAM LEGGE:T?............. 9 . ~~PAGZ " The Lake has burst.....,.,.. T67 Her large dark luminous eyes are on me. 567 Sill the Love that winds around Thee.... 567 The Beggars Song.......... 5678 The Bloodhound...,... 568 The Farewell of the Soldier..,.. 568 The Night-Shade....... 568. The Poet's Songf to h~is W~ife.............. 568 To Sophie........ 568 What say the Clouds'on the Hill and Plain X 568! To a Flower......... 569 The Leveller........ 569 Softly Woo away her Breath............... 569 Hidden thoughts........ 569 The Fisherman........ 569 True Love........ 570 Forbidden Love. -...... 570 A Bridal Dirge........ 570 The Rhine..~ 570 Sweet Friend, where sleeps thy Song.. S70 Song of the Wood-Nymphs..... 670 The Convict's Farewell...............571 The Secret of Singing...... 571 The Hidlas Horn....... 571 An Epistle to Charles Lamb................ 572 The Falcon'. 572 Build up a Column to Boliivar.'.. 572 The Fire-Fly........ 573 To the Sinlger Pasta...,.. 673 Come! let us go to the Land..... 573 Fuller's Bird.'....... 573 The Sea —in Calm.......57 A Chamber Scene....... 573 The Past............. 5741 The Pauper's Jubilee...... 574 A Thougfht on a Rivulet...... 574 A Storm....... e 575 The Song of a Fielon's W;ife..... 575 1 loved her when she looked from mea.. 575 Parents' Love........ 575 The Vain Regret........ 575 His love is Hidden..... 575 The Flight of Ravenna...... 516 Courage.........5... 77 Sit down, sad Soul...........5 77 A Hymn of Evil Spirits..... 578 The Violet....... 578 A Reproach......... 578 Beauty......... 578 Sybilla..., 578 Thou hast Love with~In thine lEyes... 518 A Midsummner Fancy...,.... 579 Past and Present....... 579 On some Human Bones..,... 579 'Tis better we Laugh than Weep..... 579 A Drinkingf Song..... 579 Sister, I cannot read'to-day..... 579 River of the Morn........ 580 Song should Breathe.....,5 80 lb 0 rTHE MIRROR LIBRARY. JUDITH, OR THE OPEiRA BOX, BY EUGENE SCRIBE. who remained still motionless in the same pIawe. e I ex pressed my regret that I had accepted his offer, cacd my gratification if I could do any th in g to oblige him in ret turn. " You con do so quite easily," he replied; "Ir havw just gat hered that l you ar e M. M eyerbeer." " I have not that honour —" "At any rate, you arc one of the authors of Rober t lr Diable?" "'After a sort," I said; "tI wrote t he words." " Well, then," ha rejoined, "tlt me b e present a t tho rehe arsal t o morr ow." "We are so little prepared as yet, tha t I can only yen. ture to a sk my ffriends." "That is one reaso n more for my repeating the re. quest." "tAnd," I said, "eI am tlighted you have repeated it on those terms." He shook my hs and wnd t he hour was mured f or the fol lowving day. Itce was exact to his appointmlent. We swalked for p fecw minutes about the stage before the rehearsal commenced. He spoke gravely, yet pleasantly and cleverly; lout it was easy to pericinoe tha i t needed an effort ted keep up t he convwrsation, and that he wa s pro-occupied a with othe r thoughts. Our goddessc s of the d an ce an d of tile sonlg began to arrive one after another. Several times I perceived him trcrnble, and once his agitation was 80 great that hc hadl to support himself on the side scenes. I began to suspect he was a rejected lover of one of our Clios or Tcrpsichlores —a suspicion which his extreme hand somcncnss and hois style altogether rendered by no means probablc; and in rcality I was mistaken. He spoke to no onc-wcnt near no one —and no one knew who he was. The rehcarsal began. I looked for him in the orches. tra amnong thle amlateurs. He was not there; and though ithe body of the house wvas somewhat dark, I thought! 1saw him in the front box which he had gazed on so con Istantly the night beforc. I was anxious to make sure of this, and at the end of the rehearsal, after the admirable |trio of the fifth act, I ascended to the second tier. Meyerbeer, who had something to say to me, accompanied me. We arrived at the box, of which the door was half open, and saw the unknown with his head resting on his hands. At our approach, he turned quickly round and rose up. His pale face was covered with tears. Meyer. beer w\as overjoyed; and, without saying a word, shook his haned most kindly, as if to thank him. The unknown, trying to conceal his emnbarrassment, mluttered some words of compliment in such a vague and unconnected manner, tha~t he saw he had not listened to the perform. anlcc, and thlat for twso hlours he had bean t-linlking of an~ ONE evening —if I remember rightly, it was at the end a! 1831-there was a great crowd at the Opera, for Taglioni was to dance. The spectators had crowded themselves on the steps of the orchestra, and the extra stools fronishecd for the friends of the conductor formed a sort of M.irricade which I found it difficult to surmount, amidst rie(s of "iush, hush! silence, silence!" from the enthusiastic amateurs whom I disturbed. For when Taglioni dalC.:s. onc not only gazes but listens. It seems as if the cv4 were not sufficient to admire with. I found myself ai; allwlkwsard p~osition, forced to stand amidst a group (f my friends whom I met there by appointment, and who were too much crowdcd to make room for me, when a y-oung man rose and offered me his seat, which I declined, not wvishing to deprive him of the pleasure of the spect'icle.qut. '"It is no dleprivation," he said-" I am going out."' I accepted his offer with thanks; and my obliging neighboar cast a last look at the stage before taking his departure, stopped an instant, and leaning his back against the box of General Claparede, seemed to look for some one in the distance, and then, sinking gradually into a profound revery, thought no more of retiring. lie was right in saying I did not deprive him of the view; for, turning his back to the stage-see ing n o thing -hearing nothing-he appeared entirely to forget where w lie was. I examined him attentively. It was impossible t to imagine a face more handsome or expressive. Dressed simply and elegantly, there was something noble and dis. tlnguished in all his movements. He seemed about five I and-twenty. His fine black eyes were fixed incessantly on a front box of the second tier with an indefinable cx. Cression of melancholy and despair. Involuntarily I turned in that direction, and I saw that the box was emnpty. ' Ite expects somebody who has not come," I said.*'yShe hess deceived him-she is ill-or her father has pre vented her, and he loves and expects in vain. Poor young wean!" And I watched as attentively as he. I pitied, .liii, and would have given the world to see the door of the box opened; but it remained closed. Thle balllette wtais about to end; and while the inferior dancers were performing, conversation as usual proceeded almost aloud. Among other things, we talked of Robert le Diablo, whi1ch wlas then in rehearsal, and was about to appeal in a few dalys. My friends made all sorts of inlquiries-about the music —the ballettes —the situations, etc., and begged very earnlestly to attend the last rehea,rsals. A rehearsal seents so strange anld wonderful to those unacculstomedl to it! I promised to introduce them, and~l ire a, I rose up to ~o awa,il' for the curtain wals about to,! fall: bald as I fouled mvsdW f near mly umlknlown friel;d.[ TIIE MIRROR LIBRARY. o I' and many failures have occurred. I saw no more of M. Arthur-I thought of him no more. I had forgotten e him. e A night or two ago, I found myself once mnore in the t orchestra, at the righit side of the Opera. It was nlot to see Robert-it was to see the Huiguenots. rive ycai. e had passed away. " You come late," said one of my friends, a profcssoi of civil law, who has as much "esprit" at night ais eru s dition in the morning. And you are very wrong in so doing," added a little man dressed in black, with a sharp voice and a powdered e head, as he tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round, ' and saw M. Baraton, the notary of my fanlily. " You here!" I cried —" and you r office-" " Sold it three months ago-I am rich-I am a wid ower-I am sixty years old-I have been twenty years t married, and thirty years a notary-I think I am entitled - to a little enjoyment." " And he has now been a subscriber to the Opera for eight days," said the professor o,f civil law. "Ay, to be sure; I like to l1tugli; I like comedy, and so I have bought an admission here." " And why beat at the Frani ais?" "Oh! not half so amusing as here-one sees and hears the most extraordinary things in the world. These gen * tlemen know every thing-theire is not a box of which they do not know the history.'' "Indeed!" I cried and mechanically turned towards the box on the secondl tier, which had so excited my curi. osity some years before. What was my amazement! That night it was empty as before; and the only empty one in the whole house! I was delighted to have a history to tell, and in a few words related all that I have now told you. I was listened to with attention: my friends were lost in conjecture the professor tried to recall some ancient recollections the little notary smiled most maliciously. "Well, gentlemen,"' I said to them, "which of you (who know everything) can unriddle this enigma for us; who can tell us the story of that mysterious box?" They were all silent, even the professor, who passed his hand over his brow as if to refresh his recollection of some alnecdote, and would probably have finished by inventing lone appropriate to the occasion, if the notary had given him time. "W ho will tell you that story?" he exclaimed, with an air of triumph, "who but I?-I know the whole particu lars." " You, Al. Baraton?" "'I'o be sure." "Go on, then-go on,"-and we all drew near to listen. "Go on, M. Baraton." I "Well, then," said the little notary, with an important look, and taking a pinch of snuff, "which of you wvas acquainted with —" But at that moment the first crash of the overture be gan-and MN. Baratoni, who piqued himself on not losi;ng a single note, stopped immediately, and said-" After the first act, gentlemen." thing rather than the music. Meyerbeer whispered to me in despair-" The wretch has not heard a note!" We all three descended the stairs; and crossing the ,arge beautiful court which leads to the Rue Grange Bataliere, the unknown bowed to M. Sausseret, who a that time had the letting of the seats. I went to M. Sausseret. "You know that handsome young fellow who has just left me?" " M. Arthur-Rue du Helder-No. 9. I know nothing more. lie has engaged a box on the second tier for this winter." " Ile was there this moment," I said. " Then he seems to use it in the morning only, for he never goes near it at night. The box is always empty."' And in fact, the whole week the door was never opened. The box remained deserted. The first appearance of Robert was now near, and on SuCh oCCas O:is a poor devil of an author is overwhelmed with applications for boxes and tickets. You may imagine whiat time he has to attend to his play, and the changes and curtailments that may be required. Ile has to answer letters and claims that pour in upon him from all quarters, and it is invariably the ladies who are mnost exacting on such nights. "You were to have got me two boxes, and I have only got one." " You promaised me No. 1, next to the General's, and they have sent me LNo. 15, next to MIad:-me D, whom I detest, and w ho casts me into the shade with her diamonds." A first nighlIt is a time when you get into scrapes with your best friends, who, perhaps, overlook it in a few days if your piece "1 takes," but who nurse their indignation a long time if you are damned; so that you are punished both by them and the public at the same time. Misfortulles never come alone. Well, then, on the morning of the first nig,ht of Rober-t, I had promised a box to some ladies; but the manager took it away from me to give it tea journalist. I complained. He replied, "'Tis for a journalist. You understand? A journalist who hates you, but who has promised-thanks to my politeness in giving him your box-to speak favourably of the music." It was impossible to resist an argument like this, and the box wNas given up. But where was I to bestow my fair friends, whose wrath was a much more serious matter to me than that of the journalist? I luckily remsiere. bered my unknown acquaintance, and went to his residence. H-is room was very simple and unostentatious, particularly for a man who had a box at the Opera. " My dear sir," I said, " I come to ask you a great favour." "Say on." "Do you intend to be present at the first representation if Rober-t le Diable? In your box, I mean." He appeared embarrassed, and replied with some hesi- ation, " I should be very happy-but-it is impossible." "Have you disposed of it?" " No." " Will you give it up to me? You will get me it of an awkward predicament." His trouble seemed to increase every moment. He could not refuse me; and at last, as if making a great effort to command himself, he said, "I agree, but upon one condition-.that you put nobody into that box but mqen." " Gnpossible, my dear sir, I ask it expressly to accomf modate some ladies." He wvas silent for a while. " And among those ladlies," he said, " is there any one you love?" " Undoubtedly," I replied. "Then take the boxm" he said, "for I leave Paris to da "made a motion expressive of interest and curiosity, and he seemed to divine my thoughts; for he took me by the hand, and said, "You no doubt perceive that certaii fend and sad remembrances attach themselves to | that box. I can communicate them to no one. Of what 1 use is it to complain when one is miserable ano hopeless, e and when it is all by his own fault?" Th~,t night the first representation of Robert took place, and my friend Meyerbcer achieved a triumph which resounded all through Europe Since that time, many othn events, literary and political-many other successes l " GCentlemen," s lid the notary, when the first act of the IHuguenots was finishedl, " Queen Marguerite has to be dressed with all her maids of honour-the castle and,ardens of Chenonceaux have to be got ready; and the interval will be long enoug,h, I think, to enable me to tell you the story you Wish to hear." And after a placid pI)ncii of snuff, which gave liuii time to collect his tliouhlits, 5[. Baraton commenced in these words: "Which of you, gentlemen, was acquainted w.th the little Ju dith?" We all looked at each other, and the oldest frequenter of the orchestra was I)mizzled. 1" The little Judith," lie went on, " who some seven or eight years ago was brought out as a figurante in the ballette "' "Stay," said the professor-of civil law, with somewhat of a pedaTntic air, " a little blonde who was oniC of the pages in the MAiette7" "She was dark," said the notary; "as tio. the part bot. is TIHE MllRROR LIBRARY. attribute to her, I have no positive document on the sub- Ilad,ame Bonnivet or her niece. Ambition grows or. us teet.;nI lRIefer relying on your immense erudition." by degrees." T'rie professor bowved. "But Judith," I said-" what became of Judith?" for Bqit. whether dark or fair, there was one thing that I sanw the curtain about to rise. n',I)o(ly (isnut(ed, and that was, that the little Judith was "Judith! I'm coming to her directly. Madame Bon,l cei iriii creature. And another point, which appeared nivet, in spite of all her caution, could not hinder her u l.icnialtl, wis, that her aunt, M,adame Bonnivet, was niece from talking with her companions. In the mornpeorte cess in the Rue E'helieu, in the hun)se of an old ings in the green-room, and, above all, at night when g'entlcm-iiu, whlise confidential manager she had one tlhcy were on the stage-a region where the aunt found it been; s e said his cook: lbut Madame IBonnivct dis- impossible to follow-Judith heard some things that asdained the impeachment, and went on, quietly plyiiig helr tonishled her. knitting-needles, and managing for the different lo gl(rs, One of the nymphs or sylphides, her companions, whiswhile her niece even already began mnaking conquests. pered in her ear-" See, Judith, look in the orchestra-at F'or it was impossible to pass the porter's lodge without the right-how hard lie is looking at me." bciti struck with t!ie extraordinary beauty of little Ju- " Vho?" said Judith. (lithl, whe was scarcely twelve years old. Her eyes even "That handsome young man with thercashmere vest then were the finest in the w orld;he teeth like pearls don't you see him?" her iorn exquisitely rraceful; and in whatever dress she " Vhat does it all mean?" wore, she had the nmost distinotie air imaginable; and, to "I've struck him." crown Ell. an expressive, clear, and open colunteiasnce, " Struck him?" said Jlidith, astonished. with something radiant and coquettish in its very inno- " Ha, ha!" said the nymph, " wtat a simpleton you cenee. In short, slie gave promise of one of those glori- are! Girls, here's a curios;' — she has never had an adous combinations of grace and( beauty, enough to turn mirer!" people's heads, and, as a poet would say, to chanire the "All her aunt's fault," said another of the sylphs. fate of empires. "Indeed! Well, if I haid an aunt so ridiculous, I People paid Madame Bonnivet so many compliments would-" every day on the loveliness of her niece, that she deter- "Hush, hush; you know nothing about it," replied the mined to make considerable sacrifices for her education. other, who seemed a few years older; "she perhaps has She sent her, therefore, to a charity school, whe re Ittl serious intentions about little Judith, and, to keep her ferious itedngerns aoft lovte, Juish and, to giee hertoapo girls were taught to read and wirite-aan enormous amount fro the dangers of love, is goig to give her to a pro I~~~~~~~~~~~~~~fo tednes oflv,i0on ogv e oapo of instruction, the advantages of which were soon felt by tector." Madame Bonnivet herself ho, in her capacity of por "She!" rejoined the other, "she hasn't wit enough to get teress, had found it rather difficult to make out the dif- herone. Suchgoodfortune wouldbetoomuch to expect." ferent addresses, and to send the letters and parcels to Judith did not lose a syllable, but had not courage to their respective destinations. Judith took this duty on ask anybody for an explanation. But she understood herself, to the universal satisfaction of all concerned; enough to see she was looked down upon, and she natuand Madame Bannivet being now persuaded that with }rally had an intense desire to avenge herself, to humble such an education, superadded to so much beauty, her her companions, and fill them with rage and envy. Ac Ih ter companions, and fill them with rage and envy. Acniece was sure to make a sensation in the world, sihen adae Bonnivet informed her on their waited impatiently for an opening. It was not ulon be- return, with a solemn face, that she'would introduce her fore an opportunity presented itself. M. Rosamba the to a protectora noble and rich protector-her first sen to a protector — noble and rich protector —her first senallette-mster, waho resnted one of the attics, offered to sation was one of joyful surprise; and her aunt, who had give little Judith some lessons; and, in a few days after, ot expected such a reception for her news, proceeded i rapture. Madiame Bonnilvet communicated in confidence to all theYes, my darlin niece, an admirable person in a ladies of her acquaintance, that her niece had been ac- Ys my darling niece, an admirable person in all cepted as one of the corps de ballet of the Opera-a piece respects-a person, who will secure your hap)piness, and a of news which of course was spread far and wide, anl provision for your aunt; and indeed Ile can't do less, after of neswhich of course was sfread far and wide, and~l Aewi, rapidlv fiom door to door along the whole extent of iall the trouble and expense your education has cost me." ~~~the Rue lzR~ich~elieut here the good aunt wiped away a few tears; and Ju tile, then, was littleJudit intlletteOea ere then a little Judith installed at the Opera, dit, who was moved at the appearance of so much tentakil'n'r lessons every morningf of M. Rosambeau, and derness, only ventured to ask who was the protector, and com on at nfight-totally nnohow she had deserved such generosity. of young girls, niaiads, or pages, as the professor justly You shall know in good time, replied the aunt unnticd aids th grups "You shall know in good time," replied the aunt; of ob1saas,erv ae d as tepfewo jutes ao"but in the meanwhile your companions will die with observed a few minutes ago." Judith was innocence itself, thou,gh belonging to the spite., This was the very thing Judith wanted; and great instage; for she had been brought up in a respectable was the spr hn th nte n ea nn 'deed was the surprise when the intelligence became known house, where all the lodgers were decent Benedicks. in the greenroom. Her aunt, who was as watchful as a dragon, never left i ret " Is it possible? a creature like that! a figurante-a her; accompanied her to the theatre in the moriling, chorus-girl, and I a first dancer-'tis disgusting!" brought her home at night, and even remained whole Quite right said the others: "she is so good she days in the green-room knitting her stockings, while her ders he ooluk is so g t d e " ' I ~~~~~deserves her good luck, she is so sweet and pretty" niece took lessons and practised her steps. You wonde r gd i sen a marriage to a duke the .. ~~~And, in short, if it had been a marriage to a duke, they what became all this time of the large house in the Rue Richelieu. I can't exactly say; but people believe that could not have made more exclamations, or enved her > * In no I en * v * 1 s 1 *advancement more sincerely. And there could no longer a friend of Madame Bonnivet undertook all her duties > w i... ~~be any doubt upon the subject, when her aunt appeared there, in the expectation of the little Judith making abeaydutuothsujc,we heautapae thee,:1til execatin l te ltte Jdit mkin athat evening in a magnificent shawl of Ternaux. But catch; for you are aware, gentlemen, that no one goes that eveningtin prmagcifice? shawl of Ternux B on the Opera boards unless with the hope of making a .. D p~~~~~~~~eon some gouty old bachelor, or worn-out old roue? catch-gaining a settlement, or however you choose to ton-some qutiold bach worntained ruent thatgret ojectof n atres's mbiion InBut to all these questions Judith maintained a prudent express that great object of an actress's ambition. In reserve; one great reason of which probably was, that this way they leave the stage-they are rich-they re- s o form; and the good aunt-for all pretty dancers, you In a few days she had quitted the porter's lodge to live may have remarked, have invariably aunts of the highest with her aunt in a charming suite of rooms in the Rue de resprc~talbility-marries her niece, now weaned from the Provence-a bed-room furnished splendidly, and a boudoir vanities of tin spangles and paste diamonds, to a flour- s tasteful so elegantly fitted up that the aunt never ven. ishingr stockbroker, or-",.X.......... ishing stockbroker, ur-" ttred to approach it; she preferred sitting in the dining. "A retired notary," added the professor. parloer, or indeed in the kitchen; she felt so much more 5I. tsar-~tc.: shrugged his shoulders. "Of course," at her ease there than elsewhere. But (lay after day he srit!' " but a' thit time thoughts of such prodigious!,passed on, and nobody appeared, which struck Judith as a,dva.:.,..c't: head never entered intQ the heads of either somnething rstlier strange; for Judith was without educa. 19 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. tion, but not without sense. Her candour and naevete I the direction of the opera-" Will you allow me the honproceeded from innocence, not from stupidity; and after our of conducting you home?" thinking over her position for some time, she would have "'Tis too much honour for me," stammered Judith, given the world for somebody to consult-for some one to without perceiving what a laugh her answer excited. defend her against this protector whom she did not know, " Make haste, then. I wvill wait for you on the stage." and whom she feared and hated. It is true, the only idea She lost no time, you may be sure, in changing her she had formed of him was of an ugly old man; for her dress; and, on returninig, she found Arthur in conversa. companions had prepared her for nothing else by their con- tion with a group of fashional)les, and with M. Lubert. ver'-tions. She accordingly trembled, and had almnost the manager, to whom hlie recommended Judith very f - d with agitation, when, on the fifth -day, her aunt warmly, and then gave her his arm before them all, and threw open the door anid announced the expected visitor. conducted her down the performers' staircase. At thb Judith would have risen to receive him with proper re- door his carriage was ready to receive them; they got in, spect, but her limbs shook, "oid she sank back again upon and, as it was cold, he pulled up the glass, and put hei the sofa. When at length she raised her eyes, she saw shawl over her sloulders. Ilow beauliful she was-so saloeheshuerrs wbautifilsed ws-s standing before her a handsome young man of twenty to glad-so gratified but the gladness did not lust long. glTedsanceisso sgratiid betwe t!he Ruedcs Gra nge lastlng or twenty-three years old, of a noble and ele(gant appear-t bete the Rue Grange Bats ance, who looked at her with a kind and benevolent cx i liere and the Iue de Prove ce, and the horses went so pression. In one instant she fclt she was safe. A person fast! The carriage stopped; Arthur got out and offered who looked at her with so soft a smile would be her d(le- his hand to Judith.'I'lihcy went up stairs together, and fender from all evil, and from him she would have nothing arrived at the door of her apartments. HIe ranig the bell to fear. respectfully took his leave, and disappeared. Mademoiselle," he said, in a calm and respectful Judlith coul(d not sleep). The conduct of the count ap tone; but perceiving that Miadame Bonnivet w'a's still in pearcl so rude. Ie ighlt at least hv,e entered hel the room, hlie mnade her a sign, and she immediatelv re-I room, and sat down for a moment. She knewvery little, membered she had orders to give about the dinner-" Ma- to be sure, of the manners of high society; but she thought demoiselle, you are here at home; I hope you will be that would have been inore polite tlan to leave her sc happy; but pardon nme if I have the honour of seeing you suddenly at the door. She was feverish and disturbed but seldom-other engagements will prevenct me the plea- and at daybreak got out of bed, and.went to the window sure. I therefore lay claim to but one titlc-that of your to get cool. There, before her door, still stood the car. l~Ito rae tcol.l There bfasoray herdorse, stil y pawed the carou. friend; to but one privilege-that of satisfying your slight- riage with the fast gray horses; they paed the gound est wish." |with cold and impatience; the coachman was asleep on Judith did not reply,; but the beating of her heart lifted his box. up the light muslin of her pelerin. i" Excuse me, gentlemen," said the notary, when lie "As to your aunt," and this he said with a scarcely had reached this part of his story; "the next act is just perceptible tone of contempt, "she w;ill hereafter be at beginning, and I don't wish to lose a word of the opera u l command here atfhome- I hpyowillsbe that wushould' w hen the curtain falls-" your command; for I wish that you should give your wen cr commands to every one here, commneneing with myself." He then went near lher, and took her hand, which he 'h thenowent near, he, aid, in hand whichfli ThIet morninot and t he next again, Judith opened lifted to his lips, and seeing that the hand still trembled -ig a t let i,i etered "Have I alarmed you?" a sign,"h ansrd he Ird wie andow at daybreak. The count's carriage was aldeosl, youare her atlhome;dhp you" w ilhe tsatioud; "abee assuredlt thanto lIv irs ha n rpea y vut eepa n weyou desirheho f it- ways at the door! It was evident that he sent it in the bu.edmoheenagmnswll n revver theplea-adat daybra gost oucet ofhedand y. ou thsie window uhadieveu,repeatmy visditexc wh tsane manner almost every night, and she could not imaadieu, Judith!" And he went away leaving tche poor girl in a state of ge t reason of uch a proceeding; and, as to asking And ~~~~~~~~~~~~h ctaa,aigtepo ili tt f}im for an explanation, she could not have ventured 01) emotion which she could not comprehend. All day long s re ption he old n h e hrd she thought of nothing but the handisomle stranger with |:such prcsumption for the world. And, besides, she hlardly Judthout di not hing, ecbut the hang ofrher h ea nights in a box on the his beautiful black eyes. She had not ventured to look sever tim, except on opera theseason I he upat highandyetnotinghe ad one no a oveentsecond tier, which he had taken for the season. Ic eeve r at him, and yet no thing l e had done, notracmovemhnt part of he story he neve at io e enut had escaped wl heret er e. Sahen was uneasy, antio lost hr spirits a; her complex ion grew palet and her aunt smiled ls". he cmleio re pl, adhransml. Luckily for her, her companions did him an injustice, When the stranger was spoken of, she blushed the and accused him of treatlig her ill. She was delighted, deepest scarlet, and her aunt smiled again. for she had now an excuse for writing to him; oand ac. But he returned no more, and she could not ask him to cordingly she indited an epistle, beseeching him to come return. What had she to complain of?-apartsnents to her apartments. It was by no means an easy task to beautifully furnished-servants and carriage at her corm - wreite a letter; so it took poor Judith the whole day. She mandyshe wednot a way. lain the poorgrld inasa! f 1g mand-she had not a want in the world! began it over again, and made fifty foul copies before she On the other hand, her companions in the theatre, see- achieved one o to her mind. One of these must have drop. ig her so brilliantly dressed, and so radiant in beauty, ped out of her bag; for, in the evenig, she heard the his~~~~~~~~~~~~~ bea utiofulc blackf i h eyes.ng she hanoventred tohooe overwhelmed her with questions. But those very ques- young authors and others who were free of the orchestra tions made her have suspicions that there was something laughing immoderately at an ill-spelt, ill-written note, as unusual in e o t he whole transaction-that she was treated they handed it about from one to the other. She was with a sort of disdain; and she avoided the conversation forced to hear their explosions of merriment, their satiri. as much as she could, and never told her aunt even how cal remarks, arti the resolution they came to, to insert very respectfully she had been addressed. One night the unsigned note (the author of which was luckily unwhen the house was crowded, she perceived the stranger known) in one of the newspapers, as a model ftr the De in the ryal box looking at her. he e nearly screamed Sevignes of the ballette. What weret the terror and agony with joy, and made a dancer miss the proper time, who of Judith, not at hearing her letter turned into ridicule was just then whirling a pirouette. but to think that the count wtould have the same feelings "What's the matter?" said Nathalie, one of her friends of contempt when he read the unfortunate note, which who dheld the other end of a garland. she would have purchased back again with her life. She "'Tis he! there he is!" wasaccordingly more dead than alive, when on the fol. ' Is it possible! Count Arthur de V, one of the lowing morning Arthur entered her room. younrg nobles of the court of Charles X., and moreover "I an come, dear Judith-I lost no time when I re. the handsomest of them all! You have nothing to com ceivned your letter;" and that fatasl, that horrible letter he plain of with such a friend to see you every day." held in his hand-" What is it you require?" Judith mane no reply. She was too happy. Arthur, "What I require-Mlonsienr loc Comrrite? I don't knoi to the great scandal of all who saw it, bowncd to her from how to tell it you-but that letter-itself-since you ihave the king's box; and, better still, when th he lalletle was fin- rea t ind it-if incd ou have been ablu to make it out —" itied, just when she was about to ascend to h e r drcstintr- it " Veryeasily, my dtear girl," replied tle count with a .iom, Arthur caine to the side scenes, Sand sa d quite and sirlit sanile. :with, so as to be heard by the lord coierla in who hai "All!" cried Judith, in despair. "that letter is enough 20 — ~ ~~H MIRRO LIBAY II21 II....... to show you that I amn a poor girl without talent, without education, who is ashamed of her ignoralice and wishes to remove it. But how am I to do it? If you do not come to my assistance-if you refuse to help me with your advice-vwithl your support-" "What is it you wish?" "Give me masters, and you will see if I am not industrious, if I do not profit by their lessons." But when can they come to you?" "Any time-one thought keeps me anxious by day and sleepless at night." " What thought?" ' The thought of the opinion you must have of me. You must despise me, and look on me as unworthy of your notice; and you are right," she continued, hurriedly. I know how contenmptible I am-I know ioyself-andii( I wish, if possible, to have no cause to blush for myself or to be a disgrace to you." The count looked at her with amazement, and said"I shall do as you require; you shall have any masters you want." Next day Judith had a master to teach her writing, and history, and geography. You should have seen the ardour she studied with; and her natural abilities developed themselves with incredible rapidity. At first she liked it for Arthlur's sake, and then she liked it for its own. It was her pleasantest enjoyment, her consolation under all her anxieties. She submitted to the fines for absence, to stay at home and devote herself to her books all day. Her comnpanion said, " Judith has gone rlad — she will lose her engagement-slie is very foolishl." l But Judith worked the harder, saying, " I shall make myself worthy of him at last; hlie will see what efforts I malke to improve myself." But, alas! lihe could see notliing of the kind; for whenever lie came Judith was so agitated(l, and stammered and hesitated so much, and became so confused, that lihe thought all the lessons were thrown as;iy upon her. The effct of the kiowledge sice had acquired was to make her feel more bitterly how stupid and ridiculous he must think her; and that coiiviction rendered her still more constrained and iemibarrassed, and hindered the display of her real sentiments, so innocent and so tender: and Arthur, as might be cxpected, came but seldom. Sometimes hlie remained a short time withl her after the ballette; but when twelve o'clock l sounded, he always took his leave. She ventured to ask him-" Vhien shall I see you?" "I will tell you at the opera, to-morrow." But how was this to be done? Itic was almost always in his box on the second tier; and,when lie intended to visit her on tl)he following morning, he lifted his right hand to his ear, and that was as much as to say, I will come to the Rue de Provence. And Judith would wIatchl for hiln all the day —she adinitted nobody —not even her aunt, that she might have the pleasure of seeing him entirely to herself. In spite of the reserve of the count, she had made one discovery, anid that was, thit lie liid some sorrow that weighled himi down. VWhat couldl tihe sorrow be? She could not briing herself to ask him, and yet she would have been so delighted to have been atl)le to share it with him. But that was a happliness she did not dare to hope for —and yet she stared it, though she did not know what it was. So, when the count asked her, as he often did, "Whlat is thec ma~tter, Judith?-II&ve you ally grief to Sax you "-if she had dared, she would have answered, '"Yours!" One day a horrible idea occurred to her: She muttered to herself, in despair-" Ic loves another-yes! yes! he loves another! WNhy does lie bring me here? —what can be his object? It is fiom no love to me; because, if he loved me-" Judith fixed her eyes on a large mirror, and she certai;nly looked so young, so blooming, so beautiful, no wonder she remained sunk in a revery. The door of her boudoir was opened quickly; Arthur walked in-bhe had an air of trollllc and chagrin, such as she had iever seen defor,. "Judith," lie said, " dress vourself immediately. You jhall go wtit'l m~e to the Truileries." "Is it possible?" " Yes.'IThe weather is deligtttful; all Paris will bc there." "And will you take me there?" cried Judith, enrapt. ured; for the count had never walked out with her, or given her his arm in public. "To be sure. I will take you there before the wikoe world!-il the great avenue," said the count hurriecly, walking about the room-" come along, Madame Borluvet," hlie added, quickly, to the old aunt, who at that n,ta mcent came in; "dress your niece as splendidly as y;tu canl; and, above every thing, be quick!" Madairie Bonniivet miade preparations for taking offthe morinigi,, dress that Juiditlh worC; but she blushed, ad made a s:Din that Arthur was still in the room. " Tushi, tush!" said the aunt, "are we to be on such ceremony with monsieur the count!" and without any more ado she unlaced the gown, and it tumbled on the floor. Judithi did not know where to look, or what to do, and was quite oppressed with shame. But, alas! her modesty was altogether useless on this occasion. Arthur never looker, car her. Absorbed by one idea that seemed to excite'.i:, rage and indignation, hlie traversed the apartment with great rapidity, and in onere t r n mk o l e a d of his tur ns tr don a little vase made of shells, which broke in a thousand pieces. "Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed Judith, forgett ing at tha t m oment the state of her toilet. " Ycs, indeed," echoed the aunt-" i ot cost five hundred fr ancs, at the least." "Not for wt o that!-not for that!" said Judith- " but be. cause it carmic from hii " " Well, are you ready?" cried Arthur, impatiently, who had not heard a word of their reflections on the vase. " In one moment-aunt, my shawl, now, my gloves." " And vour mantle," said Arthur; "you have forgotten it, and you will find it cold." "Ol, no!" "Your hand is burningf," said MIladamec Bonnivet; " you are feverish, my child; I don't think you ought to go." " I am well-quite well," said Judith, hurrying on"let us go —let us go; I would not stay at ho.mle for all the world." The carriage was at the door. They got in, and drove down the Boulevards-at nioon-daiy —together! And, to complete the happiness of the elated Judith, she saw two of her companions in the Rue de la Paix, and bowed to them with the gracious condescension which extreme happiness produces-two principal performers, who on that occasion were trudging humbly on foot. The carriage stopped at the gate of the Rue de RivolL Judith took the counit's arm, and they promenades in the principal all6e. It was a fete day. All the rank and fashion of Paris had assembled; the crowd was immense. In a moment Arthur and his companion were the ob. jects of universal observation. They were both so handsome, it was impossible to avoid remarking them. Eve. ry one turned round to look at them, and ask who they were. "'Tis the young Count Arthur de V." "Arc they mia,rried?" Judith trembled -it the question with a sensation'of pleasure —and of pain at the same time-that she could not account for. " No, inldeed," said a grand-loolking lady, in a disdain. ful tone swhile she caressed a little spaniel in her armns, and was attended by two footmen in superb liveries — " Monsieur thle count is not married; my lord, his uncle, wo'n't hear of it." " Then who is that beautiful creature with him? His sister, perhaps?" "O0, you wrong him, I assure you. She is his mistress -an opera girl. At least, I'think I have heard so." Luckily, Judith did not hear the old dowager's re marks, for at that moment the Baron de Blangi, who walkred behind them, salid to his brother the Chevalier — t"'Tis little Judith." !"\Nhat! the girl Arthur is so fond of?" "e h~ las gone rnad about her-he ruins himself." |" He is quite right," replied the chevalier. " Sh !,vouldl not do, tile samne? flow beautiful she is!"W, |" Take care; you'll fall in lose faith ber." I i THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 21 22 rj'HE MiRROR LIBRARY. I'm that already. Come, and let us see her close." determincd to know her fate, she waited impatiently for If the crowd will let us." tire next visit of tire count. She saw him in his box, but And the crowd that kept followinc her went on making' he seemed sombre and prc-occpied. Ile made no sign remarks of the same kind, and Arthur heard them. 1or to her-hbe never looked near her. At last, on the fol the first time lie looked at Judith as she deserved t) be lo-jh~ night, lie made tie usual signal, and Judith now looked at. and was astonished to find her so beautiriil.- felt certairi that she should see him in the morning, and The walk, thie comipany, and above all, the consciousness put ao end to the state of suspense and nisery, which of being admired, had given her cheeks anlr eyes airnun- she felt was more intolerable than the worst that could snal glow; and then she was sixteen years oldl, and loved, befall her. and fancied, for the first time, that she was lirvedi in re- But in the morning, the chiasseur of tire count mnade his turn; and these arc admirable reasons for looking 0nI's appeaance with an apology fom his master on tile plea best. The sensation created by her aippearan(e was ira o- business of the most urgent importance, and w;th an inense; but when she saw tire look of ailirriration tilfit intiniation, at the same time, that lie would come that Arthur fixed on her, all her triuniph sar.nk into uisi,iufi- night to supper. To supper he who had always taken cance, the praises of the eirod were for'ffotteci, arid si,r Iris leave so early! Tire aunt seemed wonderfully pcased went home that day exclaimnling-'" hbat a lih)Iy girl I with the arrairgeirient, anid Judith remained sunk in deep am!' thought. Next inorni,ig, Judith received two letters. The f'trst At eleven o'clock, tire most elegant little supper that was a carte b,ala,c,;e from the B)Lion de Blangi. -hc could be procured was all ready by the zeal of Madame threw it into the fire, and torgot it in a morecut. Boniuvet. As to Judith, she saw iiotliing-shie heard no The second bore a siirature which Judith read over thing —she expected. All tire faculties of her soul were twice, as slic could hardlv believe her eyes; butt she absorbed in that one idea. But eleven o'clock came could not doubt the reallyt It was signed " The ]Bishlop half past cleven —twclvc-and no Arthu:. Tile whole of, and was in these terms night elapsed; lie came not, and she expected still; and the next day passed, and the following days, and yet Arthe Tuileries withi my- ne.l-phNiw, Count Artlhur de V, theTuieris wt~imv ~pi~o cont rthr d V____ thur canie niot. Sire licard unothing of him —she saw him and by so diol~ir,, pnt.Ir, fi~ii-Iirn r stroke to a scaidml, tre no ""re. What then was the meaning of all this? What consequences of whihch arc incalculable. Although, il had become of hin Geneitlemen," said the little notary, interrupting his puncishent ~or tci ses of b n Godi~ s ~ hasvperstted courh narration, "the curtaiu is just risiug-After the ncxt act." left to cnaLle us to punishl your audacity. I theterre give you notice that if you do riot put a sto)p to any sini-n " jar scaindial, I rave sflicieint credit with the Lord Cham oftirGent'lemen," said the little notary, when the third act berlaini to rave you ndiahissed from tihe Opera. If, on the. Hgeoswscnldd ups o r 1' I ~~~of the Hugueniots was concluded, "1I suppose you are other hand, you give up liiy nephew at once and forever, anxious yugArthur, and above all, to discover who lie's." we offer you (for the motive will sanctify tire means) two youn, Ie t c. t "You should have begun with that," said I. thousand louls, and tile absolu', of all your sints," etc., I have a right to arrange my story as I choose" Judith w~ +frs niultdo erusing that dread- And besides," added the professor, "one shouldn't be Judith wastt,, first ashe ilatd non toocurage tan etin all Ivery critical on the conduct of a story at the Opera: noful letter; but she soon took courage, and collecting all body attends to it." her encrirics, reprlied in tihe following words: b bd tedoi. her cii,Ic, ord You usei me~ harsllyow and yetIoande " A very lucky thing for tire authors of tile words," said "5Iy Lord, —You use me hiarshly, and yet I can de- the little notary, with a bow to me; and satisfied with his clare before God and to you, that I have nothing, for hint, ire went oni with his account. which to repinacir m ys ef.'Tis so, I declare rost sol- Count Arthur de V is descended from a very en inly: and yet, mv lord, in this there is no merit at- ancient and distiish ed family in tie south. is motribritable to nle. I owe it entirely to him who has spared tther, left a widow very young, had rio child besides, and and respected mnc Yes, uy lord, your nephew is ifito-I was poorly provided for; but she had a brother who wa. cent of the wron,,,s you impute to him; and if to love be immensely rich.'I'ls brother, 5lonlseigncur the Abbe de criminal in the siglit of heaven, it is a crime of which I V, was one of the most infiuetial prelates at the am guilty, aid in which Arthur is not an accomplice. court of Louis XVIII., and afterwards at that of Charles "Ihear, thcn, the resolution I have takcn. X.; and we know very well what was the influence of "I shall s-,y to himi —wlhat I have never ventured to the clerg,y at that tine; ail influence that governed the say to him ror miyself-but for you, my lord, I will take kingdom, tire sovereign himself, and even tire army. The courage and s:ry to him,'Arthur, do you love inc?'- Abbe de V was of a cold and haughty disposition, And if —is I belicv, as I fear —ie shall answer,'No, Ju- selfish and severe, but an excellent relation notwitbstanddithi, I do not love y7ou,' then. my lord, I shall obey you. ing; for ire was ambitious for himself, and for every one I shall separate imrsell from bhui-I shall never see him that belonged to him. He charged himself with his more: and I hiop C, my lord, you will think of me too nephcw's education, introduced him at court, and prohighly to oF,.('r nrc any thing as a reward, and that you cured the restoration to iris sister of some portion of the will no,t add degradation to despair. The latter is suffi- property that had been confiscated during the emigration. cient for one who resoives to die. But if heaven. if my ThIei mother died, blessing tire name of her brother, and good ang'cl, if tf.ic happiness of my life shall lean him to enjoining her sari to be obedient in all things to his uncle. say,' I love you, Judith,'-ah ~ trsa sinful tiring I am Arthur, who adored iris nmother, swore obedience to her inaibout to say to you, and you will most justly pour your junctions when sihe was dying; arnd it was tire more easy maledictions on my head; but m irk me, my lordl, there is 1or him to perform iris vow, from the circumstance that, no power an earth that shall hi inder me fromn being iris~ from iris eaurlest yeairs, he had always been accustomed from sacrificing every tiring to him. I will brave all, to receive iris unicle's commands with the most unhesitaevenr your indignation; for, after all, what can you do 7 tirig subimissiotL At mast, you can take my life; and why should I ihesl- edate, quiet, and bashful, yet full of courage and gemt tate to die if I could only feel assured I have becn he-eoiyAtu a lasha togidrto o loved? ~~~~~~~~~~~military life: partly for tire uniform and thre epaulettea, "Pardon me, my lord, if this letter should offend you. but prrinipially, perhaps, because iii the palace of his un. it is written by a poor girl who is ignorant of the world cletie saw natlirng hut gowns aird cassocks. He yen. and of her duty; hut who hopes to find some mitigation tured one day, but with great shyness, to niako iris iincl( of )'our anger ini consideration of that igirorance-tire acquairnterd with iris wishes; but tire prelate knit his openrness of her confession —and, above all, in the pro-bosar nwrdhrhyan ei~ly r a te f;ound respect with which she has thre honour to reirain," vesfrhm t~~'.c., etc., etc. ~~~The Abbe de V lie.hd been advanced to a bishop Judith sealed the letter, and sent it without consulting tie, arid lie hoped for inure. ie had ii good chance for riith any one upon tiresuhject; and from that rmncirnt, being tire hat of a cardinal; and ire was desirous of macking tId 'I'IIE MIRROR LIBIZARY. 22 THE MIRRIOR LIBRARY. nephew share in his good fortune, and felt sure of being able to secure him the highest dignities of the church.In short, the church was at that time the surest avenue to wealth and power. Arthur did not dare openly to resist the terrible ascendant of his uncle; but he secretly vowed that he would never be a bishop. The king, in the ucan time, had been spoken to on thie subject, and had ,Expressed his warmest approbation. Arthur was to enter tlc senintry in a few months as a matter of form, to take orders, and go through the lower offices to the highest dignities of his new profession as rapidly as possible. liec remembered the promise he had given to his mother, and, bes'des, everybody would have accused him of ingratitude if he ran directly counter to the wishes of his uncle; and as h therefore dlid not dare to oppose his designs at once, lie endeavoured to find out some method of forcing the bishop to resign them of his own accord. IIe could think of no better iimeans to effect his purpose than some good dashing scandal, that might render him unworthy of the venerable profession into which they tried to force hinmI against his will. But this was not so easy a matter as miirht be supposed. Whether it rose from Arthur's natu - ral disposition or from his education, he had a fund of moral feeling that prevented him from being a libertine; and Arthur took as much pains to make himself a rake as might have sufficed to make him a bishop. But he had a number of friends who introduced him to their gayeties. The racketing and sprees of his companions were insipid and disgusting; and he turned his attention to the ladies of the court, as a better means of gaining what lie wished. But the ladies of that court avoided the slightest appearance of impropriety; not that they extended their dislike to any thing beyond appearance, and a glaring, uninistakeable imipropriety was all that Arthur desired. A ray of light broke in upon his despair, when one of his friends said to him, "Take an opera girl for your mistress; everybody will anow it." "What! I?" exclaimed Arthur, flushing with indignation at the first thought of such a proceeding; "I mix myself up with such a set!" 'You need have nothing to do with them. These matters are easily arranged. The eclat of a mistress is all you require. Take one: you may do as you like afterwards, but your point will be gained at once." " Well, I consent." You know already how the matter was arranged between Arthur and the aunt. Measures were taken to have the bishop informed of the scandal. IIc took no notice. lc, w is told that every night his nephew's carriage was stationed in the nue dc Provence; and Arthur hoped every day for a blow-up with his benefactor, when he had resolved to throw all the blame on an unconitrollable passion which rendered him unworthy of tihe sacred office, and hie could by rno means account for his uncle's sang froid and placid forbearance. It was the calmni that precedes the storm. o I One mnorniin,, his lordship said to him, " The king has been displeased with you for some tirme. I know not wherefore." "I guess the reason," replied the nephew. "I have no wish to know it, sir. His majesty has deigned to overlook it, but insists on your entering the seminary in two days." l a"I! uncle? Imp —"l " They are the king's orders; and youlr oljentions must be made to him, not to me," said the prelate haughtily, and turned away. Arthur, almost out of his senses with rage, hurried off to Judith-took her to the Tuileries-paraded her as his mistress before all the world, on the very evening before he was to start for the seminary. This time it was impossible to pretend ignorance of so very glaring a scandal, or to think of forcing the hero of it into the church-at any rate for a long time. The bishop wrote the letter I have repeated to you to Judith, and the king sent an order to .he count to leave Paris within twentv-four hours. It was impossible to disobey. Luckily, he was acquainted with one of the sons of M. de Bourmont, and went off on Jhe following night with the expedition to Algiers. " is left to me, I sh a ll cho os e one where glory is to be gained." He went off at night wit h the utmost secre cy, for an his motions wer e wat che d; and if they had suspected his destination, he was afraid they would have hindered hi s departure. Ie w rote a few lines to Judith, to tell her he was onlly to be absent a few days; but that note, insig nificant as it was, was intercepted, and never reached her. The bishop had great interest wi th the police. A week afterwards, Arthur was at sea. Oni th e twen tieth day he' disenbarked in Africa, was one of the first a t the storming of' the fort, and was wounded at the side of his gallant friend, young Bourmont, who was killed at the moment of vic'ory. Arthur was for a long time in dan ger. For two months his life was despaired of; and when he recovered, his fortune, his hopes, and those of his uncle, had all disappeared, in three days, with the monarchy of Charles X. The bishop could not bear up against such a disaster. I11, and suffering in mind and body, he was unable to follow the exiled court as he desired. Disappointment and vexation inflamed his blood. A dangerous fever was produced by all these miseries, and not knowing what to do in the state of irritation into which he had worked himself, he revenged himself for the revolution of July on his unfortunate nephew. Arthur, still weak from his wounds, arrived in Paris; and it is here that I became connected with the story, (said the n,tafy, somewhat ele vating his voice.) The count came to me about the suc. cession. I had long been his notary, and that of his family. We proceeded first to break the seals. I will not trouble you with professional details; but in taking an inventory of all the papers deposited in his lordship's escritoire, a letter struck my eye with the signature, " Ju. dith, danseuse a l'Opera." The letter of an opera dancee in the desk of a bishop! I would have destroyed it out of respect to the church; but Arthur had already got hold of it, and from the emotion it produced, I fancied fo a moment-heaven forgive me for the thought!-that th( uncle and nephew had been rivals unknown to each other. |" Poor girl, poor girl!" exclaimed Arthur, "what no. blencss! what generosity! what a treasure I possessed! There, there!" he said to me, " read that;" and when I came to the sentence-," If to love be criminal in the sight of heaven, it is a crime of which I am guilty, an( in which Arthur is not an accomplice " "'Tis truc!" exclaimed Arthur, who had tears glisten in, in his cyes-" She loved me with all her soul, and I never perceived it, and never thought of loving her-an( she was sixteen years old! and pure and beautiful!-fo you have no idea, — 1. Baratoii, how beautiful she is-th, most beautiful woman in Paris." a" I have no manner of doubt of it," I replied; "but, if you please, we will go oil with the inventory." " As you please;" and he continued to read fragmenti of the letter aloud. " If heaven, if my good angel, if tht happiness of my life shall lead him to say, I love you Judith —ah!'tis a sinful th-iing I am about to say to you an(d you will most justly pour your maledictions on my head; but mark me, my lord, there is no power on eartl that shall hinder me from being his-from sacrificint every thing to him." " And I misunderstood her! I rejected a love like this'. [I only was to blamre: but I will repair my fault —I wil sacerifice my life to her —I w ill own her before the world. I sha~ll be proud of her, and introduce her to my friends — to you yourself, M\. Baraton —who don't listen to a sylla ble I amn saying, but keep poring over those musty pa pers!" Papers, indleedI! It was his unclel's will I had discoy ered, which disinherited himn, andl disposed of his enol mecus fortune among hospitals and other charitable form dations. I told Arthur the contents —but he did, show the least disappointment, and began to read Judith'. letter again and again. "You shall see leer, 3{. B;3reton —you shall see m beautiful Judith —y on Shall dine with hler this very day:r "Bgut these papers —this wxill," I said. |"Well —I have notihing moere to do wxithl them," h |salid, waitl: a smile; " but Juldithu will lo;:c me. Adler. 23 I I I.... T..'......In Ii$' MIRR LIBAY 'nothing to attain his object. At the slightest hint, he sen t out couriers all over the world, but always without success; and hlie kept constantly saying to me-"'Tis useless!-she is dead!" In our ncetings upon business, hle spoke to me of nothing but her-and I could hardly slip in a word about the state of his affairs. At last I got himn persuaded to sell off every thing, and pay his debts; but it was a great sacrifice for him to part with the lands that came to him from his mother. But it was indispensable. He owed nearly two hundred thousand francs, and the interest would very soon have swallowed up the remainder of his estate. Bills, therefore, were printed; advertiseinents inserted in the newspapers, and, on the very evening before thile sale was to take place, I received a communication froiii one of my legal brethren, which filled lme with joy and surprise. Fate seemed at last to have grownsii tired of persecuting poor Arthur. o A certain M. de Corval, a man of very indifferent char actor, who had owed his mother a very considerable sum, enow desired to pay it, with full interest froni the time it had become duc —making in all the sum of a hundred thousand crowns; and the notary he employed brought me the full amount in gold and bank-notes. I rushed off to tell the good news to Arthur, but he seemed neither glad nor sorry. As long as Judith was not talked of, every thing else was indifferent to him. As for nme, I lost n o tihne in giving a receipt, paying off our creditors, and every thing went on swimmingly, with the exception of one very curious incident. One day Arthur met M. de Corval, who had behaved so honourably, and thianked him in the kindest terms. At the very moment when that gentleman had begun to ex cuse himself, on the plea of some recent losses, for being still unable to pay what he owed "But you paid mc last month a hundred thousand crowns." " I!" " I have no further claim on you-you Gwe mIe no thing." "'Tis impossible! " " Ask my notary." The debtor-who was such no longer-hurried to me) and could not conceal his,amazemrrent. "You are a lucky man," I said. " M. Arthur still more so," hlie replied, very testily "for I had made up miy mind, as I could not possibly pay, it was exactly the same as if I did not owe; and this business does not make me a farthing richer; but the case is very different with him-he may think hinmself exceedingly fortunate." i " What!-then," I said, "you really don't know wihere the money came from?" "I have no notion," replied AI. de Corval; "but if the same party should offcr to pay off any more of my debts, I hope you will let me know; it will be pleasant to have some benefit for myself." We were more amazed than ever. I went to the notary who had transacted the business. The letter which instructed him to pay me the money bore the post-mark " Havre," and the hand it was written in was unknown to us all; but Arthur uttered an exclamation of joy when he saw the seal, half-broken as it was. It was Judith's. He h hapresented to her a seal in former days, with the it motto, "Toujours seul"-and there it was upon the letter. " The letter has come from Judith!" he said, and dropped it on the floor. " Well, then," I replied, "you see she is still alive, and Arthur was furious. lie would have liked better if she had been dead. " For why does she conceal herself? Why, since she knows where I live, does she not conie t o me? She is not worthy to see me-she loves mc no longer —she has forgotten sme!" " The letter," I suggested, " profits the reverse." " And what right has she to insult me with her benefits? Where has she got her riches? How has she had the audacity to offer them to me? And since when has she considered me base enough to accept them? I woii't have the money-take it ba ck again!" " With all my heart," I said? " but wlmat am I to Xa with it?" M. Baratorl, adi eu. I shall fin d with h er more happiness than I lose with these papers. Adieu;" and he left me, while his eyes beame d with joy and anticipation. " Strange young man!" I said to myself-" to be consoled by a pretty face for the loss of such a succession!" and I finished the inventory. Anhour or two afterwards, I was about to go home, when Arthur rushe d in like a madman. " She is not there-she is gone-I have lost her!" "What! she's false, then?" " Who told you so? Unsay the word-or " I-Ic had taken tight hold of me by the collar. "I know nothing about it." ",So much the better," he said. " Three months ago *eIC disappeared-she has left the opera." "What did her comnpanions tell you?" "They told me nonsensical stories —some said she had been carried off-another told me, with the utmost coolness, she had resolved to destroy herself." "Possible enough," I said. " Since the revolution of Tilly, suicide has come greatly into fashion." " Say it not-say it not!" cried Arthur; "you will drive me mad! I went to her apartments in the Rue de Provence, but she had left them, without saying where she was going." "No trace?" " The rooms are to let; they have never been occupied since." "And you found nothing in them?" "Nothing except that in her aunt's room, on the ground floor, th's card, intended for some trunk, with the address,' To Madame Bonnivet, Bordeaux'-and now that I remember, she comes from- that neighbourhood." " Vell." " Take all the management of my affairs-make what arangement you like." "What are you going to do?" "Follow her traces-or rather those of her aunt." "In your present state of health you wouldn't start for Bordeaux?" " This hour "' He started that evening; and But here the fourth act of the Huguenots began, and the notary listened in silence. Arthur rem ained six months at Bordeaux, making every possible inquiry about Madame Bonnivet, but nobody could give him the slightest information. He advertised for her in the news papers-an d a t last an old lady, ivth whom it appeared s he had lodged, came and inforsn.d him tllat his search was now use le ss, for Madame Boni:ivet had been dead two months. "And her niece?" exclaimed Arthur. "iShe was not with her-but the aunt lived very comfortably, and h ad an annuity of a hundred louis." "Where did it come from?" "Nobody knew." "Did she ever speak of her niece?" "Sometimes she mentioned her name-but instantly checked herself, as if there was some secret to be coiicealed." And this was all that Arthur had been able to ascer(ain by the most careful inquiry. He came back in despair; for, since he had lost Judith, hit attachment hade frown into a passion. It was the one iaea of his exist(nee. He bitterly recalled the minutes-so few and un.,bserved at the time-lhe had passed beside her. Every ook, every smile, rushed back upon his memory-he ,isited every spot where she had been-he never missed he opera. He wished to occupy her apartments in the Rue de Provence; but unluckily they had been engaged by a ,traniger, who did not live in them. He thought at all 1 events he would go and look at them-the porter had not the keys, and the doors and window-shutters continued firmly closed! Arthur, as you may suppose, took very ittle interest in his own affairs, but they gave great un-asiness to me. Disinherited by his uncle, he had nothing 'eft but the small property of his mother-about fifteen lhousand livres a year. Ile had squandered half of it, first in his expenses with Judith, and next in his endeavours to discover what had become of her; for he grudged I THE MlItROR LIBRARY. 24 — ~ ~ ~ ~ H M IRO LIBRARY.I2I "What you like-I refuse it." "You can't refuse it now. Your debts are paid with t-your estate cleared —thanks to the hundred thousand crowns." "I instruct you to sell my lands-realize that sum, 7v.',h I shall never touch, and keep it till I find some meani-e of returning it." But think what a state your affairs will be in." "That is of no consequence. Faithless as she is, I cannot repent of having ruined myself for Judith; but to be enriched bv her is a degradation I cannot submit to. Sell every thinig!" And, in spite of all my remonstrances, he persisted in his resolution. The estate was sold-the first three hundred thousand francs were deposited with me, and the surplus'was sufficient to buy an annuity of six thousand livres for Arthur in the national funds-and that was the whole of his fortune. He lived in this way for two years, striving to banish a recollection that weighed upon his heart Sombre and melancholy, he forswore all society. He saw me almost every day, and spoke of nothing but Judith. He told me he had forgotten htier-that hlie despised her; and yet the only places lie went to were those which recalled her to his recollection most vividly. One day, or rather one night, there was a masked ball at the opera. Alone, in spite of the crowd, he walked in silence through all the noise of the assembly-he went on the stage where he had seen Judith so often-then wandering among the corridors, he ascended slowly to the box on the second tier where he had sat so often in those happy days, and from which he had given the signal of a visit to the Rue de Provence on the following morning. The door of the box was open. A female in an elegant domino was sitting there al-)Te, and apparently sunk in deep thought. At sight of Arthur she started, rose up, and would have left the box: but, scarcely able to support herself, she leaned on one of the sides, and sank down upon the sofa. Her agitation attracted Arthur's notice, and he went forward and offernd his assistance. Without answering, she rejected his offer with a motion ,f her hand. "The heat has made you ill," he said, with an emotion which he could not master; "if you will take off your mask for a moment-" She refused his assistance again, and contented herself with throwing back the hood of her domino, which had covered her head. Arthur saw the beautiful black hair falling in ringlets on her shoulder. It was exactly in the same style that Judith wore it-that graceful attitude, that exquisitely elegant form-the shape, the manners-that undefinable charm which we may feel, but cannot account for-all w%ere there! She rose up at last. Arthur started. It was now his turn to feel faint-but instantly summoning all his strength, he whispered ",Judith! Judith!'tis you!" She would have left the box " Stay, stay! for heaven's sake! and let me tell you that I am the most unhappy of men; that I never knew you, even when you deserved all my love!" She trembled. " Yes, you deserved it then, and I did not know it; and now I love you, Judith! I love nobody but you —I shall love you for ever, even now that you are unfaithful -now that you have forgotten me!" She tried to answer, but could not. She laid her hand ~n her heart, as if to justify herself. " And how, then, can I account for your absence;* and above all, for your benefits-those benefits which have made nie blush for you, and which I have rejected! Yes, Judith! I desire them not-I wish for nothing but you, and your love! And if it be, indeed, true that you have not forgotten me, and that you love me still, come to me! It is love only I can give you now. for I have no longer a fbrtune to offer you! Ah, you hesitate-youw answer iot-I understand your silence! Farewell-for ey~e!!" Iev w! s turning to depart, but Judith held him bo the "Speak, le, onyJudith! Speaks I entreat you t" The poor girl could not. Sobs choked her voice. Arthur fell at her feet-she had not spoken; but she was in tears-and Arthur felt that she was justified. " You love me, then, still? you love nobody but me?" " No on e!" she said, and gave Apim her haned. " And how am I to believe you i —owhat proof can I have?" " Time." "What can I do?" "Wait!" "And what token of your love?" She dropped the bouquet which she held i her hand; and while Arthur stooped to pick it up, she darted through the corridor and disappeared. He followed her-saw her at a distancep among the crowd-lost her again-and had nearly recovered her traces once more, when, on arriving at the lobby, he saw her leap into a magnificent chariot, which went off at a full gallop! " Gentlemen," said the notary, interrupting his narrative, "'tis very late-I am an early man-and, with your permission will finish the rest of my story next opera night." On the following Wednesday we were all in the orchestra punctual to our appointment, but the notary did not make his appearance. The opera was " Robert," and it recalled to my recollection my first meeting with Arthur. I now understood his melancholy and pre-occupation, and fancied that if Meyerbeer himself had been aware of his story, he would have pardoned his inattention even to the inimitable trio. But was Arthur at that moment in a less miserable condition? Was he better qualified to appre. ciate good mus ic? Was he happy, and had he discovered the beautiful Judith? We were still ignorant of the causes that kept them apart; and the absene of our little histo. rian added to our impatience. He arrived at last a t the end of the second act, and n ever was so e nthusiastic a reception given to a favourite actor, or dancer, after three months' absence, as we now gave M. Baraton. " You've come at last, my good friend-here-sit down-we've kept your place. How late you are!" " I have been present at the sig natures of a contract," r eplied the notar y-" I say paesent at the signature s, but not professionally. I have given up the shop; and, tha n k heaven! I owe nothing." "Yes you do-you owe us-" "A denouemeit," said the professor. "Ah, the history of Judith-well." M. Baraton took the seat that had been kept for him, and continued his tale: She had said " Wait!"-and, for some days, Arthur was patient enough-he hoped every hour for a letter or a rendezvous. " I shall see her again!" he exclaimed" she will come to me again!" But days and weeks passed on, and Judith never came. Six months passed this way-a year-and at last two years rolled by. I felt anxious about Arthur, and sometimes I was even unease about his sanity. The scene at the masked ball had ai fected him strangely. There were inornents when he believed that he was labouring under some hallucination. He fancied it was all a dream —an illusion; and he began to have doubts of every thing he heard or saw. It was with difficulty that our utmost care restored him from a dangerous illness, int,j which hope deferred }lad thrown him. He never would touch the money advanced by Judith; and his own fortune, I told you, amounted only to six thousand livres a year. Of these he spent foul thousand in subscribing for a box at the opera-the box on the second tier, where he had encountered Judith the night of the masked ball. IIe went there every evening, as long as he had any hopes of seeing her again; and when he sank into despair, he could not summon courage to enter it. lie felt himself, when he sat in it, " seul, toujours seul"-and the feeling of loneliness made him wretched. All he could do w1s to come occasionally to the orchestra; and, after looklng long and earnestly at the box on the opposite side, lie would say, " Shil is not there!" and leave the theatre. This wa:s his course of life, only diversifiedd by an occasional jouriey i;,to tll country, wh,e l!e ftllcied ie, had obtained so:,' S -lle of THE MIRROR LIBRARI. 25 TIlE MIRROR LIBRARY. the lost one; but he always came back disconsolate to Paris, and resumed his old habits. It was to meet him more frequently that I secured a seat here by the year. Last week hlie had come-he had seated himself in the orchestra-not at this side, but at the other. On that occasion-hopeless and wretched-he had turned his back to the house, and was sunk in his own miserable reflections. But a sudden sensation among those around him, aroused him from his revery. A young, lady of the most exquisite beauty, and magnificently dressed, had come into a box, and the whole artillery of opera-glasses was turned upon' her in a moinent. Nothing was heard but exclamations of "What it beautiful creature!-how brilliant!-how graceful!" AVlhat age should you think her, sir?" said one. "'we enty- one or twenty-two," said another. "Bah! shle isn't eighteen." Do you know who she is, then?" "mNo sir; this is her first appearance at the operafor Ien a subscriber, and know every face that has made a sensation here since the year-hem " And it s eeme d that nobody knew a ny thing about her. At l as t a gentleman of very distinguis hed appearance bowsed to her. Every one w orried him with questions who she was. " e'Tis Lady Inggerton-th e wife of a rich English nolIenan." " Indeed!-so young-and so rich!" And it wa s whi spered about that she had been nobody once-a poor girl that was about to throw herself into the water il a f it of d espair; and that, after being rescued by the old nobleman, she gained his heart so entirely, that he persuaded her to marry him, to enable hi to mr oen sleave her his enormous fortune -whic h he had actually don e. "Tile deuse! If she's a widow, she's a glorious catch!" Her time of mourning is just expired, and, of course, all the young fellows, both in England and France, are making up to her. "1 iNo doubt," said the young man who had been making these inquiries, pulling up his neckeloth; "and do you know, mry good fellow, I rather think her ladyship is looking in this direction." A "Nonsense!" "OTis no nonsense, I assure you-I appeal to this gentlernan;" antd hlie addressed himself to Arthur, who had heard nothing of the conversation, and had to be informed of the whole matter. Artlhur raised his eyes, and in the box in the second tier, that box tlhat used to be his, hlie saw Ah! I)people don't die of surprise and joy, for Arthur is still alive; hlie felt his heart beat quick.'Twas she!'twas Judith!-but at the sanie time he contipued motionless; he did not dare to stir; he was afraid of awakening. "You know her, then, sir?" inquired his neighbour. Arthur mad e no reply, for at tha t in stant his eyes met Judith's!- he saw hers lighting up with joy-ia nd what Was he to think? My heavens! how did his brain keep from turning, when hli e saw the hand of Jidith -that hand so white a n d beautiful-raised slowly t o he r ear, (the very signal that in other days he Rised t o give to her,) and play with the wemerald dr ops that he h ad presented to her! Luckily, as I said before, people don't die of happiness; but Arthur fel t s om e dv a u e idea that h should go mad. tie hid his face in his ha. nds a momenit, to convince himself it was not an illusion; and when he looked up again, the vision ha d v ani shed! Judith had disappeared! A tremour took possession of his liiibs-a hand of iron crushed his heart: but when he remembered what he had seen- what he had heard and that she had given him a signal known only to themselves, he darted from his place; he left the orchestra, and hurried into the street, saying, " If I deceive myself this time —if I amil again mistaken-I shall either go mad or blow my brains out!" And having come to this sage resolution, he-, walked steadily to tile Rue do Provence; he knocked at the door, (which was instantly opened,) and asked for-Judith! " Madame is within, sir," said the portcress, very quietly. Arthur alnost fainted, and had to support himself on the baiuster. He went up to the second floor, crossed the well-known rooms, and opened the door of the boudoir. It was furnished exactly as it was six years before. The supper he had ordered before his departure was there, all laid on the table. There were seats set for two; and Judith, sitting on a sofa, said to him the moment he entered, "You come late, Arthur," and held out her hand. Arthur fell at her feet. Here the notary stopped short. "Well!" we all exclaimed, "go on." "What more have I to tell you?" said M. Baraton, with a knowing smile. " I have just come from dining with them. The ceremony took place to-day." "Thev are married, then?" "To be sure." "A widow is a kind of animal," said one of the circle, " who —" " Has very little resemblance to Judith," interposed the notary; " for a curious part of the story that I have not told you is,-that the old peer, her husband, never called her any thing but his daughter." At that moment the box on the second tier opened — Judith came in, wrapped up in her ermined mantle, and leaning on the arm of her lover-her husband. And a round of exclamations might be heard among the audience "How lovely she is!" "A lucky dog!" THE BEGGAR-GIRL OF THE PONT-DES-ARTS. BY WILHELM HAUFF. cloak, to complete the picture. When you loek at his black silk breeches and stockings, the huge roses in his shoes, the long sword by his side, and the high-pointed hat pressed down on his forehead; and that servant, with a step as stately as his master's, does not his heavy yet roguish face, his parti-coloured dress, and the boldness with which he stares at every thing, renmind us of the servants in Spanish plays, who follow their master like his shadow, far below him in manners, his equals in pride, his superiors in cunning? Under his arm lie carries his inaster's cloak and umbrella, and in his hand is a silver segar-I)ox, a flint and steel. Every one stcop)ed to loos ANY one who may have chancee to have lodged at the "King of England," in Stuttgart, in the year 1824, or to have strolled in the spacious gardens in front, must have noticed certain figures who attracted general attention. There were, among others, two men, who, it seemed, did not belong to the population of Stuttgart, and would have been miore at home on the Prado or the plaza de Peros at Seville. Imagine a tall, thin, elderly man, with iron-gray hair, deepset, burning eyes, a hawk nose, and thin, compressed lips. His walk is slow and stately; and if you tiave a lively fancy, you cannot but wish him, instead of l;.s black frock-coat, a slashed doubtlet and Spanish i 26 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. at this pair as they moved slowly along. It was Don Piedro de San Montanjo Ligcz, chamnberlain of the crown prince of, who was living in Stuttgart at the time, and his servant. A very trifling circumstance often makes a man con6)iicuous. This was the case with young Froben. He had been in towtn about six months, and used to come into the gardens every day at two o'clock precisely, and walk three times round tile lake, and then five times up and down the broad walk. He passed by all the splendid equipages and pretty womeni, by all the crowd of senators, aulic counsellors and m7ilitai-es, without beirng noticed, for hle looked like an every-day personage of some eight and twenty or thirty. But ever since olne afternoon, when he happened to meet Don Pedro, when the latter greeted him cordially, took his arm, and walked up and down with him a few times in earnest discourse, he was looked upon wAith a good deal of curiosity and even respect. Yes, the proud reserved Spaniard treated himn with marlred distinction. The very prettiest of thie.young ladies began to observe that he was not ugly, that there was even something interesting in his features, and the senators and counsellors began to ask who he might be? Some young officers professed to be able to answer this question, and stated that he now and then took a steak for a dinner, lived in street, and rode a very pretty horse. They then enumerated the good qualities of his horse with great accuracy, and this led them to a discussion on horse-flesh in general, which is said to have been profound and valuable. After this, Froben was often seen in company with the Don, especially at n;ght ill his hotel, where they sat and talked apart from the other guests, Diego standing behind his inaster's chair and serving themi with segars and Xeres. No one could divine the subject of these long conversations. for his burst of passion; b ut we hen he was again told that the picture was supposed to be painted by Lucas Clramachl, he shook his head gravely: " Gentlemen," said he, laying his hand upon his heart, " Don Pedro de San Montanjo Ligez believes you to be honourable men. You are not picture-dealers, and have no interest to misrepresent the age of this picture. But unless I am greatly deceived, I know the lady who is here represented." He made a ceremnonious bow, and left the gallery. " Really," thought the proprietor, " if we were not so certain about the age of this picture, I should be in doubt. At any rate, unless I am greatly deceived, as the Spaniard says, this is not his lact visit to our collection." And so it happened. As soon as the gallery was opened, Don Pedro de San Montanjo Ligez stepped gravely and majestically in, sweeping past the long rows of paintings towards the lady in the hat and feathers. He was vexed to find the ground already occupied. A young man stood there, gazed at the picture, stepped back to a window to watch the flights of the clouds, and then came up, and gazed again. Ile was vexed-but had to be patient. He busied himself with the other paintings, but kept turning his head every moment to see whether the young gentle man had not gone. But he stood there firm as a wall, and seemed lost in thought. The Spaniard coughed to arouse him, but he kept drearing on; he moved his foot roughly, the young man looked round at him a moment vacantly, and then turued to fasten again on the picture. " San Pedro! Santiago do Compostella! what a tedious amateur!" muttered hlie, anrid left the room angrily, feeling that the disappointruent had deprived him of all enjoyment for that day. Thlle next day, before the clock had done striking twelve, lie nmounted the gallery stairs in dignified haste, and made for the well-known picture, anrid, by good luck, he was the first and only visiter, and free to look his fill. He gazed long and fixedly at'the picture; his eye grew dim, he drew his hand across his shaggy eyelashes and murmured, "Oh, Laura!" A sigh was plainly heard as an echo to this exclamiation-he turned round in surprise-the same young man stood near him, looking earnestly at the portrait. Vexed at the interruption, he nodded a careless salutation; the young man returned it with less coldness but equal pride. The Spaniard determined to sit his troublesome neig-hbour out, but in vainfor to his amazement, the young stranger took a chair an d sat down a f(w paces off, so as to be at his ease. "The fool! I really believe lie is makilng sporit of my gray hairs," said Don Pedro, and!eft the room ill great indignation. In the ante-chamber he met one of the proprietors of the collection. lie tendered him his ttanks for his politeness, but at the same time could niot help saying a word about the disturber of his peace. "You may have noticed, he remarked, "that one of your pictures has a special value in my eyes. I came, on your invitation, to see this, to spend rny time before it undis. turbed, and now a mischievous young man watches my smovenents, comes whenever I come, and spends whole hours, merely to vex me, before a painting that he has no interest in." The owner smiled. "I aio not so ertarn as to that: th e contrary seems to be the case, for this is not the first day that he has devoted to that picture." "Who is he?" " A certain Herr von Froben, who has been here six months. Ever since lie saw the portrait in question, he has been in thle habit of coming every day at the same hour to pay his respects to it. You see at any rate that he must feel an interest in the picture, since he has beer so constant a visitcie to it for so long a time." "What! six months!" cried the old man; "I have done him wrong in my thoughts, God forgive me! I re ally fear that I have behaved rudely to him. And he is a caballero, you say? N,, it shall never be said of Pedra de Ligez that he was rude to a stranger. Tell him-but no, I will spea k to him rmyself." What was it but the fine gallery of Messrs. Boiser6e and Bertram, in which they had first become acquainted? These hospitable gentlemen had given our young friend pernmission to visit their collection as often as he chose, and he availed himself of it most liberally. In rain, in s.now, and in fine weather h e came; he often looked ill, but still he came. "Ve should estimate Herr voI Froben's tapste too higblsly, however, if we supposed he was busy in stu'~iyi iob' copying the ad mirabl e works of the Flemish s,hiool. He came in softly, bowed il silence, and hurried to a distant room, which contained one single pictur e. TPis he exad m ined long, and then left the gallery in sileiac. hioec propr ietors h ad too mu ch delicacy to inquire into the cause of his extraordinary affection for thle pictur e, but they could not but wonder at it. Often, when he went out, the tears stood in his eyes. The picture had no great value as a work of art. It represented a lady partly in the Spanish and partly in the old German costume. A blooming, cheerful face, with clear, loving eyes, finely chiselled lips and rounded chin, stood boldly out from the back-ground. The forehead was adorined by a profusion of hair and a little hat, with heavy white feathers, placed somewhat archly onl one si(de. The BU-ess, vn.icl. was high in the neck, was loaded with rich chains, and bore testimony to its ownier's wealth as well as modesty. "I stupi)p,se he is in love with the picture," thought the proprie,tor; " but if so, he loves without hope, for it is at least f'rec hundred years old." By and Icy it seemed as thoulhl Frobein was not the only admirer of the portrait. One dar the prince of P visited the gallery with his suite. )ti:~ chamberlain, Don Pedro, when he saw this painting, uttered a cry of surprise, and seemed overcome by astorisli.,ient. When the prince left the gallery, Don Pedro was not to be found: at last he was discovered staniding awith folded arms and in deep thought before tile picture. He asked where it came from, and was told that it was painted by a celebrated artist several hundred years b,-l~o.o:, and had been obtained by accident. " Oil, no," he cried,'- it is new; it is not a hundred years old: tell in(, Fpr.-;y tell me, wollen you got it —where can I find her? " llt v.,s old and looked too venerable to be laug,,hed at The n ext day he found Froben at his post. The young man stepped aside to imatke roomi for his senior, who bow cd ccreniotiious!y as ha addrcssd hin,, " If I ant nlot 27 28 TIlE MIR1OR LIBRARY. yet most unhappy hour of my life! You will smile when I tell you that I once saw a lady who is very like that picture: that I saw her but once, and yet that I never shall forget her." ",Alas! it is my case, too!" murmure-(d the Spaniard. " You will laugh outright, however," continued Froben, " when I confess that I am able to speak as to only half of her face. I do not know whether she is a blond or a brunette-whether she has a high or a low forehead, blue eyes or black, I really don't know. But the finely shaped nose, the lovely mouth, the chiselled chin-these I behold in the picture, the same as I once beheld the reality!" " Strange!-and can you remember so distinctly those features which are generally more easily forgotten than the eyes and the hair; and after seeing them only onec, too?7" I " Ahl, Don Pedro! lips that we have once kissed, suci lips we do not soon forget. I will tell you how it hap-. pened." " Stop-not a w(rd!" exclaimed the Spaniard. "You would have a right to think me ill-bred, if I asked a cavali er for his secret, without first communicating my own I will tell you what I know of the lady. mistaken, Sefior, I have seen you looking at this picture before. So i' is with me: I take great interest in this picture, and am never tired of looking at it." Froben was surprised, and hesitated a little as hlie answered, "I admit it has peculiar merit in my eyes-forsince-as there is something in it which I greatly adnlire." The Spaniard looked at himn inquiringly, and Frol)bel added, more calmly, " It is singular what effect a painting will sometimes produce. Thousands pass by this picture, find the drawing correct, and praise its colouning, but it does not affect them profoundly,-avhile one person may find in it a deep hidden meaning, he cannot tear himself away, he feels chained to the spot, and returns to it again and again." "You may be right," replied the old man, thougflhtfully, "but I conceive this applies only to great compositions, in which the artist sought to express a profound conception. Many pass by, and at last the true expression is felt by some one, who is then lost in admiration. But will this hold true of such heads?" The young- man coloured. " Why not? the tine outlincs of the face, this noble forehead, this thoughtful eye, his sweet mouth, are not these finely conceived and expressed? Is there not something attractive in the features which-" "Certainly. She was unquestionably a very pretty wooman; the family is remarkable for beauty." " What family?" asked Froben, doubti ng whether his new acquaintance was in his right mind. " This is a fancy piece, and some hundred years old." " What? do you too believe that silly story? Between ourselves, the owners are mistaken this time: I know the lady." " For God's sake! do you know hei-?-Where is she now?-EWho is she?" "I should rather say, I did know her," replied the old man, raising his moist eye t o the painting. " Yes, I knew her in Valencia, twenty years ago-a long time! It is Mofia Laura Tortosi." " Twenty years ago!" repeated Froben, sadly; "no, it is not she!" "Why?" cried Don Pedro; " do you suppose, then, the painter invented these features? Even without knowing the'lTortosi family, do you not see it must be a family portrait? I say it is Dofia Laura, as I knew her many years since." " It may be like her-in which case she must be a very lovely person-but as for this piece, the records prove that it was hanging in the church of St. Mary Ma(gdalen at least a hundred and fifty years ago." "Then may the fiend pluck out my eyes!" exclaimed the Spaniard, seizing his hat and rushing from the room. " It is a device of the evil one to torture me;" and the tears stood in his eyes. " Seior, I was born in Granada, of a noble fancily, by whom 1 was instructed in religion and in science, and destined to the profession of arms. When I had leached the rank of captain, I was sent to my uncle, a stern old veteran, who commanded in Valencia. A great changec had taken place in his household since I saw hinm last. I was surprised when he introduced an elderly lady to me as his second wife, and still more agreeably so, when I was made acquainted with a beautiful young one, whom he called his daughter Laura, my cousin. " You have seen her, Don Frobenio. That picture is a faithful copy of her lovely features, at least so far as it was possible for earthly art to imitate them. I need not say that I loved her. My affection was open and joyous; there were none of those barriers between us that usually separate lovers in my country. My uncle loved nme as a son, and if I understood his hints rightly, was not un. willing to make Ime so. On my father's part, there could be no objection, for Laura was of a noble as well as wealthy family. You may judge how violent my love must have been, as I loved where there were no obstacles to feed the flame. As for the lady, she allowed me to confess my sentiments, my uncle gave his consent, and twe were to be married as soon as he could obtain a ma jority for me. About this time I became intimate with a captain in the Swiss Guard, and we were soon the closest friends. He was a fair-haired, handsome youth, with a delicate complexion and light-blue eyes. He would have been too effeminate for a soldier, but for his renown in arms. This made him so much the more dangerous. His style of beauty was one so new among us, that when he talked about the ice and snow of Switzerland, many a lady sighed to think that his heart seemed equally cold. "One day a friend, who knew of my engagemenct, gave me to understand, in mysterious circumlocution, that I had better marry my cousin at once, as otherwise something unpleasant might happen. I mnade further inquiries, and learned Dofia Laura was in the habit of meeting a stranger at a friend's house. I could not believe it, and yet a jealous pang remained; I determined to watch liher closely. That very afternoon she left us, saying that she wished to see a friend. A little while afterwards, I fol lowed her, and kept watch by the door of the house. A fury seized me as I saw a man, wrapped in a mantle, stealing along at nightfall in the shade of the buildings. As the figure approached me, I seized hold of its dress, and cried,' Whoever you are, give me your hlionour that you do not come here to visit Laura de T'ortosi?'' Who dares to question me thus?' said a deep voice. His accent betrayed the stranger, and I felt a painful foreboding.' It is Captaiin de San Montanjo Ligcz,' I replied, and pulled the cloak from before his face, and saw mny friend, the Swiss Captain. He stood tl.ere like a culprit, I without spea!kiig. I drew miy sword, and moti(oned( to hiln to d: the same.' l hiave 01 a,: L it a dagger,' te One evening, when the two gentlemen were sitting in the parlour of the " Kin, of England," Don Pedro suddenly said, "Tihe crowd lit-e prevents all conversation will you help me empty a bott'e of Ximenes in my apartment?" "With pleasure.-' "Wait a moment till I prepare to receive you. I will send for you." In a few minutes, Diego appeared with a silver candlestick in each hand, and bowed gravely to Froben, as the signal to'follow him. On entering, he found his host had laid aside his frock-coat, and appeared in a close-fitting black doublet and ample scarlet mantle. A sword with golden hilt was buckled by his side. W Welcome, Don Frobenio," was his salutation. " I have long desired a moment's friendly conversation with you. Whenever I paid a visit to my Lauia's likeness, I found you there belore me. And excuse me playing the spy, but I could not help seeing that you felt more deeply interested in the picture than you have ever been willing to confess." l'roben bluishced, for the old man's glance was keen and penetrating. Ile told him: " It is true, and you are r rht in supposing it is not the painting, but the subject that attracts ice. Alas! it rerinicds rme of tlic sweetest I i I I i 28 TIIE 1\11RItOR LIBII.ARY. !. II ~ H IRRO L IBAY 29 said. I was about to pass my blade through his body, but Froben pursued his journey along the Rhine. His head could not do it as he stood there helpless before me. I was still full of the romantic ideas that the portrait had appointed the next morning for our niceting, and he left called into being. As he drew near the lovely plain of the place. I kept guard at the door till Laura's litter the Neckar, hlie began to forget these fantastic visionis, was brought, and I saw her enter it. The torture of mind and to remember the object of his journey. It was a visit I felt would not let me sleep, and at midnight I heard a to a friend, in whose company he had travelled through knock at my door. It was Laura's old servant, who France and England. Similarity of character did not handed me a letter, and retired. Sefior! heaven forbid form the ground of their friendship. The Baron von that you should ever receive such a letter! She told me Faldner was somewhat rough and rude, and even his that she loved the Swiss long before she knew me-that travels had not polished him. Hie was one of those who, she had kept it a secret, knowing how her mother detested because they neglect books, think they can do without foreigners, and that she had been forced to accept my them, and persuade themselves that they are what they proposals in spite of herself. She took all the blame to call "practical men;" that is, universal geniuses, who herself; she protested solemnly that Tannensee had often know every th'ing without studying it, and are perfect wanted to confess the truth to me, and would have done masters of business, agriculture, housekeeping, and the it but for her entreaties. She intimated that the family like. He was happy, because lie did not know his own would be disgraced unless I furnished them with the deficiencies; but sclf-conceit made him overbearing in means of flight. She begged me not to seek a meeting company, and a tyrant at homie. "I wonder if he still with him, for that if he fell, she, his wife, would not sur- says,' I told you so,' " thought Froben. "He always vive him. She ended by appealing to my magnanimity, used to speak thus, even if fie had prophesied the contrary declaring that she always esteemed, though she could not the minute before, and there was no undeciving him."love me. You can conceive that such an epistle threw His estate lay in one of the loveliest valleys of the lRhline, cold water on the flame of my love; and it cooled my and our traveller could not but hope that the beauties by anger, too, in part. But, as I had been deceived, I felt which he was surrounded had tended to soften his natural that honour required me to be at our rendezvous the next harshness. morning. The Captain felt, ierhaps, how deeply he had injured me, for, though the better swordsman, he merely He entered the park, and saw his friend at a distance. defended himself, and it was not his fault that I ran my He seemed to be disputing with an old man, who was hand, here between the thumb and finger, on his sword, busy diggii,g round a trce. " I don't care if you have so that I could fight nQ longer. While they were binding done it that way for a hundred years, and not fifty; you up the wound, I handed him Laura's letter. Ite begged must transplant the tree as I tell you." The old man and implored me to forgive him; I did it, but with a put on his cap with a sigh, looked at the noble tree with heavy heart. a sad eye, and set to work hastily, and, as it seemed, un "rThc story of my love is ended, Don Frobenio; for, willingly. The Baron whistled a tune as he turned away, five days afterwards, Laura and the Swiss Captain had and saw a stranger, whlo liheli out his hand to him with a disappeared." smile. " What's your wish?" he asked hastily. "And with your assistance?" " Don't you know me then, Faldner? Have your trees "I did all I could to help them.?TIy aunt was deeply made you forget London and Paris?" grieved; but it was better that she should never see her' " Froben! is it possible?" cried the lhost as hlie era. daughter, than to have disgrace come upon our house." braced him. "But how thin and pale you look. That Noble-hearted man!" cried Froben, " what must it l comes from your sitting and studying so much: but yeou not have cost you! In truth, it was a hard trial." never would take advice. I always told you it would not It was, indeed!" said the old nman, smiling bitterly. answer for you." "At first, I thought the wound would never heal but "Think a moment, my dear fellow. Didn't you always time does wonders, my young friend! I have never since tell me that I would never do for a sportsman or farmer, seen or heard of her; only once the papers mentioned and that I must take to law or diplomacy?" Colonel Tannensee as an officer under Napoleon, who had " Ah, I see you are trouled wiI'h yobur old complaint, distinguished himself at Brienne. But when I came here, want of memory. Did not I tell you-" and saw my Laura before me, the same as she was twenty "Let it pass, and tell nme where you have been since years ago, the old wounds opened afresh, and-you know we parted." yourself, I used to go every day to see her." TI'he Baron's story was a short one, wholly made up of Don Pedro had told his story wibh all the gravity of an complaints of bad weather and stupid servants. He gave old Castilian. When he had ended, hlie took off his hat, im to understand that he was a great proficient in farm stroked his beard, and said, "I have told you, Don Fro- ing, but found all his ncighbours and people very obstibenio, a story which I have confided to but a few; not to nate. Hie confessed that he lived a life of care and trou. lead you to imitate mny confidence, though your secret ble, of vexation and quarrel. His friend could see plainly would be as safe in my breast as the ashes of our kings that hlie still rode his hobby, and could not rein it in. in the Escurial. I will confess I am anxious to ask why It was now Frobenri's turn, and he said in a few words you take such an interest in the lady; but curiosity is un- that hlie had been attached to one or two embassies, had becoming a man of my years, and I say no more." got tired of them, and asked for a long lea.- of absence, Froben answered, "I will tell you my little adventure and was now seeing the world. with pleasure. It does not reveal a lady's secret, and "Happy fellow!" cried Fal(lner, "I much envy ycu. ends, in fact. where other tales usually begin. But, with Here to-day and there to-morrow, nothing to tie you down, your permission, as it is now so late, we will leave it till and as free as air. I only wish I could live like you." to-morrow." "But why not? Look out for a good overseer, saddle "As you please," said the Spaniard. | your horse, and set off with me." The next day, Froben was in the gallery, as usual, be- " Ah, you don't understand," answered Faldner, em fore the picture. He waited a whole hour; but the old barrassed. "If I am away only onc day, every thing goes man did not make his appearance. iHe walked up and wrong. Besides, I have done a foolish thing-but no down the grounds, but looked in vain for the well-known matter. However, my travelling days are over." black breeches and pointed hat. At the hotel, his absence A servant came up just then to say that his mistress was explained. "They are all gone, his highness and all. was returned, and asked where tea should be served? Despatches came at midnight, and the prince and his "Up stairs," said Faldner, in some confusion. "What'! suite set off before day-break." Don Pedro had left a are you a married man?" asked Froben, "and haven't card, on the back of which was written in pencil, "Fare- told me of it yet! Well, I congratulate, and so forth well, my dear Don Frobenio, you still owe me your story: but pray, tell me-I should as soon have thought of the kiss Dora Laura for me." He smiled at the commission, sky's fMling-how long since?" but soon felt that bis old f{lienfl's a'3sence left him solitary. "About six months,'" said the Baron in a low tone, awl There was nothing now to d tain him in Stuttgart, and looking at the gronud; "'but why should you wonders A' he left the city as quietly as he had entered it. it' You ought to know that in such a lairge c~ta'.1-:'s - 1l;.Imenot —" TIIE MIRROTT LIBRARY. 29 !0TEMRORLBAY which he always carried with him; but what was his surprise as he noticed the wonderful resemblance it bore to the Baroness Von Faldner? As to hair and eyes, he could not speak; but the mnouth, nose, clin, and throat were surprisingly alike. " What!" thlought he, " can she be my friend's wi fe?-she whom I saw b ut once, and imperfectly, yet whom I love, and shall love for ever! The stature and the figure, too, the same! Her eyes were fixed on me the whole evening, as though she had seen me before. But it is all folly. The proud Baron ot Faldner, with his high ideas of nobility and pure descent, would never have stooped to wed a beggar girl!" " Certainly, it is very natural and proper; but I renmem ber how you used to talk about marriage. I never sup posed you would find anybody to suit you." 'No, excuse me. I always told you-" "TIo be sure, I admit it," answered Froben, with a smile; "and I always told you that with your romantic fancies of ideal perfection, you would always live a ba chelor. As there is a lady in the case, I can't appear in my travelling dress, so you swill excuse me a few moments. FarewellI till we meet al fin." Just as he left him, a tall and graceful lady came up, and atsked the Baron hlastilv, " WVhomn were you talking with just now? Who was it tthat said,' Farewell, till we meet agrainr?'." The Baron started up ant] gazed on his vife with as tonishlmcnt at seeing the delicate paleness of her check suffused with crimson " It is too bad,.loseplhine," liehe cri(-d. "blow often have I told you that Hufeland for bids violent exercise to 1)eop)ic of your constitution? You have been walking here from the loause, I suppose, and got warmn, and now you want to sit down in the cool air. I have to tell you every tlhing twenty tinmes over, as I wouldl to a child. You ought to be ashamed of your self.'! " Oh, don't be angry with me," said his wife in a trem bling voice. "I only came out to meet you, and rode all the way." " Your cheeks condemn you," was the answer. " Must I be for ever talking to you? No shawl, either, and so late! What is the use of my flinging away money for such nonsense if you don't wear them? It's enough to maka a man mad. You will not do any thing to please me. Your self-will wears me out completely. It's enough-" " Pray, forgive me, Franz," said she, wiping away the big tears from her eves. "I have not seen you all day long, and I wanted to surprise you, and forgot all about a shawl. You will forgive Inc-you will forgive your wife, won't you?" " Yes, yes, that's enough; now leave me alone. You know I don't like such scenes. And in tears, too! Do for heaven's sake break yourself of this foolish habit of crying at any thin- and every thing. WVe have a guest to-day-Froben, Eho travelled with me. Behave yourself as you ought-do you hear me? See that nothiing is wanting, for I don't like to have to keep house besides all my other business." HIe wvailked before her to the castle in silence. When Faldner showed Froben to his room, he could not refrain from congratulating his host on his choice. "Really Franz, I never saw her equal. You Mwere always a lucky fellow, but I never thought you would get such a prize, with your strange ideas." ' Yes, yes; she is well enough," answered the Baron, dryly, as hle snuffed the candle; "a man can't have every thing, and ought not to expect it in this world." "\ hy! I hope and trust you are not insensible to such excellncle. I have seen many womnen in my day, but never one of such perfect beauty! What eyes! What a fir.ire! And I do not know but that I admnire her culti. vat (e1 mind and delicate taste even still more highly." ;Yoi seem quite captivated," rejoined Faldner, laugh f ing, "hut you heave read too much; you are not a practiel maln; I always told you so. Believe me, a smart, actiste housekeeper is worth more than what you call X,,'our caccomiplished women. Good-llighlt-thank your stars that you are a freeman, and-don't be in a hurry to choose." Froben had not failed to observe howe anxiously she had watched her husband's looks, and how much she seemed to stand in awe of him. He felt that so ill-assorted a union must have been the work of interest, and not of affection, and that so delicate, so sensitive a creature, was ill-fitted tn bear the humours of her stern and selfish lord. Het sat, plunged in such thoughts, till hc began to reproacli himself for theni. " I have been false to mya first love to-niylht," thoug. ht he. " Another image has fille ed uly tlihloufcihs, and I have given way to ideas that are peer ll;:l;S si0!Lii. ert'iioly idle I"' Wit;l th'ese word(s, he'inrnilclrt tiae ePgraving i'oltn tlm, belavei 1)iC/uic in lis l;.ost m, was te his o t rw t l il, The next morning, when Froben came down to thp drawing-room, he found himself alone. His host had rid den out to view the e state, and his lady was busie d with h ousehold affai rs. He tookl up carelessly the cards that lay on the mantel. Among the m was his frierd's wed ding -card, on whi ch he s aw, "Bar on Von Faldnc r and Josephine Von Tannensee." The name surprised him. It was the very name of the Swiss officer who had figure d in Do n Pedro's storyd. He had hardly time t o collect his thoughts, disturbed by this coincidence, when Josephin e appeared. She apologized for her hlusband's absence, adding, " His life is always a laborious and anxious one; but I really believe, he is so accustomed to a press of business, that he would not be contented without it." " Is there more than usual to be attended to on the estate?" "No, he is always so: he is never at rest; and he spends the whole day, from morning to night, among hiE workmen." " You mr.st often feel solitary, I should suppose, during his absence." "Solitary!" she repeated, wad her voice trembled a little, "Io-memnory is the companion of those wil, are alone; and besides," she added,'with an effort at a sinile, "in so large an establishment as ours, there are a thou. sald things to be attended to-so that I do not, must not, feel lonesome." The slight accent of sorrow with which she spoke, impressed Frobeln deeply; and he paused a while before he answered. " Women, now-a-days, possess talents and acquirements which can be developed in society alone. And I have often thought how unhappy one of your sex would be, supposing her to possess a cultivated mind, a taste for reading andi for intellectual society, if she finds no kindred spirit in her domestic circle, and yet is confined to it." Josephine blushed, and our hero could not but feel that he had unconsciously rcmindcd her of her own situation. To give the conversation a more general character, she replied, " We country ladies, of course, enjoy suceh pleasures less frequently, but still we are not so lonely as you might suppose; we visit each other often —only see what a pile of cards there is on the mantel there." " That reminds me," said Frobcni, " that I ",as guilty of a petty larceny just now;" and he produced the' wedding-card. "W Will you believe it, that I did not know of mny fricnd's marriage till last nii,ht? The card first in formed me of your nlamne. It is'I'cnnensce, I find." " Yes," she answered, with a smile, " and I was no loser in exchanging so insignificant a name for the nobla one of Faldner." " If your father was, as I suppose, Colonel Von Tennensce, you cannot call it insignificant." She blushed. "My dear father! They tell me the Emperor esteemed him a gallant officer, and he died a general. I never knew him-." " Was he not a Swiss?" She looked at him with some surprise. " If I am not mistaken, my mother told me lie was." " And was not your mother named Laura, and of a Spanish family?" She turned pale. " Laura was het name, lout —what do you know about her? Spanish! no, she spoke Gerlmanl, arid was of Othlat nlation." To a.ccounlt for thils cur;iosity, Fr ol12e toldl the story of his mccrtinlr wsithl Don Pedrlo, and hils firml bjelief that she wus thle d,~uglltcr o!' tl~:.~t I,aurla w!lon rthe Sl]uniai.'d lintg I I 30 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. O~~ ~~~H URR. __li l)ved so warmily. He enlarged on the rank and wealth of her ncwly.found relative, but Josephine betrayed n o pleasure at the discovery; on the contrary, she leaned her head on her hand and burst into tears. "What }lave I done!" cried Froben, in despair. "It was all n)y folly-a mere conjecture only. Your relatives ?an decide that better, I-" "' Alas! it is my evil fate to have no kindred," said she. " IHappy are they who can look back to a long line of honouable ancestors: who have kind and i,ood relatives, endeared to them by the ties of blood. I was an only child, and I have always lived among st rangers. My father, I heard, quarrelled wit} his relations inl Switzerl and, because they wanted him to wmarry a rich heiress at home; and when my mothel died, there was not a soul in the world to whom I could say, Itavc pity on me!" Frobern was anxious, as well as aff'ected at her grief. W~ Was not your motlher's name Tortosi?" tic asked. "She wras called Laura Von Tortheim." "The names are the same: and I believe you will ]ow have no cause to complain of being alone in the world. One kinsrman, at least, you have, and one of the most excellent of men. Fatldnier will be de lig,hIted when he hears of our discovery." Ifcr tears began to flow afi'esh. " You do not know my husband," she replicd. " You have no idca how suspicious he is. Every thing must go on regularly and soberly; and he detests any thing like a surprise, or a change, from the very bottom of his soul. I had to regar(d it as a f.yvour," she added, bitterly "as a favour, that a man of such an ancient family would make me his wvife, a-n(d be satisfied with the few papers I had to shose my birth. He tells me every day that he might have married into the first houses-or else, that my family is only newly ennobled-that he knows nothing about my mnother, and that some of the Tennensees have even turned mere hants." It v is plaits that she had married from poverty, not enoi( c, and that her brutal husband treated her with rudemess and cruelty. Faldner's return to dinner cut short the conversation. Countess. She was bu sy all day lone, mak ing tea, sewing, oversecina g th e servants, w a,tere ing flowers, and every thin,,,. I thouwalnt s he wo uld make a good housekeeper, and thougli h I c ould not fion.d out much abou t her family, I married her." "And y ou arc a s happy as th e day is lon,." "Why, s so so; she h a s nothingr of a practical turn; outa I lock up all her bo oks, and malic he r keep house. Lut come, let us look at my iunilucky steam-engine." As th e n t l ee igentlmn wr ounting their horses, Froben saw Josphinea at a window wraving her hia.dlerchie. "The Baroness is sa l u t ing you," he said; but his host only laughed, and rode on. "a way do you s upport her in all t ha t sentc hmrcnt:ly folly, so that wce must kiss and flourishl Iamndkercliclfs sio sr;ehver I am roing- away for a few hours? It is enoughlI to spoil any woman; and when. ever you mar ry, do as I do. You neverr sav whlere you arc going. Your horse is brouighIt round.' Where are you going, dear?' she asks t wo or t hree tiames. Yo u say nothing, but put on,i your gloves.' How can you go away and leavc me hereal ae alon re staie asks, and l:vs her hand on your sIIoLlc'lcr. You pick ua) your whip and say,' I am going to so-and-so; therc is soinctliing to be done to-daty. Adicu; and if I don't core back by supper-timne, don't wait for me.' She is shlocked-you whistle; she goes to the window and flourishes her handkerchief-you ride straight on, and take no notice of her. That makes a woman respect you. After two or three such scenes, my wife gave up asking me any question, 1 assure thou." The engineer was at work, but had made no progress Faldner grew violent, and called him a bungler and t rogue. The man's face was crimson with resentment, but hlie suppressed it. " I will engage to put any machine in order, but I must have my own way about it, and in this case-" " I've been helping you a little, ad(l that I suppose has put you out? I have scnr half a dozen such machines, and I know perfectly well that the large wheels work on the cylinder, and the small ones above-" "Th'Iis is of another pattern, however, as the drawings sh,ouw." ", What do I care for drawings? I'm deceived all round —cheated by everylbody." Froben, meanwhile, had been examining the drawings carefully, and said at last, "I will lay a bet that it is all as it should be. F iad II here go with I, and this Con nects the stami)pinig-mi-ill with the machirne." c; To be sure it does!" cried the engineer, triumphantly. "This makes the whole thing easy." T'lie Baron laughed to conceal his surprise, and left the nmanagement to his friend, expressin,r little Ilithl in his success. le was de ceived, however, for in a very short timnc the nm;achine was put up and at work. This restored him to good humour, and he.,rave a little entertainment in hlionotir of his success. CheerfuLl and good-humoured as hlie seemed, it did not escape I F'roben that he persecuted his wAife incessantly. She did every thing wrong, and lie drove her, without r orse, from the kitchen to the parlour and back again. Ilis visitors were delighted with her grace and beauty, and the old ladies were loud in their praises of her good hcusewvifery. " See now," the Baron whispered to his friend, " what wonders good discipline will do! She has got along very well today, with a little help from me, of course. But she'll mend-she'll mend."'lIe general mirth and the good wine elevated his spirits stll higher, and it was soon high time to leave the table, as he and some of his friends were indulging in some excellent jokes, which were rather too broad for the delicate ears of the ladies. Sport of every kind was now the order of the day, arid even the good old-fashioned game of forfeits was tolerated. It ehancecd to be Froben's turn to redeem his favour, and Josephine, who fixed the forfeits, decided that liec should tell some atrue passage in his life. The choice was loudly applauded. most of all by Faldner, and when lie saw Floben hesitate, he cried, "Come, be(gin! or I wiU for you, and tell yotr piquant adventure with the beggar-girl of the'orit-des. |Arts." His wife came forward to meet him, but he passed hastily by her. " Is it not enough to drive a man mad, Froben?" were his first words. "I have spent a fortune in getting a steam-engine from England, and it won't work at allI Somnething has been left out or lost. I brought down an engineer fromn Mentz, to put it up. I showed himn the drawings. There is the whole story, all lettered and numbered, and yet the bungler cannot put it up!" Faldner ate little, but drank freely; and his displeasure gradually gave way to boisterous mirth. At the close of the limeal, Josephine gathered courage and addressed him. I had a singular conversation with our guest this mornng, which has led to the discovery of a kin sman of min e." Froben repeated the story, not witit,, —at some anxiety as to the effect it would produce; but, contrary to his expecetations, the Baron seemed delighted. " "l'is as clear as day!" he cried; " I'ortheim and Tortosi-all the same thing. And you say the old chap is rich, my dear fellow? Rich, and a bachelor. and always talking about his I,aura! Zounds! Josephine, there's a chance for lots of piastres!" Josephine was not-much pleased, perhaps, at his coarse way of expressing himself; but she answered calmly, This "i,ill account for the snatches of Spanish songs that always floated in my mind, and also for my having been brought ut) a Catholic." With these words she retired. " Write to the old man, will you, Froben? and tell him you have found his Laiira's daughter. I always told Countess Landstrom that, even though my wife had nothing, I was sure she would bring luck to the house. How much do you suppose the Don will cut up?" Frobeni chanced colour. "How should I know? Do you suppose I asked him? But what were you saying about Countess Laridstrom?" "Oh, it was there I met my wife. You know I'm a practical miian. I'nig,ht have married the richest girl in the counitry; l-,it I said to n-self, All is not gold that gi'..ers. IdmSOD"'.' t-a a of companion to the THE LIBIZARY. 31 3 TITMIRO LIBRARY have chosen a poor stand: there will be few people comn. inig by here to-night.' She did not answer aloud, but whispered after a while,' May those few have pity on the unfortunate!' This an swer surpris ed me, it was so natural, yet so apt. eI-Icr gracefu l atti tude a nd the tone of he r vo ice indicated a person of education.' We ar fellow-counitrymeni,' I said;' let me ask if I cannot du something more for vou than this mere passing assist ance.'' WVc arc very poor,' she answered and this time more boldly,' and lily mother is sick and has no one to help her.' Without reflection, and led only by the vague feeling that attracted mc to her, I said,' Show me wherf she is.' She was silent and sceneed embarrassed.' Yol must consider this as-miy honest wish to aid you, if I can, I said.'Come, then, sir,' she rejoined, picked up hea lantern, blew it out, and hid it and the plate under hc cloak." froben blushed and looked displeased; but the company, who suspected that sonme good jest was at the l'ottomn of the allusion, cried, " Thle story!-the story of thea P)nt-dee-Arts!" And he made up his minid to tell it, eLicfly to avoid any indiscretion on the part of his host, who was warmed with wine. Falduer promised, if the narrator departed from the truth in any respect, to bring him back to it, as he was himself a witness of the adventure. " I do not know," began Froben, " whether you arc aware that some years ago our friend Faldner and I travelled together, and lived in Paris in the same house. Our studies were the same-we visited the same circles -in a word, we were inseparable. We had a mutual friend, Doctor M, a fellow-countryman, who lived in the Rute Taranne, which, as you know, lies on the left bank of the Seine, and leads into the Rue Dominique. Our regular evening walk was through the Champs Elysaes, across to the Fauxbourg St. Germain, and thence to our friends, where we often sat till very late, chatting about Germany, France, and what not. We lived, I ought to add, in the Place des Victoires, a good way off from the Rie Taranne, and we generally came home by the.Pont-des-Arts, so as to cross the Louvre, and save time. One night-it was after eleven-it had rained a little, and the wind blew chilly and keen, especially along the river. We were going from Quai Malaquois across the Pont-des-Arts. The bridge is only for foot passengers, and of course, at that time of night, every thing was quite still around it. We walked across in silence, wrapping our cloaks around us; and I was just hurrying down the steps on the other side, when I saw an extraordinary sight. A tall, slim female stood leaning against the side of the bridge. A little black hat was tied close before htier face, wfich was still more comp'etcly hidden by a green veil: she wore a black silk cloak, and the wind betrayed a delicate, youthful figure; a little hand holding a plate peeped out of the cloak. In front stood a little lantern, whose flickering light showed a small neat foot. There is no place, perhaps, where the contrast between the greatest splendour and thile lowest depths of misery is as striking as in Paris; but still you meet few beggars. They seldom attack you forwardly, and you never find l them follow you up or persecute you with tlheir demand. A blind old mian sometimes sits or kneels at the corner of the street. nolding out his hand quietly, and leaves it to the passer-by to notice his look of entreaty or not. Thile most affecting of all, as I thought, were the shamefaced ones, who stand motionless, almost breathless, in a corner, with their faces covered, and a taper burning before them. Manry of my acquaintances assured me that they were generally people of the better class, who had beconme so much reduced that they must either go to labour, or if thev were ashamed, or unable to work for their daily bread, chose this last resource before ending their lives and sorrows in the Seine. The female figure at the t)ridge which enchained my attention was of this class. I eyed her nmore closely; her limbs seemed to tremble with the cold even more than the flickering light in her lantern; but she was silent, and let her sorrow and the cold night-wind speak for her. I felt in my pockets, but I had no small change, and not even a single franc. I turned to Faldner and asked him to lend me some; but he was out of temper, as it seemed, at my keeping him waiting in the cold; and he called to me in German,' Leave thei beggar alone, and come home to bed-I'mn almost frozen.' ' Give me a couple of sous, my dear fellow,' I said; but he pulled me by the cloak and tried to drag me away. The veiled figure before me spoke in a trembling but sweet-toned voice, and, to our surprise, in good German, '0, gentlemen, have pity on me!' The tone and the language made such an impression on me, that I again rWked him for some money: he laughed-' Very well; there is a coup le of francs,' said ho *'try your lack with the girl if you choose, but let me go to sleep.' He gave me the money and stalked away. I was really con fused, for shze must have heard what Faldncer said' and the unhappy are the last that I sh-ould wsish to insulit. I dlrew nearer to her, irresolutely.' 5Iy girl,' I said,'yosu "What," c r ied the Baron, bur s t ing into a l augh, as Froben seemed to pause, " do you mean to stop here? Do you want to deceive me now, as you tried to then? Thus far, ladies and gentlemen, he'has spoken the exact historical truth. He supposed, probably, that I was far away; but I was standing sonic two paces off from this moving, good Samaritan dialogue, under the portal of the Louvre, and witnessed the whole affair. Wh7lether the conversation is truly reported or not, I cannot say, for the confounded wind made me lose it; but I saw the damsel blow out her lantern, and go back wit h him over the bridge. The night was so c old that I d id not follow up his adventure; but, after all, I will bet that he did not find mamma sick, or any thing of the kind; but the fair dame was only singing the old siren —song to a nlew tune." He laughed loudly at his own wit, and the men joined him; the ladies looked down, and Josephine seemed displeased both at her husband's remarks and her guest's strange story; for her fingers trembled so tiat she could hardly hold her plate; and she eyed the narrator with a look which he felt himself bound to interpret in a way little honourable to himself: " I cannot allow my friend here," he continued in a loud voice that silenced the company, " to put such an interpretation on my conduct: allow me, therefore, to proceed, and by my life," -and as he spoke his colour grew deeper and his eyes brightened, "I will tell you nothing but the truth." " The girl crossed the bridge I had just passed over. I had time enough to look at her, as I walked silently by her side, or rather behind her. Her figure, so far as I could see for her cloak, and more particularly her voice, were quite youthful. Her gait was quick, but easy. I offered her my arm, but she would not take it. At the corner of the bridge she turned into the Rue 31'azarini. ' Has your mother been sick long?' I asked her, stepping up alongside, and trving, to get a peep at her face.' For two years,' she answered, with a deep sigh;' but for a week past she has been much worse.'' Have you been there often before now?'' W'here?' she asked.' On the bridge.'' This is the first time,' was her answer.' ~Yos did not choose a good place, then; the other avenues are more frequented.' I was sorr-y, even while saying so; for I felt that it must hurt her deeply, and she whispered and sobbed in reply,' I am a stranger here, and-I was ashamed to go into the crowd.' How great must be the misery, I said to myself, that can force such a creature to ask alms! It is true, some such thoughts as Fuldncr had expressed, occurred to me now and then; blat I set myself against them-they were too unnatural. If she really belonged to that wretched class of women, why should she hide her features, and stand in such a lonely place? Why should she take such care to conc eal a figure which, so far as I could judge frord a few hasty glimpses, was a fine one? No-it could be nothing but real wretchedness, and that shltme of unmerited poverty I which makes it so touching.' Has your mother a phy sician?' I asked, after a while.' She had; but when we got to be too poor to buy medicines, he wanted to send her to the H:Vita, l (des lIncura-(bles, and I could not bear 1tha(t. Oh, heavenis! my delar mother in a hospital!' She wept,It this, a(ld raised her han(lkeleief to her eyes: as the llte and l-;nterll whiichl s,le htld in the other landZ II I I TIIE MIIIIZOR LIBP.ARY. 32 THE Millt,ol., LIBRAi-i. though the capital of the civilized world, with all its at tr-actioius, had nothing worth noticing except the Pont-des. Arts. At last the Friday came. I used every stratagem to get rid of Faldner and the rest of my friends, and set out as soon as it was dark. It was an hour's walk, and I had time enough for reflection; and I determinied to see her face at any rate, and to make up my mind what to think of her. I had started off so early, that it was only ten when I reached the Ecole de Mddecine-a full hour before my time. I stepped into a cafe, and tumbled over a file of newspapers: at last it struck eleven. "There were few people about, and no10 green veil to be seen anywhere. Suppose she should not come, thought I, as I walked up and down for the tenth time. The half hour struck, and I began to grumble at my own folly, when I saw something green, under a lamp some thirty paces off I hurried up-and it was she.' Good even ing,' said I,' I am glad you are come-I was afraid you would not keep your appointment.' She bowed low, with out taking my hand, and walked by my side. She seemed deeply moved.'Sir, my noble-hearted countrymen,' said she,' I could not but keep my word, if only to thank you. Be assured it is not in order to make fresh demands on your benevolence. Oh, how richly, how generously you have treated us! Can a dauglhter's heartfelt thanks, can Iwmy sick mother's prayers and blessings be any return for it?'' Don't say a word about it,' answered I;' how is your mother?'' I believe I may begin to hope again the physician does not speak, decidedly, but she feels stron(,cr. Oh, how muchl I thank you! Yourliberal pret sent enabled mec to buy her strengthenlino food; and, bt I livc nic, sir, the tli(ought that such good men are still to b e foundl in the world hals done her almost as much ser vice.''What did your mother say to you when you came home?' I inqiiredl.' She was very anxious, as it was so late; she had )een very nrnwilling to let me go out, and was afraid of soiie mnischief lhappening. I told her every , tthing; but when I untied my handkerchief and drew out the presents you gave me, and there was gold among th em-gold among the copper and silver-she was aston. ished, an(ld-' She sto,)I)ed and seemed unable to go on. I could guess that her mother had suspected something wrong, and I put soirie more questions; but she answered, with touching frankiess,' that her mother said their gen erous countryman miust be either a prince or an angel.' ' I am neither the one nor the other,' I replied;' liut how much have you left?-any thing?''Oh, yes,' said she, confidently; but it did not escape me that she sighed un consciously at the samie time.' How much is there left?' I asked, (and more peremptorily.'Oh, we paid our bill at the apothecary's, and a mnonth's rent, and I bought something for mother to eat, and there is something left yet!' How wretchedly they must live, thought 1, when out of this trifle they can pay for medicines and a month's rent, and buy food for a week!' I want you to tell me exactly how much there is left,' I continued.' Sir!' was her reply, as she drew back a step.'My good girl, you do not, or you will not understand me. I ask you seriously what you expect to (do when this little sum is gone? have you any prospect of assistance?''No, none!' was the sad answer.' Th'Iink of your mother, and do not reject my aid,' I added. I offered her may hand, and she pressed it to her heart grate-fully' Come with me, then,' said I; ' I do not come straight from home, and am unluckily without money; he good enough to go a little way with in me, and I will give you something for your mother.' She wvent with me in silence; aud though I was pleased with the thought of having her with me, I felt almost;,urt that sh ce should go with me so readily, by night, to a gentle. man's lodgings-but it was not so. After walkin.: a few hundred paces, she drew her arm out of mine.'No, no, I must not, I cannot,' she cried, bursting into nears. o'Why not?-what is the matter?' asked I.'I will riot go further-I cannot go with you.'' Upon my word,' I cried, with some anger,'you really have very little confidence in roe; if it was not for your mother I would quit you at once, for you insult me.' She took my hand and pressed it fervently.' HIave I offended you? God knows I did not mean it. Pardon a poor ignorant girl. You ekrest so twroys, how could I think of offending you?' ,' Come ]on1 A thre.,' I -r.nine-d,' wc have no time to lose prevented her from keeping her cloak close folded, the wind blew it aside, and I saw that I was not mistaken; her figure was tall and graceful, her dress plain; but, as far as I could notice, perfectly neat. She caught at her cloak, and, in assisting her, I felt the touch of a soft, white hand. " By this time we had w,-alked through tile Rue Ilagasin, St. Germsint, Ecole de 516dec-ine, and a few little alieys, w hen all at once she stopped short, and said sl)he had lost her way. She said she lived in Rtue St. Severin. I was puzzled, for I did not knots where to find it niyself. I saw a light in a, brandy-shop in a cellar, and went down to ask the way, leaving her alone. When I came up, I heard voices speaking loud, and saw, by the dim light of a street lamp, that the girl was struggling with two gentlemxen, one of whom had seize d her hand, while the other h ad hold of her cl o f ak; tiiey were laughing and talking t o her. I suspected what was going on, and pulled the cloak out of his grasp. She clunyu to my arm, sobbin g and speechless.' Gentlemen,' I said,' you see you are mistaker,. I,et go the lady's cloak this moment!'' Ah! excuse me, sir,' said the stranger,' I sec you have a prior right to the lady,' and they went off lauhling. WVe walked on, and tie poor girl clunlg, to my arm as though she was afraid of falling down in the street.' Courage, courage!' I said,'St. Severin is only a little way off, and you'll soon be at home.' When we reached the street, she stopped short.' No, sir, you must not go any farther with me," said she.' Why not, pray, since you have brought me so far with you already? I beg of you not to suspect me of an improper motive.' I had unconsciously taken her hand, and perhaps pressed it; she withdrew it hastily, and added,' Forgive me my rudeness in bringing you so far out of your way. I beg of you, leave me now!' I understood that the advances of the strangers had ,.o,4nded her deeply, and perhaps even made her suspicious of mle, and this had a great effect upon me. I took out the silver I had got from Faldner, and wag going to hand it to her, but the thought of the trifling aid this small sum would afford, made me withdraw my hand, and I gave her what little gold I had about me. Her hand trembled as she took it: she seemed to suppose it was silver, thanked me in an unsteady but swect voice, and was going away. I Stop,' said I,' I hope your mother will be better; but she may perhaps be in want of something, and, my girl, you are not the right person for such night excursions as this. 5Vill you not be in front of the Ecole de lMldecitie this day week at the same hour, so that I can hear how your mother is I' She seemed to hesitate, but at last said' Yes.'' And put on that hat with the green veil, so that I may know you again.' She promised to do so, thanked me again, ran hastilv up the street, and was lost in the darkness." " W h en I awoke the next morning, my adventure seemed like a dream. But Faldner, who came soon, and began to rally me with his usual delicacy, removed all doubts. The thing seemed to me, when considered in the clear light of tile morning, altogether too fabulous to be told to my skeptical friend. We have reached, now-adays, a pitch of delicacy which borders closely on indelicacy; we had often rather seem wild and debauched, than singular or unused to the ways of the world. I was distur!)ed by sonec undefinable feeling, even more than by Faldner's jokes. I reproached myself for not having got it sight of her face, at any rate.'Why this excessive delicacy?' I said to myself;' really, for a couple of Napoleons, it would not have been too much just to ask her to raise her veil for a moment.' And yet when I reflected on her whole deportment, which, simple as it was, was wholly free from vulgarity, I was forced, half unwillingly, tD own that I did right. The voice alone is a sufficient distinction between good-breeding and rudeness; and the sweet tones I had listened to must belong to a person of some education and refinement. I could not get rid of these thoughts all day long; and at night, when I visited a brilliant circle of ladies, I was accompanied in my mind byv the poolr gir in her black hat, green veil, and iimipenets:tajlc el:)ak. TIhlie res-t of the week I kept blaming myw:.ti': t-l,s folly, and yet in.dlulging in it. It seemed as ---- -------- --- I i .44 34 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. that lowest degree of misery, when no resource remains but to quit the world at once. I asked her if she could not have assisted her mother in some other way. "'You mean by going out to service?' inquired she, without the least embarrassment;' certainly; but I could not do it. Before my mother fell sick, I was too young, hardly fourteen, and when she got so bad that she could not leave her bed, I had to remain with her. If she had continued well, I would gladly have forgotten oar former situation, and wouldt have gone to a milliner's, or got a situation as governess, bfor I have been well educated, sir but it could not be.' "I again begged her to raise her veil, but in vain. TlJ( allusion she made to her age rendered me, I will confess, still more anxious to see her face. She could not be much over sixteen; but she be.gged me so earnestly t.r, excuse her; she said her mother lih(l given her such good reasons for avoiding it that it could not be. After this, we used to meet twice a wceek. I had always some work for her, and she was always ready with it at the appointed time. The more closely I adhleredl to the deportmenit I had always showed towards her, the more distant and respectful I was, the more frank and confiding did she become. She even confessed to me that, when at home, she was always thinking of our next meeting; and did not I do the same? Day and night I thought only of this singular creature, whose refined taste, amiable soft. ness, and peculiar situation made her every day more interesting to me. Meantime, spring had arrived, and with it the time at which I had promised Falduer to join him in a trip to England. Many may think what I say silly, but it is the fact, that I thought of our journey with reluctance. Paris had nothing to interest me longer, but the beggar-girl had so captivated my senses that I looked forward with sorrow to our separation. I ceu,ld not avoid going without mnaking myself a laughing-stock-for no other sufficient reason for putting off our excursion could be devised. I was ashamed of myself, too, and reproached myself with my own folly. I determined to go, but certainly no one ever took so little pleasure in seeing Eng land as I did." it is late, and we are a good way off.' But she stopped Lhort and said,'No, nothing shall tempt me to go further.'' What are you afraid of? There is no one herey ou may go with me in safety.' But she only repeated, ' I beg you, fo r God's sake, to leave me!' I knew very cwell that if I painted oher moter's need in lively colours, she would go with me, but I was moved at her suffering. ' Well, then, stay,' I told her;' but stop, do you understand needle-work?' "' Oh, yes, sir,' she said, drying her tears. "' I cre is a white handkerchief-can you hem and niark a half dozen such for me?' " She looked at it, and answered,' With pleasure, sir, and do it neatly, too.' " To my mortification, I had to produce money, though I had pretended to have none about me. "Here, buy six of them; can you have three ready by next Sunday?' She promised to do it, and I gave her something more for her mother. She thanked me warmly, and seemed to be pleased that I had given her work, for she kept chattering on about how neatly she would do the handkerchiefs, and once she asked me if I would have a border a I'Anglaise. I said yes to every thing, but held her fast as she was leaving me.' There is something else you must do to oblige me; you can do it, and that easily,' I remarked. "' And pray what is it? I will gladly do any thing for you,' was her answer. ".' I,et me, then, lift that envious veil and see your face, that I may have some recollection of this night.' " She slipped aside, and only held her veil tighter.' Do nod, I beg of you,' she said, seeming to struggle with herself at the time;'you have the sweet remembrance of your bounty; my mother strictly forbade me to lift my veil, and, besides, I assure you I am as ugly as darkness itself. I would only fiighten you!' " Her resistance only roused my curiosity still more; a really ugly woman, I thought, would never say so of herself. I tried to catch her veil, but she slipped away like an eel, crying,' Dimanche (' revoir,' and was gone. She stopped soeni fifty yards off, waved my white handkerchief, and said,' Good-night,' in her silvery voice." " I told her of my intention a week beforehand; she trembled and wept. I told her to ask her mother for per mission to visit her, and she gave it. The next time, however, shec told Ome, with great concern, that her mother begged rme to give up the idea, as a visit, in her present frame of mind, would overcome her I thought of it only as a means of seeing my ftir one by daylight, and un veiled, so I iequested this favour again. She wished me to come again before going away, and prornised to ob. tain her mother's permission. I shall never forget that evening.,lhe came, and my first question was whether ishe had agreed to it; she said yes, and raised her veil herself. The moon shone l)right, and I looked under her hat with trembling cagerness. It seemed, however, that the permission to unveil was only a partial one, fi)r she wore what is called a Venetian mask, which hides the upper part of the face. But how beautiful, w% finislied were the fe,ttures that I saw! A small, i:te nose, blooming(r cheeks, a lovely mouth, a perfect chim, and a graceful, dazzling white e.cck. As to her eyes, I could not satisfy myself, but I fancied they were dark and fiery. She blushed as I gazed long and transportedly at her. ' Do not be angry with me, sir,' said she,'for wearing this half-mask; my mother would not allowit at all at first, and, after all, it was only on this condition. I felt pro. voked at it mnyself; but she gave me good reasons for it, and I saw the force of them.' "' Ard pray what Mwore her reasons?' I asked. "' Oh, sir,' cried she, mournfully,' you will live for ever in our hearts, but you must forget us, nevertheless; you must never, never see me again, or if you do, must not recognise me!' "' Do you suppose, then, that I shall not recollect these fine features, even if I should not see your eyes or forehead?' "' My mother thinks you will not,' was her answer; ' she says it is v(ery hard to remember a face that we have only seen half of.' " The neext w eek I busi ed myself i n thinking what the girl's rank in life could be. T he mor e I d'welt on her choice language and delicate feelings, the higher I was inclined to place hier. I determined to ascertair that point at any rate, and not to be put off again so easily as in the matter of the veil. The Sunday came, and you may remember that afternoon, Faldner, which wc spent at Montmorenci. You wanted to stay late, and I urged you to go home carty, a nd f inall y wen t off without you. You did not be lieve the excuse I gave, that I could not bear the night air; but you did not dream of a rendezvous with the beggar-girl of the Pont-des-Arts-and how could you? She was the first on the ground this timne, and as she had the handkerchiefs to give me, slhc was beginning to fear I had missed her. She kept talking on with almost childlike delight, and, as I fancied, with m ore confidence than before, while showing me her work by the light of a street lamp. She seemed delighted to hear me praise her noodle-work. "' See,' said slhe,' I have worked in your name, too,' pointing to FE. V. F'. beautifully embroidered in the corner. She wanted to give me back a handful of silver, and no. thing but my declaring that I should feel insulted by her doing so, induced her to take it again. I ordered something else, as I saw that this way of giving charity was most agreeable to her feelings. Her mother was not worse, though still confined to her bed. When we had disposed of this subject, I asked her directly what was her family and condition. Her story, which was told in a few words, is so common a one in France that I suppose it is the burden of every beggar's petition. Her father was an officer in the grande armeo, who had been put upon halfpay after the restoration, had joined the emperor in the hundred days, and fallen with the guard at Waterloo. Ilis widow lost his pension, and lived afterwards poorly and wretchedly. For two years they had subsisted on the remains of their little property, and had just reached I l i I I THE MIRROR I,IBRARY. 34 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. his hands; "for, if so, your exaggerated deli(sacy and the. oretical weakness made you throw away a couple of hun dred francs on a cunning street-walker, who took you in with an every-day story about poverty and a sick mother, and you got nothing for it but one poor kiss! Poor devil, to be inade such a fool of in Paris!" 'hThis insinuation, and tihe loud laughter with whien it was greeted, provoked our hero still further. He was about to leave the company in a towering passion, when he was arrested by an unexpected sight. Josephine rose up slowly, pale as a corpse, and seemed about to make some reply to her husband, but sank down lifeless. Everybody swpIrg iup and ran about in confusion; the l adi es assisted he", the gentl e men a sked each other how it had happened so suddenly. Froben came near fainting himself, in ala,rmi, and the Baron muttered curses upon the. weak nerves of womnen, and their fastidious delicacy, th at makes them- faint so e asi ly-all was confusion. Josephine came to herself in a few minutes; she wished to ret ire to her room, and all the ladies crowderd after her, all busy, an d all curious; a hund red remedies wbee p ro posed, a ll of wvlich had been found specifics in cases of fainting,mnd finally it was unanimously resolved that the Baroness' great exertions to catfit;tin her buests, and the cares of her household, had produced the unpleasant accident, a id ed, perhaps, by the embarrassmen ts s he must have felt at the very improper language her h usband had allowed hliiilscl' to use. The Baron was busy, in the mean time, in bringing back the company to order. He pledged his guests, and en deavourcd to quiet their apprehensions by all the argu mentts he could devise. " It's nothing but a new-fangled notion," said he; "every lady of rank has weak nerves, and if she has not, she fears she will be taken for ill-bred; this fainting away is the fashion. Another notion is, that we must never call any thing by its right name; every thing must be so delicate, devout, lady-like, and propriety fied, that its enough to drive a man mad. She is angry now, because I indulged in an innocent jest-because I did not melt away in sympathy at this most tender and affecting story, but, instead, ventured to throw out a few practical suggestions! Why, there's no harm in such things among ourselves! And as for you, friend Froben, I thought you were too sensible a man to take offence so easily." The person he addressed had disappeared, and repaired to his chamber, out of humour with himself and with the world. He was at a loss how to account for what hap. penc.-d, and his mind, half indignant at his friend's coarse ness, half alarmed at Josephine's accident, was too much moved to admit of calm reflection. " Will not she believe me?" lie thought to himself, " will she give more weight to her husband's sneers than to the plain, unadorned truth with which I told my story? What meant the strange glances she cast upon me while I was speaking? How could this adventure affect her so deeply as to make her turn pale and tremble? Does she really respect me, and was she offendcd at his rudeness, which must have lowered me so mnuch in her eyes? And what did she mean to say, when she rose, to check Faldner's vulgarity? or to defend me even?" He paced up and down his room as he thought thus, and his eyes fell upon the engraving of his beloved picture. He unrolled it, and eyed it with a bitter smnile. "And how could I let a feeling of shame induce me to open my heart to beings who understand nothing about matters of which the fashionable world is ignorant: vice andl meanness seem to thema more proper, more natural, than unusual virtue. How could I forget myself so far as to speak of those lips and cheeks to stocks and stones! Poor, poor girl! how far nobler art ttlmu, ire thy low estate, than these butterflies, who know real sutf~ering and honest poverty only from report, and who treat as a:hb~le every virtue that rises above their own level! Where art thou now? and dost thou think of thy friend, and those evenings that mnade him so happy!" These thoughts changed the current of his feeelings, and grief took the place of anger. "' And why must I not see you-not recogrnise you?' "She wept again, and clasped my hand as she replied, 'It must not be! You will not care aboutevcr meetingd the poor beggar-girl again, and-no, my mother was right, it is better thus!' I told her that my journey would be a short one,:salt I should probably be back in Paris in two months, and that I hoped to meet her again. She only wept more bitterly, and shook her head. I asked whyshe doubted it. "' I feel that thils is the last time I shall ever see you,' sic told Inc.' I do not think my mother will live lo:ii our physician told me so yesterday-and then all is ove r! And e-vecn if she should live, when you go to London you'll soon tor,c(t such a poor, wretched creature as I am.' fIer grief affected me deeply. I tried to console her; I prom ised solemnlv that I never would forget her. I made her promise to be in the same place on the first and fifteenth of every monoth to meet me. She promised it, snilin ta throughf her tears, as if she felt little hope of it.' Farewell, then, till we meet again!' I said, as I elapsed hter in my arms, and put a small plain ring on her finger;' farewell!-think of me sometimes, and do not forget the first and fifteenth.' "' Ifow could I forget it!' she answered, looking up to me tearfully.'But I shall never see you again; you are bidding me adieu for ever.' " I could not refrain from kissing her soft lips. She blushed, but did lot resist. I slipped a b)ank-note into her hand-she eyed me anxiously, and clung closer to me.' Farewell, till we meet again!' I said, as she gently freed herself from my embrace. The moment of parting seemed to give her courage; she threw her arms around m me, and I felt a warm kiss on her lips as she said, passioinately,' For ever-farewell for ever!' and disappeared. " I have never seen her since. After a stay of three months, I returned to Paris; on the fifteenth, I repaired to the Place (le l'Ecole de Medecine, and waited there over ani hour; but my fair one did not appear. I went there again and again, on the first and fifteenth of every nmonth many it time, too, I strode through the Rue St. Severin, and looked up to the windows, and inquired for a poor German lady with one daughter; but I never heard of them again, and the sweet girl was right when she bade me farewell,' for ever." Our hero told his tale witlh a degree of earnestness that added to its effect, and it plainly produced a deep im- w pression, at least on the feminine portion of the company. Josephine wept, and manly of the ladies wiped their eyes by stealth. The gentlemen had grown serious, and seem.ed to listen witlh much interest; only the Baron smnliled meaningly, and touched his neighbour's elbow every now and then, and whispered something in his ear. When Froben paused, he broke into a loud laugh. "That's what I call g-etting cleverly out of the scrape!" he cried. "I always said our friend was a deep one. Only see how the ladies are moved-the dog! and my wife there is whiiiing, as though the priest had refused her absolution. Capital, upon my word! Truth and fiction! Yes, yes, you have been copying GOthe-truth and fiction! It's a capital joke!" Froben felt hurt, and answered, in some displeasure, "I told you at first that I intended to avoid fiction, and tell nothing but the truth, and I hope you will not refuse to believe it such." " Heaven forbid!" replied the Baron, laughingly. " The truth is, you made your own arrangement with the girl, and now you have built up a little romance out of your visits to her. But you told the story well-that I won't deny." The young man's colour changed; he noticed that Josephine's eves were fixed anxiously upon her husband; he thought he saw that she was of Faldner's opinion, and he was unwilling to be deprived of her esteem by this vulgar wit. "I beg you to say no more about it," he went on; "I have never yet had any reason to put a false colouring on any action of mine, and I cannot allow others to do it for me. I tell you, for the last time, on my word, every thing happened just as I have told it." 1"Then, heavels pity you!" answered Faldner, clapping, The next morning Froben t urned over in his mind tle events of the day before, and was debating witlh himsei I I I I 35 I ----. ~ ~ fl I~O LIB...... whether or not he should leave the house, when his door opened, and the Baron entered, crest-fallen and ashamed. "You did not come to table last night, nor this morning," he began; "you are angry; but be reasonable, and pardon me; I had drunk too much wine, and you know my weakness when I am heated; I cannot forbear joking. I have been punished enough already in having my fe6te end so, and making me the talk of the neighbourhood for' a month to come. Don't make me more miserable; let us be friendly as before." "L,et the affair rest," said Froben, gloomily, as he offerel him his hand, "I do not like to discuss such subjects; but to-morrow I must leave you; I cannot stay here longer." " Don't be such a fool," said Faldner, who had not expected this, "to be off for such a trifle; but I always said you were a hot-headed fellow. No, you can't go; you know you must wait at anly rate till we get an answer from the Don. As for our friends you need not be uneasy, for they all gave me a famous scolding, especially the women, and said you were right, and I was to blame for all." " How is the Baroness?" asked Froben, to change the subject. "Oh, perfectly well; she was only a little frightened for fear of some difficulty between us; she is waiting breakfast for you; come down and be reasonalble. I must be off to the mill. It's all forgotten, is it not?" " Certainly, only let us drop the subject," was his answer, and he followed the Baron, who, full of pleasure at their speedy reconciliation, informed his lady of what had passed, and hastened to the mill. To Froben it seemed that every thing was changed; perhaps the change was in himself only. Josephine's features, her whole deportment, seemed different. A settled melancholy, a tender sorrow seemed to have settled upon her features, yet her smile, as she welcomed him, was sweet and kind. She ascribed her illness of the day before to over-exertion, and seemed to wish to avoid the subject. But Froben, who set so high a value on her good opinion, could not con sent to her refraining from all allusion to his story, and h e to l d her, " I cannot suher you to elude me so, Bar oness! I think little of the opinions of others. What do I care if they choose to measure me by their own stand ard! But really I should be deeply grieved if you should come to a false conclusion, or even entertain for a moment opinions which must lower me greatly in your esteem. I beg of you, tell me.honestly what you think of me and of my story?" She eyed him for some time; her fine eyes filled with tears, as she took his hand and replied-" What I think of it, Froben? If the whole world should doubt it, I at least know that you have spoken the truth. You are not aware how well I know you!" His colour rose with pleasure as he kissed her hand. "How good it is in you not to misunderstand me," was his answer. "And jdeed every word I said was the exact truth." "And this girl," she continued, "is it she of whom you were speaking lately? Don't you remember when we were.talking of Jean Paul's Clotilda, and you owned to me that you were in love, and without hope? Is it she?" " It is," he answered gloomily. " No, you must not laugh at this folly; you can' feel too deeply to think it ridiculous. I know how much may be said against this fancy. -I have often blamed myself as a fool, a dreamer chasing a shadow. I do not even know whether she loves me in return." " She does!" cried Josephine, involuntarily;* but blush ing at what she said, she added, " she must love you: be lieve me, such noble conduct must have made a deep im pression on the heart of a girl of sixteen; and in all her lnguage, as you have told it, there lurks, unless I am greatly mistaken, a very considerable degree of love." Our hero listened to her words with delight. " How often I have said so to myself, when I was without hope, and looked back sadly to the past!" he rejoined. "*But to what purpose? Only to make myself more unhappy. I have often struggled with mlyself, have often sougKit to distract myself in the crowd, to occupy mny -mind with a1 press of business. That fair unhappy figure alwaysI hovere d before my eyes, a nd to se e h er once more was al l I craved. I desire it still; I may confess it to you, for you can understand an d respect my fee lings; a nd I set out on a journ e y only because my longing desir e t o searche for her and to look upon her drove me from home. And when I reflect u pon it, i t so me times seems to m e as if she might yet be mine! You turn away your head. Oh, I understand; you think I ought not to marry any one who was sunk so low in poverty, of such doubtful descent; you are thinking of the opinions of the world, and I have often thoughlt over it myself, but, so true as I live, if I were to find her again such as I left her, I would take counsel only of my heart. Would you censure me severe. ly for doing so?" She did not answer; her head was turned aside, and rested on her hand. Without moving, she handed him; book, and asked him to read for her t —Ie t. k it, looking at her inquiringly; for the first timc he could;X.t understand her behaviour; but she made a sigrn to him to3 read, and hle obeyed, though he would rather have pou:ad out the fulniess of his heart still further. He read at first without attention, but after awhile the subject attracted him, and drew his thoughts more and more away from their conversation, and finally so engrossed him that lie did not observe that the B3aroiness turned upoin him a lock of sadness, tilt hier glances were fixed teniderl'y upon him, and that her eyes often filled with tears, w.h!icll it was not easy to repress. By thre time he had done, Joseplline had recovered herself so far that she could talk composedly about the author; but he still fanieled that her voice trembled at times, and the kind'familiarity with which she had always treated her husband's friend had disappeared, and lie would have felt unhappy, except that the warm feelings expressed in her eyes made him doubt the accuracy of his observation. As the Baron was not expected till evening, and his lady had retired to her apartments, Frobeni resolved to sleep away the sultry noon-day heat till dinner-tine. He threw himself down on a mossy bank in the arbour which the many pleasing hours he had spent there with his amiable hostess had endeared to him, and was soon asleep. He had left his ca"es ibehirid, they did not pursue him into the land of dreams; pleasant recollections only came, and mingled and shaped themselves into new and bright images; the young girl of the Rue St. Severin hovered before himn with her sweet voice, and began to ittalk of her mother; lie scolded her for staying away so long, as hlie had never failed to look for her on the first and fifteenth of every month; he tried to steal a kiss to punish her, she resisted; lie raised her veil, and saw Don Pedro, dressed in his love's clothes, and Diego his servant ready to burst with laughing at the trick. I'Thlen fancy, at oine bold leap, placed himn in the picture-gallery in Stuttgart. hvThe paintings had been differently arranged, hlie looked through all the roonms for his favourite portrait, but in vain, it was not to be found; hlie began to weep and to com. plain loudly, when the attendant came up, and asked him to be quiet and not wake the pictures, as they were all asleep just then. All at once he saw it hanging in a corner, not as before a half-length, but large as life; it looked mischievously at him, then stepped out of the frame and embraced her bewildered adorer; he felt a long, warm kiss on his lips. It sometimes happens when we are dreaming, that we think we awake. and say to ourselves it was all a dream, and so it was with him. He thought that the kiss wakened him, and that he opened his eyes, anrid lo! a blooming face, that seemed a wellknown one, bent over him. He closed his eyes again, faint with the delicious feeling of the warmn breath, the sweet kisses that he drank in; lie heard a noise, he open ed his eyes again, and he saw a figure in a black hat and cloak, with a green veil, flit away. As she turned a corner she looked round at him again; it was the features of his beloved, and she wore the same envious mask. "Ah! it's only a dream!" he said, laughing at himself, and tried to shut his eyes again, but the consciousness oi being awake, the rustling of tile leaves in the wind, and tile plasling of the fountains were so plain that he was soon filly aroused.'I'he strarigc and well-defined shape i-viiitttOR LIBRAP%,Y., -i FHE MIRROR LIBRARY. of his dream stood lifelike before his mind, he looked towards the corner, round which she vanished, towards the spot where she stood and bent over him, and he thought he yet felt her kisses ol: his lips. mu Has it come to this. then," he thought, not without alarm, "that I dream by day, and think I see her before me! To what madness will this lead? No, I never should have believed that any one could dream so vividly. It is a sickness of the brain, a fever of the fancy, and I am almost disposed to believe that dreams can leave foot-prints behind them, for those in the sand here are not the marks of my foot." His glance fell on the bench where he had lain, and he saw a folded paper; he took it up in great surprise. There was no direction, it was folded like a billet-doux he debated a moment whether to open it or not, but cu riosity prevailed, he opened it, and-a ring fell out. He held it in his hand while he ran over the letter hastily. "Often am I near thee, my noble benefactor, often am I near thee, filled with that inexpressible love which gratitude inspires, and which will end only with life. I know thy noble heart beats for me alone: thou hast wandered through distant countries to meet me, but in vain-forget an unhappy creature-for what avails it? There is happiness in the thoughit of being thine, and thine only, but it cannot be! For ever! was the word I said even then; I love, indeed, but fate condemns us to live asunder; only in your memory is she allowed to live as The Beggar-Girl of the Pont-des-Arts." Our hero a second time fancied he was dreaming; he looked round inquiringly, but the well-known objects around him-the arbour, the trees, the distant castle, were all in their places, and he saw that he was really awake. And the letter was there-a real epistle, and no creation of fancy. "Perhaps some one is playing me a tric k," be thought; "it must be so, it is Josephine's work, aind the figure I saw was only a masquerade." He felt the ring lying in his hand, and turned pale as he examined it. No, /ere was no trick, it was the self-same ring he gave his beloved when he bade her farewell for ever. Though at first tempted to indulge in superstitious feelirags, the idea that finally gained the mastery was, that this token of his mistress indicated that she must be near at hand. The idea was rapture; he would not allow himself to doubt; he would see her, and that soon. He pressed the ring to his lips and rushed out of the arbour. His glances wandered in every direction in hopes of seeing her. But he looked in vain. He asked the workmen in the garden, the servants in the castle, whether they had seen any strange lady. They had seen no one. He sat down to table in perfect bewilderment. It was in vaini that Faldner sought to learn the cause of his embarrassmiient; that the Baroness asked whether it was the scene of yesterday that disturbed him; his only answer was, "that something had happened which he should certainly call a miracle, if his reason did not overcome his superstitious feelings.'? white handkerchief lying near him, which he did not remember to have placed there; he looked at it, and was sure it was his, for it was marked with his initials. " How did this get here?" he asked himself, in amazement, as he saw that it was one of the handkerchiefs which his beloved had hemmed for him, and which he always kh pt as sacredly as if they had been holy reliques. " Is this another token?" thought he, as he opened it in the hl pe of finding another billet-doux. He was disappointed, Lut he noticed something embroi der e d in one of the corners) and on examining it he read t he word s, "'For ever "' "OShe has been he re then!" he exclaimed, "and I h ave slept through it all like a sluggard! Why this new token? why repeat those s ad words wh ich have ma de me so unhappyrueh alr eady?" He again asked all the s e rva nts i f they ha d seen any stranger in the garden. They all said No and the old gardener added, that no one had been in the gar den for th ree hours bu t her ladyship. " And how was she dressed?" asked Froben, in great surprise. " Oh, sir, that's more than I can tell you," was the answer; " she is always dressed like a lady, but what she wore I can't tell you, by the same token, as she passed, she nodded in her friendly way, and said,'Good-day, Jacob.' Our hero. took him aside. " I entreat you to tell me," he whispered, " did she wear a green veil? had she large black goggles?" The old man looked at him suspiciously and shook his head. " Black goggles! her ladyship wear black goggles! Why, how can you say so? her eyes are as clear and sharp as a chamois', and she to wear black goggles like the old women at church! No, no, sir, you must not let such foolish ideas get into your brain; and excuse me, sir, but the sun is so hot I think you had bet. ter put on a hat for fear of a stroke of the sun." So said the old gardener and walked away, touching his forehead with his forefinger, to hint to the other servants that he was afraid there was something wrong in the young gentleman's upper story. Though at first tempted to indulge in superstitious feel- The only way Froben could account for this mysterious iligs, the idea that finally gained the mastery was, that proceeding was, that it was unaccountable; and this this token of his mistress indicated that she must be near strange way of sporting with his affections and his honat hand. The idea was rapture; he would not allow our occupied him so much, that he did not see many things himself to doubt; he would see her, and that soon. He which otherwise would hardly have escaped his notice pressed the ring to his lips and rushed out of the arbour. Josephine's eyes were red when they met at table. The His glances wandered in every direction in hopes of see- Baron was cross and silent, and seemed to be obliged to ing her. But he looked in vain. He asked the workmen give vent to the ill-humour which clouded his brow and in the garden, the servants in the castle, whether they eye, by an occasional curse at his wife's bad cookery and hadi seen any strange lady. They had seen no one. He worse housekeeping. She made no answer; sometimes sat down to table in perfect bewilderment. It was in she east a glance at Froben, as though imploring his asvai~i that Faldner sought to learn the cause of his embar- sistance or consolation; alas, she did not notice that her rassmiient; that the Baroness asked whether it was the husband watched those looks, and that they made the red scene of yesterday that disturbed him; his only answer spot on his cheek grow deeper. As for Froben, he thought was, "that something had happened which he should it nothlitg unusual, and did not even take the trouble to certainly call a miracle, if his reason did not overcome his ask the Baroness the reason of her husband's ill-humour; superstitious feelings.' I nor did he think it strange that she grew more reserved in Faldner's presence, and when his friend forced him to accompany him on his visits to his farms, and spend the This strange occurrence, and the language of the note, whole day with him in measuring, viewing, and calcula which he read over ten times a day,-made him very ting, he only ascribed it to his restless activity. One thoughtful. He began to consider whether it was possi- day, however, he was a little surprised at his behaviour. ble for heavenly beings to mingle among men. He had Faldner was waiting for him to ride out, booted and spur often laughed at the enthusiasts who believe in appear- red. He feigned slight illness as an excuse, and on his ances and messages from another world, and divine spirits adding, unsuspectingly, "Besides, you know I must stay that wait on man, as firmly as they do in the Gospel. and read to your wife sometimes," the Baron cried out in He had often proved the physical impossibility of such high anger, "No, I will not have any more reading apparitions, but what was he. +o think now? He deter- Every thing is going wrong already without that. I mined td forget it all, and the very next moment wearied don't want to have her head filled with such romantic himself with efforts to render the recollection still more notions as I've seen a samnple of lately. Read to yourself, vivid. The next day it happened again that Josephine my dear fellow, and excuse me if I dispose of my wife was too busy in household affairs to entertain him, and otherwise. Go down into the garden, Josephine, there he repaired to the well-known arbour. He read, and as are some vegetables to be got ready for dinner, and afterhe did so, the thought that perhaps she might appear wards be good enough to go to the clergyman's; you have again, distracted his attention. The mid-day heat was owed them a visit this long time." Saying this, he took exhausting; he tried to keep himself awake; he read with up his whip and walked away. "What does this mean? more zeal and exertion, but his head gradually fell back, what is the matter with him to-day?" Froben asked the book dropped from his hands, and he fell asleep. in astonisliment, seeing that Josephine had hard work to He awoke at about thile same hour as on thile day before, keep from sobbing. "Oh, he is always so," was her anbt no green-veilcd figure was in sight; he laughed at sw(r: "your visit made a little difference at first, but he hirms(.lf tOr having exi(cted hller, and rose up sad and dis- is inoT hilmself again." "But, for heaven's sake!" eied conteacted to return to the castle. All at once lie saw a1 Frobenc, "send one of yoour servants into the garden." " I II I I I i 37 TIIE M1iR.OR LIBRARY. I 1 3 must not," she nnswered decideilly, " must see to it my- came upon him; t almost dazzled him, but he embrace She approached on tiptoe. He saw that a deeper glow I cied, and I felt that it was you. That you did not retinged her cheeks as she drew nearer. She eyed the cognise me is not wonderful; I have grown very pale sleeper fixedly, sighed deeply, and seemed to wipe away a since then, have I not?" tear. Then she came upl to him, bent down, her breath "Josephine! where were my senses, where was mine was upon his lips-she bent yet lower, and her mouth eye, mine ear, that I did not know you? The first time rested upon his as gently as the rosy morning alights up- we miet a pleasing alarm seized me, you were so like the on the hill. i hc ieodorti isfongrh the hi.!portrait which chance led me to love, because it was so Ile could not restrain himself longer; he threw his I like you; but the discovery of your mnother's famlily led arms around her, and she sank upon her knees with a me astray; I beheld in you only the daughtcr of the lovely short cry of terror. He sprang up in great alarm, sup- Doiia Laura de Tortosi, and my spirit wandered far away posing that she had fainted; but it was not so. Filled in search ofyourself." with delight at finding her again, he raised her up, and "0 heavens," she cried, "is it true, is it possible! can drew her to a seat beside him. lie covered her face with you love nme still?" " Can I not,-but must I, ought I?' glowing kisses; hlie clasped her closer and closer. "No wvas his sad answer. "You are the Baroness von Fald this s no vision of fancy. I hold thee in my arms as I ner-tell me, tell me how this happened? Could you not once did; I love thee as I did then, and am happy, for wait a little while for me!" thou lovest nme too!" 11er cheeks were crimson-she She dried her tears, and made an effort to compose hermae'c no answer, but tried to free herself from his em- self before she answered him thus:-" It seemed as though brace. "No, this time I will not let you go," he cried ~ ill fortune had contrived every thing so as to make rme as "I will hold you fast this time; and no power on earthl unhappy as possible. When you left us, I had no friend. shlall tear me from you. Come, away with this envious From the very first moment, when you asked your coinmash —I will see the whole of that lovely face —ah! I panion for money in our dear mother-tongue, my heart have often beheld it in my dreams'" She seemed to |was yours; and when you supplied our wants with such wishl to resist-she drew her breatlh Iheavily, and struggled ncl lcneiss of minid and delicacy, I wanted to clasp you to w ith him; but our hero's ecstasy of delight at this uniex- my heart, and to confess that I worshipped you almost as 1eeted discovery soon made him the conqueror. He held a being of a higher order. When you left us, I wept bither arms with one hand, with the other hlie threw back terly, for a painful foreboding told me that we should never hier hait, lruntied the mask, and aaw- his friend's wife. meet again. My mother died suddenly a week afterwards. "Josephine!" hlie cried in despair, as though an abyss The money you gave us enabled mne to pay for her interopened before him. She sat beside him pale, stupified, and mienrit, and to discharge our little debts. A lady, the speechless, and only said with a sad smile, " Yes, Jose- Countess Landskrau, who lived in the neighbourh)od, pine." "Have you been trifling with me so?" he asked; heard of us and sent for me. She examined me as ti my and all his hopes and his happiness vanished. " You education, looked carefully at my miother's papers, and might have spared me this masquerade. But," as a new seemed satisfied. I became her companion, and we left idea flashed upon him, "tell me, for heaven's sake, where Paris. I will not tell you how my heart bled at the idea; ,did you get this ring, this handkerchief?" iln a fortnilght you would return, and I would have had a She blushed, wept, and hid her face. "This will not chiance of se,'ing you again! It was not to be, Edward io, I must have an answer." He went on —'I'iThe ring I never heard ( you afterwards. I did not even know and handkerchief are mine-how did they coime into your rf)ur n e, 1n0( t hought you nmust hlawve long since forgot. hands?" tenl the ber irl. I i((l )vo tec bounity of straingers. I "From thee!" was all she whispered. A new lii};t had to erldlu'ire lni,)~ mo:'tiiricti,iirs.'TI,..n tHl ('ouiltess ,5o5 THE MIRROR LTBRARY. 39 I we don't need a court of law to separate us-that can be done in a moment; come along!" Josephine, understanding what he meant, sprang up she flung herself at his feet, and begged him to punish her alone; she assured him that Froben was innocent; she confessed that she had written the letter, and declared that he had not discovered who she was till that morning. Our hero interrupted her, and led her back to the sofa. I' Before taking such a step as you hint at, I generally make my arrangements, and I advise you to do the same," he said, coolly. " First of all, the Baroness must leave the castle, for I will not suffer her to remain here when I am not present to protect her from your ill-treatment." "You act as if you felt yourself at home," replied the t Baron, ironically; "but I id nearly forgotten madame was once your property. IN here shall we take the sweet creature, then? To the poor-house, to a hospital, or to the next hedge, to follow her trade?" Froben did not answer him; turning to Josephine, he asked, "Does the Countess still live in the neighbour. hood? Cannot you find a home there for a few days?" "I will go to her," she murmured. "Very well; Faldner will have the goodness to send you there, and you can remain till Faldner finds out how unjust he has been towards us?" I I L - e tI r ? 1 2 1 t 1 r ) r ~ ] I you shall be quen, and I your irst and truestslave!" _____1 She only shook her head. "Such are your doctrines.~ I ws rouhtup ndmarie inth hoy athli chrc, osehie wntto heCoutes's Fobe avisd he andnotingl~n deth an vermak m fre. ow fte tomak he viit sortone prmisng o ifor he o ourwises re t arincewit or dty! he hsbad'smovmens,andto ersad hi, i posi "Faewll thn,fo evr, h adedglomiy "butbl, o areonilitin."No" hecrid,pasioatly till to-morrow, and then for ever!" "w~~~ithnteewlsIwl ee p a gi.Itr The man of breeding has, at such times, a decided advantage over a vulgar adversary, whose anger makes hi c ei lose reason and self-command, and consequently bewilders. One glance at Josephinec, who lay pale and trembling on the mossy bank, told Froben what was to be done. He gave her his arm, and led her to the castle. The Baron eyed them with rage; he was on the point of calling his servants tO execute his threat, but was kept back- by the fear of making his disgrace still more public. He hurried up to the parlour, where he found Josephine lying in tears on the sofa, hiding her face in the pillow, and Froben standing silently at a window. He ran around the room in fury; he cursed himself for having married such a cre, ture. " If there is any law left in the country, I will be rid of her!" he cried: "she has given me false certificates; the pauper represented herself to be of noble birth-the marriage is null and void!" "That is certainly the best thing you can do," rejoined Froben, "if you only set about it in the right way." Ha, sir!" roared the Baron, "are you laughing at me, after bringiiig on nme this disgrace? Come along THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 39 IIIITHE - IR I LIBRARY. make a sharp answer, but checked himself for Josephine's to this point, we have not learned; we only know that sake. The Baron informed him that he meant to bring Froben sometimes hinted at the propriety of her tu rning the whole affair before the civil tribunal, and allege mu- Lutheran, which she declined sadly, but firmly.) Our tual aversion as a reason for divorce. * li * X hero then proposed to her to let Don Pedro depaot, and to * * * * It is true that, with the different religious 1 remain in Germany, p':omising to remain her friend, if he faith of the two lov er;, neither of thenm could indulge the could not be her husband. This, too, she declined, conhopes of a new union; but Josephine, sad as her future fessing frankly that she feared her own weakness too prospects might be, preferred any thing to the disgraceful much, and that now her nmisfortunes had made her so treatment to which she had been subjected. As for her proud that she could not bear the idea of lowering herself husband, thlou,rh a feeling of remorse sometimes attacked in the eyes of one wlhorl she esteemed as much as she hlim in a' solitary hour, lie sought diyversion in business, loved him. She had other and nobler reasons, too. " Why," and consolation in the thought that nobody was acquaint- she thloulght to herself, " should he waste the flower of his ed with the stain his escutcheon' had suflered in makingr life in devotion to an unfortunate creature who can never a beggar-girl of doubtful character the Baroness Von be his? Why slho)uld he give up the prospect of domestic Faldner. happiness, of a family and a home, for my sake? No; time will assuage his grief, and he will one day forget an unhappy woman who will think of him, love him, and A few weeks after these events, Froben was walking 1up pray for him to the last moment of her life." and down the bridge at Mentz. While he was lost il It seemed, therefore, as though Josephine's prophetic thought, a travelling-carriage rolled past him, wlhose' farewell, "for ever," was yet to receive its fuilfilntent. trange appearance attracted general notice. Our hero's Don Pedro and his newly-found kinswoman left the eyes were fastened more strongly on the servant upon the Countess's estate, to take shipping in Holland. Froben, box, whose cheerful brown face seemed as familiar to him who was kept alive only by the hope of soon joining them as the gaudy colours of his livery. As the carriage ap- in Portugal, accompanied them on their journey, and proached slowlyv, the servant noticed him in turn, and lwhen she begged him not to prolong the pain of separacried, " Santiago de Compostella!-there he is himse lf" tion lie entreated her, in return, "only to the sea, and He jumped down, opened these evcoach door, and out eped tents, Froben was walking l pel and down thle bridge at Mentz. While he wtas lost illIn emd hrfr,;~ tog oehn' rpei thought, a tralvelling-carriage rolled past himn, whose lfrwl,"free, vsytt eev t ilinet strange appearance attracted general notice. Our hero's Va cdoadhsnwyfudknwmnefth eyes were fastened more strongly on the servant upon theConessett,ttaesipninHlad rbn box, whose cheerful brown face seemed as familiar to him WlBASepalvonybthhoeosonjiigte as the gaudy contours of his livery. As the carriage ap- linPrua,acmaidte onterjunyan proached slow^ly, the servant noticed him in turn, and 1 hnsebge i o opoogtepi fspr cried, " Santiago de Compostella! —there he is himlself!" tion, he cultrested her, in return, "only to the sea, and the well-known features of Don Pedro. Our hero hastened to greet him. and the old man embraced him joyfully. 4a Where is she?-where is my Laura's daughter? In theI name of the Holy Mary, is she here?-tel e l me-tcll me In the month of August, in the same year, an English at once!" Froben was at a loss what to say: he merely ship was lying at Ostell, bound for Portugal. About nine told him that she wvas then living near thie city, and that o'clock, on a lovely cloudless morning, a shot was fired he should see her the next morning. from the vessel, as a signal for the passengers to embark. Tears of joy stood in the Spaniard's eyes. "How much A boat came off to the shore, and took away a number, an I indebted to you, tiy dear young frien, for giving with their baggage. Before it returned, there came down me news of her!" hie cried. "As soon as I could get to tohe beach aparty of four persons, evidently of a superior leave of absence, Diego got the coach ready, and I drove rank to the other passengers. A tall, elderly man stepped twenty miles a day, so great was my impatience! And majestically in front; he wore a broad-leafed hat, and his is she living happily?-does she look like her mother?" cloak hung so gracefully from his shoulders, that one of Froben avoided answering these questions till ltie had led the sailors swore "if the old fellow wasn't a Spaniard, Don Pedro to his lodgings. Th t ie generous juice of Xeres he'd eat him." After him camne a young gentleman, eswas produced, Diego handed him a cigar and a light, as corting a lady. He looked pale, and seemed trying to usual, and, as soon as he was comfortably settled, our conquer his own grief, in order to speak some words of hero began to tell his story. The Spaniard listened with comfort to the lady in hers. Her features were disfigured deep interest; to Diego's great vexation, hie let his cigar by weeping, and her lips pressed convulsively together go out, for the first time in twenty years, ancd when Fro- A hat with waving feathers, a costly dress of heavy silk, ben came to the violent scene between Faldner and his with rich chains on neck and bosom., seemed ill-suited for unhappy wife, his southern blood began to boil; lie pulled a sea-voyage, and seemed to indicate that she had only his hat don on his forehead, wrapped his cloak round come to see tle young man off. Behind the pair came a the left arm, and cried, with flashing eyes, "Bring me servant, who wore his black hair in a Spanish net, and nmy long rapier, Diego; as trues es I am a good Christian carried a huge umnbrella under his arnm. and a Spanish cavalier, I will have the wretch's life; I When they reached the shore, the lady clung to her willrun him through, if he had a crucifix on his breast: companion so closely that the feathers she wore hid his I will make an end of h im withouts the sacrament and and his tears from the eyes of the spectators. Twhe without absolution, that I will! My rapier, I say, Diego," old an stood a little way off, wrapped in hlis mantle, and Our hero tried to sooth the old man, exhausted by his looking at the sea. His eye glistened, either with a teal own violence, and showed him that this was useless, as or the reflection from the waves. The boat carme plasih. Josephine was no longer in her oppressor's power. Tile ing up; a plank was thrown out; the old mai shook his next mnorning te hey we nt to the C ountess. It as a mov- young friend's hand heartily, an d walked rapidly over it, ing sight to look upon, as the old man embraced Joseph- followed by Diego. The young people cebraced each ine's blooming, youthful figure, and eyed every feature other again, and the gentleman prepared to lead her to closely, till his owan stern expression relaxed, and with the boat. " For ever!" she whispered, with a melancholy what deep emotion he kissed her eyes and lips. "Yes, smile. "For ever!" sighed the young man in reply you are my Laura's daughter!" he exclaimed; "You She stood, by this time, on the plank; the mate, a bluff have nothing of your father but his golden hair; in all Englishman, stood ready to receive her, and had already your features you are a Tortosi! e henceforth my stretched out his broad hand, and was getting ready some daughter, my dear child: I am rich-I have no kinsmen; well-neant commonplace cousolation. Then she turned you are nearer and dearer to me than any one else on her dark eye away from the boundless ocean, and it rested earth, and no one else has so good a claim to you!" The on her lover.' He stood with outstretched arlms on the sidelong glances Josephine sometimes cast at Froben shore-in his fetlures the rapture of love was mingled seemed to express some doubt as to this last assertion, with the anguish of parting. Then She seemed as if she but she kissed his hand respectfully, and called him her couldcontrol h erself 1no longer-she spralrg to the shore, second father. and in a moment "lung upon ousr hero's neck. "No-I The joy of meeting lasted but a short time. Don Pedro cannot go across the seat!" she cried; " I will stay here: related that business called him back to Portugal, and I will do any thing you ask ine; I will abaudon a faith that ie did not see why Josephine might not go with him that prevents my being yours. rYou are iow mny country, at once; he was so firmly attached to every doctrine of my kindred, oy all: I will stay in Germany!" the church that he did not conceive the possibility of Fn- "Josephine! my Josephile!" exclaimed Frebe s, press ben's seeking to wed Josephine, the divorced wife of an img her to his heart in a storm of delight; "m ite, then. ..'^ j'oyof me views of the lovers may have been as - for ever! Heaven has inspired you; for, oh il tht pain of 40 THE 1NIIRROR LIBRAR'Y. -~~~ ~H MIRO LIRAY 4 pt.rting would have killed me!" They were close-locked the graves of my ancestors in Valencia, )Don Pedro, ano in each ohier's arms whet the Spaniard came on shore to tell them there is yet- (;ie of the Tortos: blood left who p, t them. " Come, children," he said, "one leave-tak- values love more than life." ill ought to have contented you; come, Josephine, it's Don Pero was moved. "Follow our heat then oJ no use to wait; the ship is going to fire for the last, perhaps it prompts you better than an old maln like me time." "Let them fire a broadside, if they choose, Don pha t lt you be hai n e doyfully *h stays TX1 *rX could do. I know that, at least, you will be happy in the Pedro," cried Froben, joyfully; "she stays here-she Pstdro,s crithe.d F, WhereSp- arms of this cavalier, and I know the honour of our family says with m-e." "What do I hear?" rejoined the Span- is as dear to him as his own. But, Don Fro'oenio, what iard, gravely; "I hope it is not as the cavalier supposes t; *1" 1 I* */will you say to your proud kindred when you present to will you not follow your kinsman, Josephine I.. UTl yu no f w your k ma, J.,them this child of misfortune? Will you have the courage "No!" she answered boldly. "As I stood there in the v . to endure the sneers of the world?" boat, and looked at the ocean that was soon to divide us, a voice within told me what I ought to do; my mother "Farewell, Don Pedro," answered our hero, boldly, showed me the way; she followed the man of her heart holding out one hand to the Spaniard, while with the through the wide world: she left father and mother. I other he clasped his mistress; "be of good courage, and know what I ought to do; here stands the man to whom do not doubt me. I will show her to the world, and when I owe the peace of my mother's last moments; life, hon- any one asks,' Pray, who was she?' I will reply, with our, every thing; and shall I leave him? Greet, for me, pride,' The Beggar-girl of the Pont-des-Arts!'" THE PIC-NIC PARTY. BY HORACE SMITE. able changes of the weather, still maintains its elevation; and I tell you what, dear, if the weather should be pre posterous on the twenty-fourth of August, suppose, i n. s t ead of going into the north, as we did last year, we migrat e into Kent or Surrey? Instead of din i ng at Hampstead, as we did last year, shall w e go to Greenwi ch, or to Putnhey, and e at little fishes?" " Wh ichever you like, love," was the lady's answer to the so-int en d e d que sti on. "But I put it to your choice, dear." "Either-or neither-please yourself, love, and you are sure you will please me." " Pshaw.! but it is for the gratification of your-or, more properly speaking, for your gratification. I submit to you an alternative for the purpose of election; and you know, Jane, I repudiate indifference, even as concerning or applying to trifles." " You know, Claudius, we have but one wish, and that is to please each other; so do you decide." " But, Mrs. Bagshaw, I must promulgate a request that -having, as I have, no desire but to please you-you will -" " How, sir! would you force me to choose, when I am so obedient as to choose that you should have the choice entirely your own way? This treatment of me is monstrous!" And here Mrs. Bagshaw did what is usual and proper_ for ladies to do on such occasions-slhe burst into tears. " Why, then, madam, to use a strong expression, I must say that " But a loud rap at the street-door prevented the utterance of an " expression," the force of which would doubtless have humbled Mrs. Claudius Bagshaw down to the very dust. "Claudius," said the lady, hastily drying her eyes, "that is uncle John's knock. We'll go to Gre-PutGreenwich, love." " That's well, dear; and be assured, love, that nothing is so adverse to the constitution of what Locke cmpllatically calls the human mind, philosophically considered, as to persevere in that state of indecision which —thatwhereof-but we will not go to either; uncle John shall select the locality." Uncle John was a bachelor of fifty-five, possessing twelve thousand pounds, a strong disinielinaitioni to part with any of them, a good heart, and a bat(i teiii)cr. "Good morning t'yc, good folks; as Iusuatl, I I)crceive, Iilling and cooiri(n." 'IThlc Bagshai a hX'.siad b)y tlhis timiie got tog(ctlier in a ctr To give a pic-nic party a fair cnance of success, it must be almost impromptu: projected at twelve o'clock at night at the earliest, executed at twelve o'clock on the following day at the latest; and even then the odds are fearfully against it. The climate of England is not remarkable for knowing its own mind; nor is the weather " so fixed in its resolve" but that a bright August moon, suspended in a clear sky, may be lady-usher to a morn of fog, sleet, and drizzle. Then, again-but this being tender ground, we will only hint at the possibility of such a change-a lady of the intended party might quit the drawing-room at night in the sweetest humour imaginable, and make her appearance at breakfast in a less amiable inmood, or, perhaps, " prefer taking breakfast in her own room,"-from which notice husbands sometimes infer that such a change has taken place. Mr. Claudius Bagshaw, a retired silk mercer, in the vicinity of London, determined, notwithstanding all these arguments, to have a pic-nic party on the twenty-fourth of August, his wedding-day. On the third of July, Mr. Claudius Bagshaw, after eating his breakfast and reading the Morning Post, looked out of his parlour window to watch the horticultural pursuits of his better part. Mr. Bagshliaw had become a member of one of the "march-ofintellect-societies," and was confident that the pie-niti would turn out a very pleasant thing. " How fortunate we shall be, dear," said Mr. Bagshaw, e how happy we shall be, if the weather should be as fine on our wedding-day as it is now." "True, love," replied Mrs. Bagshaw; "but this is only the third of Julx and, as the anniversary of our happy day is tihe twenty-fourth of August, the weather may change." This proposition Mr. Bagshaw did not attempt to deny. The Bagshaws were the happiest couple in the world. Being blessed with the negative blessing of no offspring, the stream of their affections was not diverted into little channels, but ebbed and flowed in one uninterrupted tide reciprocally from bosom to bosom. They never disputed, they never quarrelled. Yes, they did sometimes, but then it was from a mutual over-anxiety to please. Each was afraid to pronounce a choice, or a preference, lest it might be disagreeable to the other; and hence there occasionally did arise little bickerings, and tiffings, and miffings, which were quite as unpleasant in -,heir effects, and sorietines as difficult to settle, as quarrels originating in less I amiable causes. " But," said Mr. Bagshaw, referring to the barometer, "file instrumnient for indicating the p)e sent state and p!oto I I I 41 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. THE MIRROR LIBRARY. happening to think of uncle John's twelve thousand pounds, he suppressed it, and just contented himself with, "And what then, sir?" "Why, then, sir, that is a risk I won't run; and unless we can manage to I have it! the very man. How came we to forget him? Thle-vry-man! You know Jack Richards?" The last four words were delivered in a tone implying the utter impossibility of any human creature being unac quainted with Jack Richards. "Not in the least, sir. I never heard of him." "What! never heard of Ja-. The thing is impossi. ble; everybody knows Jack Richards. T-he very thing for us; such a wit! such a wag!-he is the life and soul of every thing. Should he be unengaged for the twenty fourth of August. But he is so caught up! I was in. vited to meet him at dinner last Sunday at Jones's, but he didn't come. Such a disappointment to us! However, I shall meet him on Thursday at the'I'ims's, if he should but keep his promise, and tlhen-" " But, uncle," said Mrs. Bagshaw, " hadn't you better send him all invitation at once?" "I'll do better still, my dear; I'll call at his lodgings, and if I find him hanging loose, I'll bring him to dine with you to-day." Then, turning to Bagshaw, he added, "That a man like you shouldn't know Jack Richards, is surprising!" As this was evidently pointed at Mr. Claudius Bagshaw in his capacity of member of a learned body, Bagshaw pursed up his mouth into a mock-modesty smile, and slightly bowed. Off went uncle John in quest of Jack Richards; and, that the pleasantest thing in the world i nmight not sufier by delay, off went Mr. Biagshaw to a? prize the Snodgrasses, the Groutses, and the rest of the nominees; and, more important still, of" went the lady to the poulterer's, to inquire whether he was likely to have any nice pigeons for a pie, about the twenty-third of next month. The diiner-hour arrived, and so did uncle John, but with a face of unspeakable wo. "I feared how it would be." "What! can't he be with us on the twenty-fourth?7" inquired both the Bagshaws at the same instant. " He will if he can; but he won't promnise. But to day-! However, it serves us right; we were unwise to indulge a hope of his comning at so short a notice. He has almost engaged himself to youi for Sunday fortnight, though. What a creature it is!-lie has given me such a pain in my side!" "Something he said that almost killed you with laugh. ing? Repeat it, uncle, repeat it." " Why, no, he didn't say any thing particular; but he has a knack of poking one in the ribs, in his comical way, and sometimes he hurts you." We intended to describe Jack Richards at length; un cle John's accidental notice of this trait has, most probably, rendered that trouble unnecessary. Indeed, we feel that we need scarcely add to it, that he can sing a devil ish good song, (and everybody knows what is meant by that,) and imitated the inimitable Mlathews' imitations of the actors, not even excepting his imitation of Tatc WiL kinson's imitation of Garrick. Except the uncertainty of Jack Richards, the result of the morning's occupation was satisfactory. Bagshaw, still retaining his old business-like habits of activity and industry, had contrived to wait on every person namled in the list, all of whom had promised their attendance! and Mrs. Bagshaw had received from the poulterc a positive assurance that he would raise heaven and earth to supply her with pigeons on the twenlty-third of the ensuing August! Committees were forthwith summoned. First, a com. mittee to consider of the whereabout. At this, after an evening of polite squabbling, which had nearly put an end to the project altogether, Twickenham meadows received the honour of selection-nem. con. as Bagshaw said Next, lest it should happen, as i t did o nce happen, fof want of such preconcert, that a pic-nic party of ten found themselves at their place of meeting Keith ten fillets of veal and ten hanms, Mr. Bagshalw called a comnmittee of " provender."' Here it was settled that the Shodgrasses should contributc four chickens and a tongue; the Puag ner of the garden, and were lovingly occupied in trim ming the same pot of sweet peas. "Quite the contrary, uncle John," said Mrs. Bagshaw. "Claudius and I have just had one of our most desperate quarrels." And here the happy pair giggled, and exchanged looks which were meant to imply that their smost desperate quarrels were mere kitten's play; and that uncle John did so interpret them, he made manifest by a knowing shake of his fore-finger. "The fact is, sir, Jane and I talk of commemorating the annual recurrence of the annive rsary of our wedding da y, at sorwe place a leetle farther in the country; but our mind s are in a perfect vac uum concerning the identity of the spot. Now, sir, will y ou reduce the place to a mathe atical certainty, and be one of the party?" " Why-urn-no; the se th ings ar e exp ensive; we co me home at night with a guinea a-piece l ess in our pockets, and I don't see the g oo d of th at." " I have it!" cried Bagshaw; " we'll make it a pic-nic; that won't be expensive." " The n I'm wi th you, Bagshaw, with all my heart and it s hall b e al fresco." " There or an ywhere elseel you please, sir," gravely re pl i e se ld the learned member of the universal-knowledge warehouse. "Uncle nohn means in the open air, Claudius; that will be delightful." " Charminy,!" rejo ined Bagshaw. It may be in quired why u ncle John, who objected to the disbursemnen t of a guinea for a day's pleasure, should no readily have yield ed at the suggestion of a pic-nic. Uncle John possessed a neat little morocco pocket-case, containing a d ozen silver spoons, and silver-handled kanives tr, and alforks, an a lthough we are told that these ienplenents ar e of l ater invention than fingers, there is, nevrtheheless, a very general bias in their favour, for the purpose to which they a re applted. Now, uncle Jo h n being aware of the preval e nce of their employment, it wa s for this reason he never objected to make one of a pic-nic party; for, whilst others contributed chickens, pigeon-pies, or wines.-it be ing th e principle of such part ies that each member s hould furnish something p to t he feast-suncle John invariably contributed the use of his knives, forks, and spoons. The whole morning was spent in debating on who should be invited to partake of this " pleasantest thing that ever was," and examining into their several pretensionis, and their powers of contributing to the amusements of the day; when, at length, the honiour of nomination was confierred upon the persons following, and for the reasons atssigned: Sir Thomas and Lady Grouts-because of their title, which w,ould. ive an air to the thing-(Sir Thomas, formerly a corn-chandler, having been knighted for carrying up an address in the late reign.) Miss Euphenmia Grouts, daughter, Noo. l-who would bring her guitar. Miss Corinna Grouts, ditto, No. 2-because she would sing. Mr. and.Mrs. Snodgrass-Mr. Snodgrass being vicepresident of the grand junction march-of-intellect-society. Mr. Frederick Snodgrass, their son, (lately called to the chalncery bar,) who would bring his flute. Messrs. Wrench and son, (eminent dentists.) The father to be invited because he wsas charming company, and the soIn, a dead bsore, becaulse the father would be offended if he were not. Andt. lastly, Miss Snubbleston, a rich maiden ladly of forty-four, for no other earthly qualification whatever than her carriage, which (to use Bagshaw's words) would carry herself and Us three, and also transplant a large portion of the pro. vender to the place of rendezvous. Bagshawz hltvin~r made out a fair copy c l this list, somewhat in the shape of a bill of parcels, this, the first step towards tile " pleasantest thing that ever wash" was taken with entire satisfaction. " Why, Bagshaw," exclaimed uncle John, who had cast up the numbers, "including our three selves, we shall be thirteen!" The member of the institution perceived the cause of his alarm! but having beenl lectured out of prejudices respecting matte rs of greater momdelt than this, hie prepared a look; Of ineffable contempt a~s his only reply; however,1 I I I! 42 -~~~~TJ M1-~; ~~.4 shaws, their pigeon-pie; Wrench and son, a hanmi; Sir Thomas Grouts, a hamper of his own cloice wMilie; Miss Snubbleston, a basket of fruit and pastry; uncle John, his silver spoons, knives, and forks; and Jack Richards -his charming company. And lastly, came the comiittee for general purposes! At this important meeting, it was agreed that the party proceed to Twickenham by water; that to save the trouble of loading and unloading, Miss Snubbleston's carriage convey the hampers, &c. direct to the place appointed-the said carriage, moreover, serving to bring the ladies to town, should the eveninrig prove cold; that, for the water-m?usic, thle following programme be adopted: 1. On reaching Vauxhall bridge, the concert to commence with Madame Pasta's grand scena in " Medea," previous to the murder of the children, by Miss Corinna Grouts. 2. Nicholson's grand flute concerto in five sharps, by Mr. Frederick Snodgiass. 3. Grand aria, with variations, guitar, by Miss Euphemia Grouts. 4. Sweet Bird; accompaniment, flute obligato, Miss C. G. and Mr. F. S.-and 5. The Dettingen re Deumi, (arranged for three voices, by Mr. F. S.) by Miss Euphemia, Miss Corinna, and Mr. Frederick Snodgrass. The "interstices," as Mr. Bagshaw called them, to be filled up by the amusing talents of the elder Wrench and uncle Johnr's friend. And, lastly, that the company do assemble;t Mr. Bagshaw's on the morning( of the twelty-fourth of August, at ten o'clock, precisely, in order to have the advantage of the tide both ways. Three days prior to the important twenty-fouirtlh, Mr. Bagshaw went to engage the boat, but, in a squabble with the boatman, Mr. B. got a black eye. This was the first mishap. Restless and impatient though you be, depend upon it, there is not a day of the whole three hundred and sixtyfive will put itself, in the slightest degree, out of the way, or appear one second before its appointed time, for your gratification. Oh, that people would consider this, and wait events with patience! Certainly Mr. Bagshaw did not. The night of the twenty-third to him appeared an age. His repeater was in his hand every ten minutes. He thought the morniing would never dawn-but he was mistaken; it did; and as fine a morning as if it had been made on purpose to favour his excursion. By six o'clock he was dressed!-by eight the contributions from all the members had arrived, and were ranged in the passage. There was their own pigeon-pie, carefully packed in brown paper and straw; Sir Thlomas's hamper of his own choice wine; and the rest. Every thing promised fairly. Th'le young ladies and MIr. Frederick had had thirty rehearsals of their grand arias and concertos, and were perfect to a demi-semniqutaver; Jack Richards would certainly comie; and the only drawback upon Mr. Bagshaw's personal en!ijoyment-but nothing in this world is perfectwas the necessity he was under of wearing his green shade, which would totally deprive him of the pleasure of contenmplating the beauties of the Thames' scenery —-a thing he had set his heart upon. Nine! ten! "s No one here yet! Janie, my love, we shall infallibly lose the tide;" and for the next quarter of an hour the place of the poor repeater was no sinecure. A knock! Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass and Mr. Frederick. Another! The whole family of the Groutses. Next camne Mr. Charles Wrench. " Bless us! Ms. Charles," said Bagshaw, " where is your father?" N~ow, M~r. Wrench, senior, was an agreeable old dentist, always gay, generally humorous, sometimes witty; he could sketch characters as well as draw teeth; and, on occasions of this kind, was invaluable. The son was a mere donkey; a silly, simpering, well-dressed young gentleman, the owner of no more than the eighth of an idea, and of a very fine set of teeth, which he constantly exhibited like a sign or advertisement of his shop. Append".I to every thing he uttered were a preface and post w "cript, in the form of a sort of billy-goat grin. " He! he! hle! he! Fayther regrets emezingly he taint come, being called to attend the Duchess of Dilbo m rough. He! he! he! he!" As me t the fattalready sai d that it leas in pure cosptit merit to thle father thitt the son seas invited, anId not at 'all for the sake of his own company, his presence was a grievous aggravation of the d isappoint me nt. The next knock announced Miss Sntubbleston. But where was her carriage? Why, it had been newly varnished, and they might scratch her panels with the hampers; and then she was afraid of her springs. So here was Miss Snubbleston without her carriage, for the convenience of which alone she had been invited,. considered by the rest in exactly the same light as young Mr. Wrcnch without old Mr. Wrcnch-id est, a damper. A new arrangement was the necessary consequence; and the baskets, under the superintendnce of a servant, were jolted down in a hackney coach, to be embarked at Westminster. But Miss Snubbleston brought with her a substitute, which was by no means a compensation. Cupid, her wretched, little, barin;-g yelping, Dutch pug, had eaten something that had eis agreed with him, and his fair mistress would not "for worlds" have left hinm at home while he was so indisposed. Well, no one chose to be the first to objece to the intruder, so Cupid was received. " But where can uncle John and his friend be? We shall lose the tide, that's certain," was scarcely uttered by Mr. Bagshaw, when in came our uncle, together with the long-expected Jacli Richards. The usual introductions over, Mr. Richards saluted everybody with the self-sufficient swagger of a vulgar lion. " The (lay snies auspiciou s, sir," said Bagshaw, who thounlt it requisite e should throw off something fine to so celebrated a person. " Smile?-a broad grin, I call it, sir." And here wa s a general lauglh. "Oh, excellent!" "Capital!" Uncl e Jo hn, proud of his friend, whisper ed in Bagshaw's ear, "You see, Jack's beginning." And now hats and gloves were in motion. "You have got your flute, Frederi ck?" "Yes, mother," was the reply. "Lau, ma," cried Miss Corinna, " if I haven't come without' Sweet Bird,' and my scona from-'Medea,' I declare." As these were indispensable to the amusements of the day, a servant was dispatched for them. He couldn't be gone longer than half an hour. Half an hour! thought Bagshaw;'tis eleven now; and the tide. But the servant was absent a few minutes beyond the half hour, and poor B3agshaw suffered severely from that gnawing imnpatienice, amounting almost to pain, which every mo. ther's son of us has experienced upon occasions of greater -or less importance than this. They were again at the very point of starting, when a message was brought to ~ Mrs. Snodgrass that little Master Charles had cut his thumb dreadfully! What was to be done? Mrs. Snodgrass vowed she shouldn't be easy in her mind the whole day, unless she knew the extent of the mischief; and as they only lived in Euston-square, and she could be there and back again in twenty minutes, she would herself go sea what really was the Latter-and away she went. Twenty minutes! During all this time, Bagshaw-but who would attempt to describe anguish indescribable? At length he was relieved by the return of Mrs. Snodgrass; but, to the horror and consternation of himself and of all present, she introduced the aforesaid Master Charles-an ugly, ill. tempered, blubbering little brat of seven years old, with a bloated red face, scrubby white hair, and red eyes; and with the interesting appendage of a thick slice of bread and butter in his hand. " I'm sure you'll pardon this liberty," said the affection ate inamma: " but poor Charley has cut himself very muclh and he would not be pacified till I consented to take him with us. Ile has promised to be very good. There, don't cry any more, darling!" and, accordingly, the urchin roared with tenfold vigour. There were no particular mnanifestatiorns of joy at this arrivtl; an(i it is just possible, althjough nothing wa-s utterc>(I to llait (cfi'cct, tteat there (did ex'st a,erer;,l alo ordial xvsh t;:-t o.: 51;,stcr Snod,,drasse, S(re spr.Swli~g art ti_ci:,~,!t,.zt. (! 1;c ctt,:c~sl TI-TE 43 ARRIVAL OF JACK RICIIARDS. 44 TilE MIRI{OR LIBRARY. well in England. Uncle John, indeed, did utter somethi,,ngc about the pug and the child-two such nuisances-people bringing their brats into grown up company. At length the procession set out: the IBagshaws, uncle John and Jack Richards bringing up the rear in a hackney-coach. On reaching. the corner of the street, Mrs. .3agshliaw called out to the driver to stop. "What is the matter, dear?" said Bagshaw. "Your eye-lotion, love." "Well, never mind that, sweet." "Claudius, I shall be miserable if you go without it. Dr. Nooth desired you would use it every two.o)urs. I must insist-now, for my sake, love-such an eye as lihe has got, Mr. Richards!" So away went Bagshaw to the Lake of Lausanne Lodge for the lotion, which, as it always happens when folks are in a hurry, it took him a quarter of an hour to find. They were now fairly on the road. "W What a smell of garlick!" exclaimed uncle John; "it is intolerable!" "Dear me!" said Mr. Richards, " do you perceive it? 'Tis a fine Italian sausage I bought at Morel's, as my contribution. We shall find it an excellent relish in the country;" and he exhibited his purchase, enveloped in a brown paper. " Pha! shocking!-'tis a perfect nuisance! Put it into your pocket again, or throw it out at the window." But Mr. Richards preferred obeying the first command. Apropos of contributions —" Uncle, have you brought your spoons?" " Here they are," replied uncle, at the same time drawimg from his pocket a parcel in size and form very closely resembling Mr. Richards's offensive contribution. On arriving at WVestminster Bridge, they found the rest of the party already seated in the barge, and the first sound that saluted their ears was an intimation that, owing to their being two hours behind time, (it was now past twelve,) they should hardly save the tide. " I knew it would be so," said Bagshaw, with more of discontent than he had thought to experience, considering the paints he had taken that every thing should be wellordered. As uncle John was stepping into the boat, Richards, with greit dexterity, exchanged parcels with him, putting the Italian sausage into uncle John's pocket and the spoons into his own; enhancing the wit of the man(euvre by whispering to the Bagshaws, who, with infinite delight, hadl observed it. " Hang me," said Richards, " but he shall have enough of the garlick.!" TIhe old gentleman was quite unconscious of the operation, as Richards adroitly diverted his attention from it by giving him one of his facetious pokes in the ribs, which nearly bent him double, and drew a roar of laughter from every one el se. Just as they were pushing off, their attention was attracted by a loud howling. It proceeded "-om a large Newfoundland dog which was standing at!he water's edge. "Confound it!" cried Richards, " that's my Carlo! He has followed me, unperceived. all the way from homeI would not lose him for fifty pounds. I must take him back-pray put me ashore. This is very provoking- " though he is a very quiet dog!" There eras no mistaking this hint. Already were there two nuisances on board-master Charles and the Dutch pug: but as they were to choose between Jack Richards with his dog, or no Jack Richards, (or in other words, no life and soul of the party,) it was presently decided that Carlo should be invited to a seat on the hampers, which were stowed at the head of the boat-uncle John having first extracted from Mr. Richards an assurance that their new guest would lie there as still as a mouse. This comgaaisance was anfply rewarded by a speedy display of Mr. ichards' powers of entertainment. As soon as they reached the middle of the river Jack Richards suddenly jumped up, for the purpose of frightening Miss Snubbleston; a jest at which everybody else would have laughed, had not their owsn lives been cudangered by it. Evenl his great admlirer sugrgestedl to himn that once of that was enoughl. Otis ncet jokze was one of a more intcllcctual character. Though he had never till this day seen Sir Thomas, he had accidentally heard something about his former trade. "What is the differenrce between Lord Eldon and Sir Thomas Grouts?" Nobody could tell. " One is an ex-chalncellor-the other is an ex.chandler." Everybody laughed, except the Grouts family. This was succeeded by another thrust in uncle John's side; after which came a pun, which we shall not record, as the effect of it was to force the ladies to cough and look into the water, the gentlemen to look at each other, and'Mrs. Snodgrass to whisper to Mrs. Bagshaw " Who is this Mr. Richards?" Indeed, there would have bten no end to his pleasantries had they not been interruptee. y a request that Miss Corinna would open the concert, as they were fast ap proaching Vauxhall bridge. Mr. Bagshaw (looking at the programme, which he had drawn out on paper ruled with red and blue lines) objected to this, as it would dis turb the previous arrangement, according to which the concert was not to commence till they were t/hrough the bridge. This objection was overruled, and the fair Co riniia unrolled the music, for which the servant had been dispatched with so much haste. Miss Corinna screamed! What was the matter? " They had not sent the grand scena from Medea, af ter all, but a wrong piece!" And the pains she had taken to be perfect in it! "Could not Miss Corinna sing it from memory?" "Impossible!" "How careless of you, Corinna! then sing what they have sent." " Why, ma," said Corinna, with tears in her eyes, and holding up the unfortunate sheets, "why bless me, ma, I can't sing the overture to Der Freyschutz!" The difficulty of such a performance being readily ad mitted, Mr. Frederick Snodgrass declared himself but too happy to comply with the calls for his concerto in five sharps, which stood next on the list; and with the air of one well satisfied that an abundance of admiration and applause would reward his efforts, he drew forth hIis flute, when, lo! one of the joints was missing! This accident was nearly fatal to the musical entertainments of the day; for not only was the concerto thereby render ed impr ac ticable, but " Sweet Bird," with the flute-accormpe,niment obligate, was put hoers de combat. D isapp ointment having, by thirs, b een carried to its uttermost bound s, the a nnouncement th at two s tring s of thle guitar had gone, was rece ived with an indifference almost stoical; and every one was grateful to Miss Euphemia for so willingly undertaking (the whispered menaces of Lady Grouts being heard by nobody but the young lady herself) to do all that could be done under such untoward circuimstances. Sh e would endeavour to accompany her se lf through a little ballad; but she failed. Mr. Claudius Bagsh aw, with all his literature, science, and philosophy, now, for the first time, wondered how any thing could fail, so much trouble having been taken to insure success. Drawing forth his repeater, he a-hem'd. ]and just muttered "'Unaccountable! Hem! upon my word! One o'clock, and lio pleasure yet!" "eOne o'clock," echoed his spouse; " then'tis time for your eye, dear!" and B3agshaw was compelled not only to sufferr his damaged optics to be dabbled by his tormnentingly affectionate-wife, but to' submit again to be hood. winked, in spite of his enitreaties to the contrary, and his pathetic assurances that he had not yet seen a bit of the prospect; a thing he had set his heart upon. Now occurred a dead silence of some minutes. A steamboat rushed by. Bagshaw seized this opportunity to make a display of his scientific acquirements; and this he did with the greater avidity, as he had long wishled to astonish vice-president Snodgrass. Besides, in the event of his offeringg to deliver a course of lectures at thec institution, the vice-president might bear evidence to hi;s capabilities for the purpose —his acquaintance not on~ly w\ithl the facts, but with the termns of science. Whllel,cr those terms were always correc tly applied-, wec confcss ourselves not sufficiently learned t,, prono)unce. "'HIow wonodrous is thle scicrncc of mchlanisml' how THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 44 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. variegated its progeny, how simple, yet how compound! I am propelled to the consideration of this subject by having optically perceived that ingenious nautical instrument, which has just now flown along like a mammoth, that monster of the deep! You ask me how are steam-boats propagated? in other words, how is such an infinite and immoveable body inveigled along its course? I will cxplain it to you. It is by the power of friction: that is to say, the two wlleels, or paddles, turning diametrically, or at the same moment, on the axioms, and repressing by the rotundity of their motion the action of the menstruum in which the machine floats,-water being, in a philosophical sense, a powerful non-conductor,-it is clear, that in proportion as is the revulsion so is the progression; and as is the centrifugal force, so is the-" "Pooh!" cried uncle John impatiently, "let us ha%te qn.tlne music." " I have an apprehension, Bagshaw," said the vicepresident,-" that I should not presume to dispute with you-that you are wrong in your theory of the centrifugal force of the axioms. However, we will discuss that point at the Grand-Junction. But come, Frederick, the 'Dettingen te deum.'" Frederick and the young ladies having, by many rehearsals, perfected themselves in the performance of this piece, instantly complied. Sc.arcely had they reached the fourth bar, when Jack Richards, who had not for a long time perpetrated a joke, produced a harsh, brassy-toned, ,German eolina, and "blew a blast so loud and shrill," that the Dutch pug began to bark, Carlo to howl, and the other nuisance, master Charles, to cry. The German eolina was of itself bad enough, but these congregated noises were intolerable. Uncle John aimed a desperate blow with a large apple, which he was just about to bite, at the head of Carlo, who, in order to give his lungs fair play, was standing on all fours on the hampers. The apple missed the dog, and went some distance beyond him in teethe water. Mr. Carlo, attributing to uncl e John a kinder feeling than that which actually prompted the proceeding, looked upon it as a good- natured expedient to afford him it a oportunity of adding his mite to the amusements of the day, by displaying a specimen of his training. Without wa iting for a second hit, he plunged i nto the river, seized the apple, and, paddling up the side of the boat with the prize triumphantly exhibited in his jaws, to mhe c onsternation o f the whole party, he scrambled in betweed uncle John and h i s master, dropped the apple upon the floor, distributed a copious supply of Thames' water amongst the aftrighted beholders, squeezed his way th rough them as best he could, and, with an air of infinite self- satisfaction, resumed his place o n the hampers. Ha d M r. Jack Ric hards, the owner of the dog, been at the bottom of the Thames a week before this delightful twenty-fourtlh, not one of the party, Mr. Richards himself excepted, would have felt in the slightest degree concerned; but since, with a common regard to politeness, they could not explicitly tell him so, they contented thems elv es wi th besto wing upon Mr. Carlo every term of opprobrium, every f orm of execra tion, which good-manners will allow-leaving it to the sagacity of " the life and s oul of the company" to apply them to himself, if so it migh t be ag reeabl e to him. P oor fellow! he felt the awkwardness of his situation, and figuratively,, as Bell as literally speaking, this exploit of his dog threw a damp urn him, as it had done upon every one else. For some time the pic-nics pursued their way in solemn silence. At length Bagshaw, perceiving that there would be very little pleasure if matters were allowed to go on in this way, exclaimed " An intelligent observer, not imbued with the knowledge of our intentions, would indicate us to be a combination of perturbed spxrits, rowed by Chlaron across the river Tiber." In cases of this kind, the essential is to break the ice. Conversation was now resumed. " Ah! ha!" said the vice-president, " Sion-house." " The residuum of the Northumberlands," said Claudius, " one of the most genealogical and antique families n England." And here, having put forth so much classical and historical lore, almost in a breath, he marked his own1 satis faction by a short, single cough. The vice-president s ai d noth ing, but he thought to h imself, me There is much more in this Bagshaw than I suspe cted." Jack Richards was up again. " Come, what's done can't be helped; but, upon m) so ul! I am sorry at being the innocent cause of throwing cold water on the party." " Cold water, indeed! look at me, sir," said Miss Snubbleston, with tears in her eyes, and exhibiting her ci-devant shoulder-of-mutton sleeves, which, but half an hour before, as stiff and stately as starch could make them, were now hanging loose and flabby about her skirny arms. " Too bad, Jack," said uncle John, " to bring that cursed Carlo of yours!" Carlo, perceiving that he was the subject of conversation, w,as instantly on his legs, his eye steadily fixed upr)n uncle John, evidently expecting a signal for a second plunge. The alarm was general, and every tongue joined in the scream of " Lie down, sir! lie down!" Uncle John, who had been more than once offendecd by the odour from his friend's garlic sausage, and who had on each and every such occasion vetnted an exclamation Of disgust, to the great amusemcnt of Mr. Richards, (who chuckled with delight to think of the exchange he had secretly cffccted,) here, ill the vcry middle of the stream, resolved to rid himself of the annoyance. Unperceived by any one, he gently drew the parcel from Richards' coat-pocket, and let it drop into tile water! Like king Richard's pierced coffin, once in, it soon found the way to the bottom. Uncle John could scarcely restrain his inclination to laugh aloud; however, he contrived to assume an air of indifference, and whistled part of a tune. ARRIVAL AT TWICKENHIAM, AND THE CATASTROPHE. Arrived at Twickenham, the boatmen were ordered to pull up to a beautiful meadow, sloping down to the water's edge. There was no time to lose-they had no pleasure yet-so Bagshaw entreated that every one "would put his shoulder to the wheel, and be on the qui rala." In an instant a large heavy hamper were landed, but as, in compliance with Bagshaw's request, every one did some. thing to help, a scene of confusion was the consequence, and numerous pieces of crockery were invalided ere the cloth was properly spread, and the dishes, plates, and glasses distributed. But for the feast. Mr. Snodgrass's basket was opened, and out of it were taken four remarkably fine chickens, and a tongue-uncooked! There was but one mode of accounting for this trifling omission. Mr. Snodgrass's Betty was a downright mnatter-of-fact person, who obeyed orders to the very letter. Having been told, the evening before, to get four fine chickens for roasting, together with a tongue, and to pack them, next miorning, in a basket, she did so literally and strictly; but, as she had received no distinct orders to dress them, to have done so she would have deemed an impertinent departure, from her instructions. Well; since people in a high state of civilization, like Mr. Claudius Bagshlaw and his fri'icnds, cannot eat raw chickens, they did the only thingr they could under the circumnstances-they grumbled exceedi ngly, and put them back again int o t he bas ket. Tphis was a serious deduction in the i mportant po int of quantsity, and uncl e Joh n fel t a slight touch of remorse at having thrown, as he thought, his fricnd's Italian sausage into the Thames. However, there was still provision in tie garrison. But the run of luck in events, as at a game of whist, may be against you; and when it is so, be assured that human prudence and foresight-reinarkable as even Mrs. Bagshaw's, who bespoke her pigeons seven weeks before she wanted them-avail but little. When the packages were first stowed in the boat, the pigeon-pie was inadvertently placed at the bottom, and every thing else, finishing with the large heavy hamper of crockery. with Carlo on that, upon it; so that when it was taken up it appeared a chaotic mass of pic-crust, broken china, pigeons, brown paper, beef steak, eggs, and straw! "Now this is enough to provoke a saint!" said Bag shawl; and no one attempting to deny the position, witty this salvo for his own character of philosophic patience, lit in(lulged lli:~scll ill the full expression of his vexation licp I. I R R. and sorrow. After a minute examination, he declared the "Bless me, sir! Don't say so-why-bless my heartpie to be "a complete squash," and that nobody could you don't know-before we got into the boat, I put the venture to eat it but at the imminent risk of being choked. sausage into your pocket, and your case of cutlery into As he was about to throw it over the hedge, Miss Snub- my own!" bleston, seized with an unusual fit of generosity, called There was a general burst of laughter against uncle out to him- John. He turned as pale as-nay, paler, than any thing "What are you doing? Though it isn't fit for us to that has ever yet been dragged into the comparison; for eat, it will be quite a treat to the poor watermen. I dare an instant he stood stock-still, then thrust his hand into sa.y, poor souls, the d(on't often get pigeon-pie." his pocket, drew forth the unfortunate substitute, and at But the good gen~ of Mr. Carlo prevailed; and the the same time exclaiming D-tion! dashed it violently truth of the adage,' a an ill wind that blows nobody to the ground. He next buttoned his coat from the bot good," was confirmed in his mind as he found himself tom to the top, pulled down his cuffs, whispered to his no busily employed in the ingenious operation of separating longer admired Jack Richards, "You shall hear firom me, pigeon fromn porcelain. It was, doubtless, extremely ill- Mr.;" and saying aloud to Bagshaw, "This comes bred in one dog not to invite another. and Cupid express- of your confounded party of pleasure, sir," away he went. ed his sense of the slight by a long-continucd yell, which and returned to town outside a Twickenham coach; re drew down upon him. firom the equally disappointed bipeds solving by the way to cal out that Mr. Richards, and to of the company, sundry wishes, the positive accomplish- eject the Bagshaws from the snug corner they held in his inent of which would not havec tended lnuch to his per- last will and testament. sonal happiness. The next basket was opened. Things This explosion seemed to have banished pleasure for were not altogether in a desperate state. Mr. Wrench's that day, They were all, more or less, out of humour; ham was in perfect order, and that, with Miss Snubble- and instead of making the best of things, as they had ston's salad, and some bread, and-could it be possible! hitherto done, they now made the worst of them. Sir After so much preparation, and Mr. Bagshaw's commit- Thomas's hamper of his choice wine (which, by the by, tee of'" provender" to boot, that no one should have he purchased at a cheap shop for the occasion) was openthought of so obvious a requisite as bread! There would ed; and slices of ham were cut with the only knife and not be time to send Mr. Bagshaw to Twickenham town fork. Jack Richards tried to be facetious, but it would to procure some, for it was getting late, and if they lost not do. He gave Bagshaw a poke in the ribs, which was the tide, they should be on the water till midnight, and received with a very formal, "Sir, I must beg-." To they did not like the appearance of the sky, which was Mr. Wrench, junior, he saidby no means so blue as it had hitherto been. However, "You have not spoken much to-day-but you have the want of bread did not much signify; they could make made amends for your silcnce-d'ye take?-Your hamn is a shift with Miss Snubbleston's biscuits and poundcakes. good, though your tongue is not worth much!" But uncle John did not come out on an excursion of Instead of laughing, Mr. Wrench simpered something pleasure to make shift; no more did Bagshiaw, no more about impertinent liberties and satisfaction. On being did any of the others. There was nothing else to be invited by Sir Thomas to a second glass of his old East done; so where is Miss Snublbleston's basket? And India, he said that one was a dose-had rather not double where is Master Charles? gracious! Don't be alarmed, the Cape; and at the first glass of champaigne, he inthe precious rarity is in no danger. He was soon dis- quired whether there had been a plentiful supplyof goose. covered behind a tree, whither he had dragged the berries that year. In short, whether it were that the com. fruit and cakes, and was engaged with all his might pany knew not how to appreciate his style of wit and and main, in an endeavour, with a piece of stick, to force pleasantry, or that he was in reality a very disagreeable out an apple. In this attempt, as it was presently seen, I person, the fact is that-btbut hold! let us say nothing ill the interesting child had cracked a bottlc, tihe contents of him; he died last week, at Folkestone, of a surfeit of of which, merely a preparation of oil, vinegar, and mus- goose, in the forty-ninth year of his age. For the consotar-l for the salad, were quietly dribbling through the lation of such as were amused by him, and regret his poutind-cakes, biscuits, and fruit. Similar aspirations to loss, be it remembered that there are still to be found thliose which had lately been so cordially expressed for the many Jack Richards in this world. Dut, h pug, were now most devoutly formed in behalf of" As we have said, they now resolved to make the worst Master Charles. of every thing; the grass was damip, the gnats were "Thisi comes of bringing their plaguey brats with troublesome, Carlo's nose was in everybody's face, Cupid's them," said uncle and Bagshaw. teeth at everybody's calves, and Master Charles was ill VIWhilst this scene was going on, Jack Richards, per- of the many sour apples; it was growing late, and no ceiving that the service of the table was incomplete, be- good could come of sitting longer in the open air. They thought him of uncele John's silver handled knives and I re-embarkled. By the time they reached Putney it was forks, and spoons; he felt first in one pocket, and then in pitch dark, and the tide was setting against them. They the other, then hlie ran down to search the boat, then he moved on in mute impatience, for there was a slight rummaged the baskets. sprinkling of rain. It now fell in torrents. Master Charles "Jack, my boy," hallooed uncle John, "don't trouble grew frightened and screamed. Cupid yelped and Carlo yourself, you'll never see that again." howled. Accompanied the rest of the way by these " W hat, sir?" plcesinfg sounds, at one in the morning (two hours and "I could not bear the smell of it any longer, so I slyly a half later than they intended) they arrived at West. drew it out of your pocket, and dexterously let it fall into minster stairs, dull, dreary, drowsy, discontented, and the deepest part of the Thames." drenched. And here uncle John chuckled, and looked about him for applause. 46 THE MIRROR'-JBRARY. -~ ~ ~ ~ H MIRRLBRR.4 THE WIFE. BY WASHINGTON IRVING The treasures of the deep are tiot so precious As are the concealed comforts of a man lock'd up in wornani's love. I scent the air Of blessi.gs, when I comne but near the houise. What a deliciotis breaLth nmarriage sends forthThe violet bed's not sweeter! MlIDDLETOS. ishing tenderness, as if he doated on his lovely burthen for its very helplessness. Never did a coupl e set forward on the flowcry path of early and well-suited ma rriage with a fai,'cr preespect of felicity. It was the cisrortule of my friend;, ho wever, to have embharked his propgerty in lttrhe speculations; a nd hoe had not been married many inonthis, when, y)v a succession ol sudden disaster s it w las swept frow hilt r, and he found himself reduced to almost penury. Foi. time he kept his situation to himself, and went abou t wi t h a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. fis lie was but a protracted agon y; al nd hat reidntee it more insupport able was the necessity of keepinga up a st hic in the pres ence of his wife; for he could not bring hlirmiself to over whe lm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affect ion, that alld was not well with him. She marked his alte reid looks and s tifled sighls, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts a t cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprigeh tly powers and tender blandishments to win him back t o h at appiness; but she only d rov e the arrow deeper it i eis s oul. The more he saw cause to lodve her, the pmore torturin g w as the thought that he was so o n to make h lir wretched. A lit tle while, thought lie, and the s mile wi ll vawish from tha t cheek-the song will die away from those lips-the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow-and the h ap py heart which now beats lightly in that bo som, will be weighed down, like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. At length he came to Ie one day, and related his whole situation in a tonle of the ('eepest despair. When I had heard shimi thr oug h, I inquired, " Does your wife know all this?" At the questimli lie burst into an agony of tears. "For God's sake!" cried hle, " if you h;ave any pity on me, don't mention my wife; it is the thoughIit of her that drives me almost to madnless!" "And why not?" said I, " She must know it sooner or later: you cannot keep it long fromn her, and the intell i gence may break upon her in a more startling mannier than if imijpart(e(i by yoursell; for the accents of those we love softeni the harshest tidings. Besides, you a re (lepriv ing yourself of the comfo r ts of her symwl)otity; and not merely that, but also enidangering the only bond that can keep hearts together-an unrcservewd conmmiiunityof thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind; an(] true love will not brook reserve: it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." " Oh, but, my friend! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects-lhow I am to strike her very sotul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beg gar!-that she is to forego all the elegancies of life-all the pleasures of society-to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she nig,ht have continued to move in constant brightness —the light of every eye-the admiration of every heart!-How can she bear poverty? She has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence How can she bear ncglect? She has been- the idol of society. Oh, it will break her heart-it will break her heart!" l I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; >e so orrow relieves itself by words. Wh1en haj paroxys:-: I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sutistain the most overvwheluing reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break downti tite spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give suchi intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it app)roach es to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weak ness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be tile comforter and supporter of her husband unider misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, wR,hichi has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak. and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hlar(dy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shat tered boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, wh!o is the mere dependant and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten withl sudden calamity; winding herself in to the rug?ed recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the droopin heald, and binding up the broken heart. I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a bloomlin,g family, knit together in the strongest af fection. " I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, 1 have observed that a married man falling into nisfor tjne, is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single oine; partly, because he is more stimulated to ex ertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who dependt upon him for subsistence; but chiefly, be crause his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic en dearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which lie is the monarchl. Whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witnes s. My in timate fiiend, Leslie, hadr id marr ied a beautifu l and accomplis hed girl, who had been brotught up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in ever) elegant pursuit, and administeming to those -delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex.-" Her life," said he, " shall be like a fairy tale-" The very difference in their characters produced a harmonious combination; he was of a romantic, and somewhat serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her ill company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight; and how, in the midst of -applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form,l contrasted finely with his tall manly person. The fonrd e onfiqin~ air with wfhich, she looked up to him ,eemcdi to call lb: th a flu~shh of t:iumlp!han,t pride and checr I THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 47 had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I it belonged to the little story of their loves; or some of resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mourn- he had leaned over that instrtment, and listened to t!i fully, but positively. melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this. "But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary instance of romantic gallantry in a doating husband. she should know it, that you may take the steps pro- He was now going out to the cottage, where his wifr per to the alteration of your circumstances. You must had been all day, superintending its arrangement. My change your style of living-nay," observing a pang to feelings had becomie strongly interested in the progress ot pass across his countenance, "don't let that afflict you. this family story, and as it was a fine evening, I offere(! I am sure you have never placed your happiness in outward to accompany him. shlow-you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged: and we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. surely it does not require a palace to be happy with "Poor Mary!" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from Mary-" " I could be happy with her," cried he convul- his lips. sively, "in a hovel' —I could go down with her into pov- "Arnd what of her," asked I, "has any thing happened erty and the dust!-I could-I coutld-God bless her!- to her?" God bless her!" cried he, bursting into a transport of grief "WVhat," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it and tenderness. nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation-to be caged "And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and in a miserable cottage-to be obliged to toil almost in the grasping him warmly by the hand, "believe me, she can menial concerns of her wretched habitation?" be the same with you. Ay, more: it will be a source of "Has she then repined at the change?" pride and triumph to her-it will call forth all the latent "Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and energies and fervent sympat'.es of her nature; for she will good huniour. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is have ever known her; she has been to me all love, and in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, tenderness, and comfort!" which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity "Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yoursell but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark poor, my friend; you never were so rich-you never knew hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his the boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in bosom is-no man knows what a ministering angel she that woman." 's-until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of "Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage this world." were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this There was something in the earnestness of my manner, is her first day of real experience: she has been introduced and the figurative style of my language, that caught the into an humble dwelling-she has been employed all day excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had in arranging its miserable equipments —she has for the to deal with; and following up the impression I had made, first time known the fatigues of domestic employmentI finished by persuading him to go home and unburthen she has for the first time lookled around her on a home his sad heart to his wife. destitute of every thing elegant-alnost of every thing con I muntst confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt venient; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and some little solicitudle for the result. Who can calculate spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." on the fortitude of onec whose whole life has been a round There was a degree of probability in this picture that I of pleasures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark, could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. downward path of low humility, suddenly pointed out be- After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so fore her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humlife is accon-ipanied by so many galling mortifications, to ble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; which, in other ranks, it is a stranger.-In short, I could and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had not meet Leslie, the next morning, without trepidation. overrun one end with a profusion of foliage; a few trees He had made the disclosure. threw their branches gracefully over it; and I observed "And how did sthe bear t I several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, " Like an anel! It seemed rather to be a relief to her Sand on the grass plot in front. A small wicket-gate mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked opened upon a footpath that wound thirough some shrubbery if this was all that had lately made me unhliappy.-But, to the door. Just as we approached, we heard thile sound poor girl," added he, "she cannot realize the change we of music-Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listenmust undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the ab- ed. It was Mary's voice, singing, in a style of the most stract: she has only read of it in poetry, where it is al- touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband was lied to love. She feels as yet no privation: she suffers no peculiarly fond. loss of accustomed conveniencies nor elegancies. When I felt Lcslie's hand tremble on my arm. Ile stepped wve come practically to experience its sordid cares, its pal- forward, to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise try wants, its petty humiliations-then will be the real on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out trial." at the window, and vanished-a light footstep was heard "But," stid I, "now that you have got over the severest -and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. Sihe was inl ask, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the a pretty rural dress of white; a few wild flowers were world into tihe secret the better. The disclosure may be twisted in her fine air; a fresh liloom was on her cheek; niortifying; but then it is a single misery, and soon over; her whole countenance beamed with smiles-I had never whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour seen her look so lovely. in the day. It is not poverty, so much as pretence, that "My dear George," cried she, "I am so glad you are harasses a ruined man-the struggle between a proud come; I have been watching and watching for you; and mind and an empty purse-the keeping up a hollow show running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to out a table under a beautiful tree behind the eottae; and appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." I've been gathering some o'f the most delicious strawber On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. Ite had ries, for I know you are fond of thle-mand we have such no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only excellent cream-and every thing is so sweet and still anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. here.-Oh!" said she, putting her arm within his, and Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the even- looking up brightly in his face, " Oh, we shall lie so happy! [lg. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken Poor LIeslie was overeoriie.-He cauighlt her to his bosom a small cottage in the country, a few niles from town. -lhe folded his armns round her —he kissed.ier again and He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. The again-lhe could not speak, but the tears g ushled into his rnw establishment required few articles, and those of the I eyes; and lie has often assured me, that though the worLD simplest kind. All the splendid furiuitue of his late resi- has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has ill deuce had been sold, excepting his wife's 1i'iiii That le deed beer a happy one, yet never lias he experienced a ia. x was too closely associated with tbe idel of lrs'elf; {i heoniaht of mnore extuesite felicitv. 48 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 0 T HE E P I CURE AN. BY THIOMAS Y'I.)V. A LETTER TO THE TRANSLATOR, FROM, EsQ. Cairo, Jo 19,180. Mr D]EAR SIR, DURING a visit lately paid by me to the monastery of St. Macarius-which is situated, as you know, in the Vallev ot the Lakes of Natron-I was lucky enough to obtain possession of a curious Greek manuscript, which, in the hope that you may be irnduced to translate it, I herewith transmit to you. Observing one of the monks very busily occupied in tearing ip into a variety of fantastic shapes some papers which had the appearance of being the leaves of old books, I inquired of him the meaning of his task, and received the following explanation: The Arabs, it seems, who are as fond of pigeons as the ancient Egyptians, have a superstitious notion that, if they place in their pigeon-houses small scraps of paper, written over with learned characters, the birds are always sure to thrive the better for the charm; and the monks, who are never slow in profiting by superstition, have, at all times, a supply of such amulets for purchasers. In general, the fathers of the monastery have been in the habit of scribbling these fragments themselves; but a discovery lately made by them, saves all this trouble. Having dug up (as my informant stated) a chest of old manullscripts, whnich, being chiefly on the subject of alchemy, must have been buried in the time of Dioclesian, "we thought," added the mork, "that we could not employ such rubbish more properly, than in teariing it uip, as you see, for the pigeon-hotises of the Arabs." Oin my expriessirng a wvish to rescue some part of these treasures from the fatte to which his indolent fraternity had (consigned them, he produced the manuscript which I have now the pleasure of sending you-the only one, hlie said, remaining entire-and I very readily paid the price which hlie demanded for it. You will find the story, I think, not altogether uninteresting; a(id the (,)incidence, in many respects, of the curious details in Chapter VI., with the description of the same ceremonies in the Romance of Sethos, wil, I have no doubt. strike you. Hoping that you may be induced to give a translation of this Tale to the world, I am, my dear Sir, very truly yours. siderablc increase of zeal and activity, throughout the consti ttuted authorities and priesthood of the whole Heathen world. What was wanting in sincerityofbeliefwas made up in rigour; -the w,eakest parts of the Mythology were those, of course, most angrily defended, and any reflections, tending to bring Saturn, or his rtkife Ops, int o contempt, were punished with the utmost seere(ity of the law. Iii this state of andtiws, be t ween the ralarme d bi got ry o f the declining Fait th ad the simple, s u bl ime austerity of her teal. it was not apoinderful that those lovers of ease and pleasure,m who ha d n o interest, reversionar y o r ot herwise, in the old religion, and %Aere too indolent to i nquire into the sancti ons o f the new, should take r efilge f rom th e se verities of both in the arms of a luxurious philosophy, which, leavin g to other s the task of disputing about the future, centred a ll its w isdom in the full enjoyment of then pr esent. The sectaries of th e Gar den had, ever since the Gdeath of their founder, beben ac cust omed to dedicate to his memory the twentieth day of ever i month. To these monthly rites had, for some t i me, been added a grand ainnudlal Festi val, i n commemoration of his birth. The feasts given on this o c cas i onu b my pred ecessors in the Chair, had been invariably distinguislo - ed for their taste alnd splendour; and it was my ambition, hno t merely to imitate this example, bu t e ven t o render the anniversary, now celebrated und er my au spi ces, so lively and brilliant as to efface the recollection of all that had preceded it. Seldom, indeed, had Athens witnessed so bright a scene. The grounds that formed the original site of the Garden had received, from time to time, considerable additions; and the whole extent was now laid out with that perfect taste, which understands how to wed Nature with Art, without sacrificing any of her simplicity to the alliance. Walks, leading through wildernesses of shade and fragrance-glades, opening, as if to afford a play-ground for the sunshine-temples, rising on the very spots where Imagination herself would have called them up, and fountains and lakes. in alternate motion and repose, either wantonly courting the verdure, or calmly sleeping in its embrace-such was the variety of feature that divers,ified thes IT was in the fourth year of the reign of the late Emperor Valeilan, that the fl)llowers of Epicurus, who were at that time numerous in Athens, proceeded to the election of a person to fill the vacant Chair of their sect;-and, by the unanimous voice of the School, I was the individual chosen for their Chief. I wias just then entering on my twenty-fiourth year, and no instance had ever before occurred, of a person so young being selected for that high office. Youth, however, and the person al advantages that adorn it, could not but rank among the most ag reeable recommen d ations t o a sect that included within its c ircl e all the beauty as well as the w it of Athe ns, and which, though dignifying,its pursuits with the name of philosophy, was little el se t ha n a plausible pretext for the mor e refined cultivation of pleasure. The character of the sect had, indeed, much changed since the time of its wise and virtuous founder, who, while he asserted that Plea-rare is the only Good, inculcated also that Good is the only source of Pleasure. The purer part of this doctrine had long evaporated, and the temperate Epicurus would have c-s little recognised his own sect in the assemblage of refined voluptuaries w ho now usurped its name, as he would have k noew chis ownd quiet Garden in the luxurious groves and bowers among w, hiclh the meetings of the School were now held. M,ny causes concurred, at this period, besides the attractiveness of its doctrines, to render our School by far the most popular of arv that still survived the glory of Greece. It may generally be observed, that the prevalence, in one half of a community, of very rigid notions on the subject of religion, produces the opposite extreme of laxity and infidelity in the otler; and this kind of re-action it was that now mainly contributed to render the doctrines of the Garden the most fashionable philosophy of the day. The rapid progress of the Christian faith had alarmned all those, who, either from piety or worldliness, were interested in the continuance of the old established creed-all who believed in the Deities of Olympus, and all whio lived. by them. The natural consequence was, a con I I I CHAPTER I. 50 TH MIRRLBAY [ir gardens; and, animated as they were on this occasion, by all the living wit and loveliness of Athens, it afforded a scene such as my own youthful fancy, rich as it was then in images of luxiry and beauty, could hardly hlve anticipated. The c-remonies of the day began w th the very dawn, mwhen, wccordiiig to the form of simpler and better times, those among i the disci-les who had apartments within the Garden, bore the i image of our Founider in procession from chamber to chamber, l chanting ver.es in praise of w hat had long ceased to be objects of our imitation-his frugality and telmperance. Round a beautiful lake, in the centre of the Garden, stood four white Doric temples, in one of which was collected a library containiti, all the flowers of Grecian literature; while, in the rem-lining three, Coniiversation, the Song, and the Dance, held, unintenrrupted by each other their respective rites. In the Library stood busts of all the most illustrious Epicureans, both ou Rome and Greece-Horace, Atticis, Pliiiy the elder, the poet Ltucretiuts, Lucian, and the lhtmeiited biographer of the Philosophers, lately lost to us, Diogenes LaertiLs. There. were also the portraits, in maible, oft all the eminent female votaries of the School-Leontiutm and her fir daughter Danae, Themistae, Phil Eis, and others. It was here that, ill my capacity of Her-esiarch, on the morn ing oi the Festival, I received the felicitations of the day from sonme of the fairest lips of Athens; and, in pronouncing the custoroaty oration to the ineni,iry of oitr Master (in which it was usual to dwell utpo2 the doctrines l ihe had inculcated,) en deavoured to attain that art, so useful before such an audience, of lending to the grav est subjec(ts it charm, which secures them listeners even amnoi, the simplest and most volatile. Though studv, as may be slipposedl, engrossed but little the nights or mornings of the Garden, yet all the lighter parts of learning —that portion ot its attic honey, f r which the bee is not compelled to go very deep into the flower-was somewhat zealously cultivated by us. Even here, however, the young studetit had to encounter that kind of distraction, which is, of all others, the least fas vo alt to composure of thought; and, with more than on o of iyv fait disciples there used to occur such scenes as the followinig, which a poet of the Garden, tak ing his picture from the life, thus described:-m It may seem stwatge th a t I sh ould now dwell upon all th et triflinig details; but they were to rne full of the future; and every thing connected witlh that memorable night —even its long-,-repented follies-I-must for ever live fondly and sacredly in my memory. The festival concluded withi a banquet, a, which, as master of the Sect, I presided; and being, imyselt. il every sense, the ascendant spilit of the whole scene, gat;e life to all around me, and saw my own happiness r-eflectedl in that of others. THE festiva was over;-the s ounds of the s ong and daned had ceased, and I was now left in th o se luxurious g ardens alme. Though so ardent and ac tive a votary of l Tleasuze, had by nature, a disposition ful l o f me lancholy;-a n imagisn ation teat, even in the mi dst of mirth a nd happinfess, presentehe saddening thoughts, and threw the shado w of t he future over the gayest illusions of the present. Melancholy was, i ndeed, twill-born in my soul with Passion; and not esven in the fullest fervour of the latter were they ever separated. From the first moment that I was conscious of thought and feeling, the same dark thread had run across the web; and images of death and annihilation came to mingle themselves with even the most smiling scenes through which love and enjoyment led me. My very passion for pleasure but deepened these gloomy thoughts. For, shut out, as I was by my creed, from a futriie life, and having no hope beyond the narrow horizon of this, every minute of earthly delight assumed, in my eyes a motir,i ful preciousness; and pleasure, like the flower of the ceme tery, grew but more luxuriant from the neighbourhood of death. This very night my triumph, my happiness, had seemed complete. I had been the presiding genius of that voluptu ous scene. Both my ambition and my love of pleasurie had (lrurnl; deep of the rich cup for which they thirsted. Look;,t tip to as I was bv the learned, and admired and loved 1),y tlhe I)ealtiftil and the young, I had seen, in every eye that mlet mine, either the acknowledgment of bright triumphs aiready won, or the promise of others, still brighter, that aw aited me. Yet, even in the midst of all this, the same dark thou(ghIts had presented themselves;-the perishableness or myself and all around me had recurred every instant to my mind. Those hands I had prest-those eyes, in which I had seen sparnk ling a spirit of lighat and life that ought never to die-those voi(es, thatt had spoken of eternal love-all, all I felt, were but a mockerl of the moment, and wsould leave nothing eterna. but the silence of their dust! 'As o'er the lake, in evening's glow, That tele threw its lengtiheiing shade, Upon. the marble stems below There sate a fair Corinlthiani mnaid, Gracefully o'er som volume ben dling; Whlile,, by her sid, tlhe youthful Sage field back her ringlets, lest,,!csccnltale They shotllf o'er-shlad,ow all the aage." But it was for the evening of that day, that the richest ofour luxuries were reserved. Every part of the Garden was illuminated, with the most skilful variety of lustre; while over the Lake of the Temples were scattered wreathsi of flovwers, through which boats, filled with beautiful children, floated, as tbrough a liquid parterre. Between two of these boats a mock combat was perpetually carried on;-their respective commnanders, two blooming youths, beiug habited to represent Eros and Anteros: the for mer, the Celestial Love of the Patonists, and the latter, that more earthly spirit, which usurps the name of Love among the Fgpicueans. Throu.ohout the whole evening their conflict was maintained with various success; the timid distance at which Eros kept aloof from his lively antagonist lcitg his only saeguard against those darts of fire, with showers of which the other assailed him, but which, falling short of their mark upon the lake, only scorched the few flowers on which they fell, and were extinguished. In another part of the gardens, on a wide,,lade, illuminated only by the mooni, was performed an imitation of the torch-race of the Panathensea by young boys chosen for their fleetness, and arrayed with wings, like Cupids; while, not far off, a group of seven nymphs, with each a star on her forehead, represented the movements of the planetary choir, and embodied he dream of Pythagoras into real motion and song. At every turning some new enchantment broke unexpectedly on the eye or ear; and now, from the depth of a dark grove, from which a fountain at the same time issued, there came a strain of sweet music, which, mingling with the murmur of the water, seemed like the voice of the spirit that presided over its flow; while, at other times, the same strain appeared to come breathing from among flowers, or was heard suddenly from under ground, as if the foot had just touched some spring filat s,t its lnel,dy in motion. Oha, were i t not for this said voice, Stealingr amid our mirth to say, That all ill wllich we mtost rejoice, Ere,ight may be the earth,-worm's prey; Buit for thits bitter —only this — Full as the world is briimmiii'd with bliss, And capled as Ice,Is my soul Off drainling to its dIcptlh the whole, I shld turn earth to heaven, and be, If bliss m ade gods, a deity! Such woais the description I gave of my own feelings in one of those wild, passionate songs, to which this mixture of mirthl and mnelanicholy, in a spirit so buoyant, naturally gave birth. And seldom had my heart so fully surrendered itself to this solrt f vaEue sadness -is at that very moment, Adwhen as I paced thoughtftllyv among the fading lights and flowers of the banquiet, the echo of my own step was all that now sounded, where so many gav forms had lately been revelling. The moon was still bkp, tuhe montinglwi had not yet glimmere d, aind the calm glories of the night still rested on all around. Unconscious whither my pa-ithwtay led, I continued to wainder along, till I, at length, found mvself before that fair statue of Ventus, with which the chisel of Alcamenes had embellished our Garden;-that image of deified woman, the only idol to which I had ever yet bent the knee. Leaning aagainst tie pedestal of the statue, I raised my eyes to heaven, and fixing them sadly and intently on the ever-b,,rning star-s, -s if seeking to read the mournful secret in their light, asked, where. fore was it that Man alone must fade and perish, while thev so much less wonderful, less godlike than he, thus still, lived on in radiance unchangeable and for ever!' Oh, that there were some spell, some talisman," I exclaimed, " to mak!;e the spirit that burns within us deathless as those stars, and open I 50 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. -- P CHAPTER II. -~~~~~~~~H EPCREN 5 to it a career like theirs, as bright and inextinguishable throughout all time!" While thus indulging in wild and melancholy fancies, I felt that lassitude which earthly pleasure, however sweet, still leaves behind, come insensibly over me, and at length sunk at the base of the statue to sleep. But even in sleep, the same fancies continued to haunt mie; and a dream, so distinct and vivid, as to leave behind ,t the impression of reality, thus presented itself to my mind. I fiound myself suddenly transported to a wide and desolate plain, where nothing appeared to breathe, or move, or live. The very sky that hung above it looked pale and extinct, Wiving the idea, not of darkness, but of light that had be come dead;-and had that whole region been the remains of some older world, left broken up and sunless, it could not inave presented an aspect more quenched and desolate. The only tihing that bespoke life, throughout this melancholy vwaste, was a small spark of light, that at first glimmered in the distance, but, at length, slowly approached the bleak spot where I stood. As it drew nearer, I could see that its small but steady gleam came from a taper in the hand of an ancient and venerable mall, who now stood, like a pale messenger from the grave, before me. After a few moments of awful i silence, during which he looked at me with a sadness that thrilled my very soul, he said "Thou, who seekest eternal life, go unto the shores of the dark Nilego unto the shores of the dark Nile, and thou wilt find the eternal life thou seekest! " No sooner had he uttered these words than the death-like hue of his cheek at once brightened into a smile of more than earthly promise; while the small torch he held in his handl sent forth a glow of radiance, by which suddenly the whole surface of the desert was illuminated;-the light eapraltdi d even to th e d ist an t horizon's edge, along who se ie I could nows s e e oardens, palaces, and spires, all as imp;lctt a, the rich architectur e of the clouds at sun set. S weet mu. tic, too, c ame float ing c in every direction through the air, ASIA,m al l sides, such varieties of enchantment broke upon n, thait, with th ee aie excess alike of harmony and of radiance, I awokee. That infidels should be superstitious is an anomaly neither iJnu.uual nor strange. A belief in superhuman agency seems na,-tura-l and necessary to the mind; and, if not suffered to tfow ii] the obvious cdi,nnels, it will find a vent in some other. H-1 -nce, m,ay wl -l hae~ doubted the existence of a God, have yet implici tlv placed themselves under the patronage. of Fate or the stars. Much the same inconsistency I was conscious of in mv own ii feelings. Thou h rejecting all belief in a Divine Providence, I had vw t a faith inl drcans, that all my philo,sophy could not c(mqlmier. Nor was experience itwantilng to confirm me in my delusion; for, by some )f those accidental coiicidences, which make the fortune of soothsayers and prophets, dreams, more than once, had been to me Thus fondly did I sometimes speculate, in those moods of mind, when the life of excitement in which I wa engaged, acting upon a warm heart and vivid fancy, produced an intoxication of spirit, during which I was not wholly my self. This bewilderment, too, was not a little increased by the constant struggle I experienced between my own natural feelings, and the cold, mortal creed of my sect-in endeavouning to escape from whose deadening bondage I but brokw loose into the realms of fantasy and romance. Even in my sobers st moments, however, that strange ritsion for ever haunted me; and every effort I made to chase it from my recollection was unavailing. The deliberate conclusion, therefore, to which I at last c ame, was, t hat to visit Egypt was now my only resource; that without seeing that land of wonders, I could net rest, nor until convinced of my folly by disappointment, be reasoniiable. Without delay, accordingly, I announced to my friends of the Garden, the intention I had formed to pay a visit to the land of Pyramids. To none of them, however, did I dare to confess the vague, visionary impulse that actuated men; —knowledge being the object that I alleged, while Plcasure was that for which they gave me credit. The interests of the School, it was feared, might suffer by my absence; and there were some tenderer ties, which had still more to fear from separation. But for the former inconvenience a temporary remedy' wa3 provided; while the latter a skilful distribution of vows and sighs allb viated. Being furnished with recoinmendatory letters to Eli parts of Egypt, I set sail in the summer of the year 257, A. D., for Alexandria. To one, who so well knew how to extract pleasure from every moment on land, a sea-voyage, however smooth and favourable, appeared the least ag,reeal)le mode of losing time that could be devised. Often, indeed, did my imagination in passing some isle of those seas, people it with fair forms and loving hearts, to which most willingly would I have paused to offer homage. But the wind blew direct towards the land of Mystery; and, still more, I heard a voice witlii me, whispering f(,r ever, " On." As we approached the coast of Egypt, our course betcam,le less prosperous; and we hal a specimen of the benevolence of the divinities of the Nile, in the shape of a storm, or rather whirlwN ind, which had nearly sunk our vessel, and which the Egyptians on board declared to be the work- of their deity, Ty phon. After a day and night of danger, during which we were driven out of our course to the eastwa J, some benigner influ ence prevailed above; and, at length, as the morning freshly broke, we saw the beautiful city of Alexandria rising from the sea, with its proud Palace of Kings, its portico of four hun. dred columns, and the fi- Pillar of Pillars, towering in the midst to heaven. After passing in review this splendid vision, we shot rapidly round the Rock of Pharos, and, in a few minutes, found our selves in the harbour of Eunostus. The sun had risen, but the light on the Great Tower of the Rock was still burning; and there was a languor in the first wakling movements of that voluptuous city —whose houses and temples lay shining in silence around the harbour-that sulfficiently attested the festivities of the preceding night. We were soon landed on the quay; and, as I walked through a line of palaces and shrines, up the street which leads from the sea to the Gate of Canopus, fresh as I was from the contemplation of my own lovely Athens, I yet felt a glow of admiration at the scene around me, which its novel ty, even more than its magnificence, inspired. Nor were the luxuries and delights, which such a city promised, among the least of the considerations upon which my fancy dwelt On the contrary, every thing around me seemed prophetic of love and pleasure. The very forms of the architecture, to my Epicurean imagination, appeared to call up images of living grace; and even the dim seclusion of the temples andi groves spoke only of tender mysteries to my mind. As the w hole bright scene grew animated around me, I felt that though Egypt might not enable me to lengthen life, abe could teach the next bet art-that of multiplying its enjo ments. The population of Alexandria, at this period, consisted of the most motley rmiscellany of i aations, religions an d c see that had ever been orought together in ne city. Beside Oracles, truer far than oak, Or dove, or tripod, ever spoke. It was not wonderful, therefore, that the vision of that night -touching, as it did, a chord so ready to vibrate-should have affected me with more than ordinary power, and even sunk deeper into my memory with every effort I made to for get it. Il,-ain did I mock at m; own weakness; suclh self derision is seldom siic le. In vatiin did I pursue my accus tomed pleasures. Their zest w*as, as usual, for ever new but still, in the midst of all my cenjoymenit, came the cold and saddenln g Consciousness of imior-tatity, and, with it, the recol tection of that vsiptoliary promise, to which my fawicy, in defiance of reason, st ill continue d to cling. At times indulging in reveries, that were little else than a continuation of my dream, I evencontemplated the possible existence of some mighty secret, by which youth, if not perpetuated, mig,ht be at least prolonged, and that dreadful vicinity of death, within whose circle love pines and pleasure sickens, might be for a while asserted. " Who knows," I would ask, "but that in Egypt, that region of wonders, where Mystery hath yet unfolded but half her treasures-when still remain, undeciphered, upon the pillars of Seth, so many written secrets of the antediluvian world —who can tell but that some powerful charm, some amulet, may there lie hid, whose discovery, as this phantom bath promised, but awaits my corn ing-some compound of the same pure atoms, that form the ersence of the iving stars, and whose infusion into the frame of mmn might tender him also unfading and immortal!" 51 THE EPICUREAN. CHAPTER 111. THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 5~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~..... the school of the Grecian Platonist was seen the oratory of the cabalistic Jew; wc.ile the church of the Christian stood, undisturbed, over the crypts of the Egyptian Hieropliant. Here, the adorer of Fire, from the East, laughed at the less elegant superstition of the worshipper of cats, from the West. Here Christianity, too, had learned to emulate the pious vagaries of Paganism; and while, on one side, h t er Ophite professor was seen bending his knee gravely before a serpent, on the other, a Nicosian Christian was heard contending, with no less ravity, that there could be no chance whatever of salvation out of the pale of the Greek alphabet. Still worse, the unrcharitableness of Christian schism was already, with equal vigour, distinguishing itself; and I heard evewry where, on my arrival, of the fierce rancour and hate, with wlhic(h the Greek and Latin churchmen were then persecutinz each other, because, forsooth, the one fasted on the seventh day of the week, and the others fasted upon the fourth and sixth! To none, however, of these different creeds and sects, except in as far as thev furnished food for ridicule, had I time to pay much attention. I was now in the most luxurious city of the universe, and accordingly gave way, without reserve, t o th e v arious seducti ons that surrounded me. mly d reputation, both as a philosopher and a man of pleasure, had preceded mv coming; and Alexandria, the secorni Athliet of the world, welcomed me as her own. I found my celebrity, in,deed, art as a talisman, that opened all hearts anlt doors at my approach. The usual novitiate of acquaiwta,~c, Xas dispensed with in my favotir, and not only intimacies, but loves and friendships, ripened as rapi(llv in my path, as vegetation raprings up where the Nile has flowed. The dark beauty of the l,;gyptiani women possessed a novelty in my ey,,s that ellhancedl its other charms; and the hue left b)y the sti., o01 theqir rounded cheeks seemed but an earnest of the geni~il urilot he must have kindled in their hearts more enlivened myself, or succeded better in infusing lif e an d gaiety into others. Among the co m pan y were some Greek women, who a, - cording to -he fashion of their country, wore veils; but, at; usual, ather to set offton than to conceal their beaut y, sowa i bright gleams of which were constantly escaping from ul,lt,-X the cloud. There w as, h owever, ourne femal e, who parti(larly attracted my attention, on wrhose head wa s a chaple of dark-coloured flowe rs, and who sa t veiled an d silent duiing the whole of t he banqu et. She to ok no s hare, I o bse rved, in wh at was passingt around: t nc the iands and the wine wen, by her untouched, nor did a word that was spoken s ee m ad dre ssed to her car. This abstraction from a scen e s o spar k ling with gaiety, though a ppa rently unnoticed b, any one but myself, st r uck me a3 mysterious and stranete. I inquireb of my fair neighb)dour the cause of it, but she lo ok ed grave, and was silent. In e ai th tl y the meau time, the lyre d the cup w en t round; and a young maid from Athpns, ase if iunspiren by the presence of her countryman, took her lute,;l d sungl to it some of the songs of Greece, with a warinth of feeling that bor e me back to tho banks of the Ilisus, an(l, even in the bosom of present plea sure, drew a sigh from n my b nheart for that which had passed away. It was day-break ere our deligse nted p arty rose, and most unwillingly ro-tmbarkd ocl to return to the city. We were scarce afloat, when it wa s disco vered that the lute of the young Athenia n had been left behind; and, w i th a heart still full of its swee t sotendm, I most re adily spramy on shore to seek it. I hastened at once to the banquet-roolo, which was now dim and solitary, except that —there, to my utter asto n ish ment, was still aseate d that silent figure, wh ich had awakened so much my curiosity during the evening. A vague feeling of awe came over m,;, as I now slowly appr oasched it. There was no motion, no sounmd of br eathin g in t hat form;-not a leaf of the dark chaplet upon its brow s ti rred. By the light of a dyi ng la mp w hich stood on the tab le befd)r, the figur e, I raised, with a hesit atin g hand, the veil; andi s aw v -what my fncy ad already aticipated-that m vsthe shape underneath was lifeless, w as a skeleton! Star tled and shocked, I hurrie d back with the lute to the boat, anI td was nlmost ai silent as th at shape i tself du ring the remainder of the voyage. This custom among the Egyptians o f placing at muIminy, or skeleton, at the banquet-table, had been for soren, time dis used, except at particular ceremonies; and, even onl such occasions, it had bee n the practice of the luxurious Alexasdrianls to disguise this memorial of mortality in the manncr just dedescribed. But to me, who waas wholly ue prepalred for such a spectacle, it gave a shock from which my imagination did not speedily recovee. This silent and ghasvtly witness ofmirty. seemed to embody, as it were, the shadow in my own heart. The features of the grave were thus stamped u,cn tile idea that had longli hauniited me, and this picture of what I was to be now associated itself constantly with the sunniest aspect of what I was. The memory of the dream now recurred to me more livelily than even The bright, assuring smile of that venerable Spi rit, and his words, " Go to the shores of the dark Nile, and thou wilt find the eternal life thou seekest," were for ever present to my mind. But as yet, alas, I had done nothing towards realizing the proud promise. Alexandria was not Egypt;-the very soil on which it now stood was not in ex istence, when already Thebes and Memphis had numbered ages of glory. "No," I exclaimed; " it is only beneath the Pyramids of M'emplhis, or in the nmystic Halls of the Labyrinth, those holy arcane a~re to be found, of which the antediluvian world has made Egyjpt its heir, and among which —blest thought! —the key to eternal life may lie." Having formed my determination, I took leave of my man* Alexandrian friends, and departed for Memphis. Some weeks had now pas sed ini such constan t In everchangirg pleasures, that even the melanchlol y voice deep within my healrt, th,)tzh it still ~pooke, was but seldom listenied to, abil "antl l)( )ie a t,v i n t he sou nd of the siren sonks that surrmoundel me. At lenth. as the novelty of these -aly scenes wore off, the same wahice a nw nalo t wm boaning began to mingle with all my joys; and a incident th at occurredl, at this time, during one ofmy ga yest revels, c elIsonced still m, tre to deepen their gloom. Thie celebration of the annual festival of m fa Seraepis happened to tahie place during m y s tay, and I was, more than once, induced to m ini ngle w ith the gay multitudes that f locked to the shrine at Canopus on the occasion. Day and right, as long,as thi s festival las ted, th e great canal, wh, whlich ed from Alexandria to Canopus, was covered with boats full of pilgrims of b,',th sexes, all hastening:o a-rail t~mlselves of this pious license, which lent the zest of a religious sanietioni to pleasure, and scave a holyday to the follies and passions of earth, in h,: sioilr of heaven. I wva! returning, one lovely night, to Alexandriat. The north wind, that welcome visiter, had cooled and freshened the air, while the banks, on either side of the stream, sent forth, from groves of orange and henna, the most delicious odours. As 1 had left all the crowd behind me at Canopus, there was not a boat to be seen on the canal but my own; and I wsas just yielding to the thoughts which solitude at such an hour insF'res, when my reveries were suddenly broken by the sound >f some female voices, coming mingledcl with laughter and screams, from the garden of a pavilion, that stood, brilliantly illuminated, upon the bank of the canal. Oil rowing nearer, I perceived that both the mirth and the alarm had been caused by the efforts of some playful girls to !each a hedge of jasmine which grew near the water, and in bending towards which they had nearly fallen into the stream. Hastening to proffer my assistance, I soon recognisecl the voice of one of my fair Alexandrian friends; and, springing on the bank, was surrounded by the whole group, who insisted on my joining their party in the pavilion: and, having flung around me, as fetters, the tendrils of jasmine, which thev had just plucked, conducted me, no unwilling captive, to the banquet-room. I found here an assemblage of the very flower of Alexandrian society. Tile unexpectedness of the meeting added new test to it on both sides; and seldom had I ever felt EGYPT was, perhaps, of all othl,rs, the country most calcu lated, from that mixture of the melancholy and the voluptu ous, which marked the character of her people, her religion, and her scenery, to affect deeply a fancy and tempeoiment like mine, and keep both forever tremblingly alive. Whereever I turned, I beheld the desert and the garden, mingling together their desolation and bloom. I sawv the love-bowei and the tomb Sanding side by side, as if, in that land, Plea 32 4 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Thl imb,.wni,,g of the fruit, that tell,, How rich witl,,In t.e soul of.,,,t.es., dwell,. CHAPTER IV. annihilated, while pyramids endure? Oh, Death, Death. even upon these everlasting tablets-the only approach to immortality that kings themselves could purchase-thou hast written our doom awfully, and intclligibly, saying,' There is for man no eternal mansion, but the grave!'" My heart sunk at the thought; and, for the moment, I yielded to that desolate feeling, which overspreads the soul that hath no light from the future. But again the buoyancy of my nature prevailed, and again, the willing dupe of vaiti dreams, I deluded myself into the belief of all that my heart most wished, with that happy facility which enables imagiina tion to stand in the place of happiness. "Yes," I cried, " immortality must be within man's reach, and, as wisdom alone is 1 orthly of such a lilessitig, to the wise alone must the secret have been revealed. It is said, that deep under yonder pyramid, has lain for ages concealed the Table of Eme ral, on which the Thrice-Great Hermes, in times before the flticod, engraved the secret of Alchemy, whiich gives gold at will. Why, then, may not the mightier, the more god-like secret, that gives life at will, be recorded there also? It Te,as t)y the iowie,r of gold, of endless gold, that the kings, who n1 ow iIelose in those massy structures, scooped earth to its very centrt, and raised quarries into the air, to provide toti themselv s tombs that might outstand the world. Who (c-i tell ]l)it that the gift of immortaslity was also theirs? who knioows ])tit tlhat tli: y thliemselves, triumphant over decay, stili live;-tlios( migity mansionis, which we call tombs, being r ic h aid ev erlasting palaces, within whose depths, concealed from this witheriug world, they still watder, withi the few eI 1c t wh, lhave been sihareis of their gift, throughl a sunless, lout I Xt r illnminated, clysium of their own? Else, Xherefore tlioi.e striuctuires? lwherefore that subterranean realm,by which the wii}ol' valle( of Egypt is uni(lernitue I? Why, else, those labyrinths, which InoTIe of eat th hitth e eri beheld-which note of heaven, e-xI('I)lt tha t Gol, A ho stands, a itli finger on his htlushe(?d lip, lhttl crer tr-oddc(n'! Vhlile thus I iilg(Lc(d in folid dreams, the sun, already half snotfk beneathl the horizIi, ss taokin calmlv and glori ously, his last look of the 1yntmidls-as hlie hi,l doiie, evening after evening, f)r ates, till they had grown finsiliar to him as the earth itself. O the sid(le totrne(d to lihs ray tlhey tow presented a front of dItzzliii w itenl, c svllil(, li tl-i, other, their great sha(lws., leawithetiii way to thit eastNard, looked like the first stepis if ig.t, hi:;te)ifg to enivelope thie hills of Araby ill he(rl slin,tde. No sooner had the last gleamn of the sun (lisaplpea re,l, than. on every house-top in Mem-phis, gay, gild d ( iiaers we re seen waving aloft, to proclaiim his setting,, —while, at tlhe same moment, a ftill burst of harmonoiy was head(l to ptea! froin all the temples along the shores. Startled from my mulsings by these sound.s, I at once reol lected, that, on that very evening, thi( grreat f(,stiva-l of the Moon] was to be celebrated. On a. little Ish i, half-itay over between the gardens of Memphis and the eastern shores stood the temple of that goddess, sure and Death kept hourly watch upon each other. In the very luLxury of the climate there was the same saddening influence. The monotonous snlen(lour of the days, the solemn radiance of the nights-all tended to cherish that ardent melancholy, the offspring of passion and of thought, which had bee as o long th e familiar inmate of my soul. When I sailed from Alexandria, the inundation of the Nile was at its full. The whole valley of Egypt lay covered by its blood; and, as, looking around me, I saw in the light of the setting sun, shrines, palaces, and monuments, encircled by the waters, I could almost fancy that I beheld the sinking island of Atalantis, on the last evening its temples were visible above the wave. Such varieties too, of aniimationi as preoented themselves on every side! While, far s sight could reach, beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever bless'd this sphere, Gardens, and pillar'd streets, and porphyry domes, And high-built temples, fit to be the homes Of mighty gods-and pyra..ids, whose hour Outlasts all time, above the waters tower! Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that inake One theatre of this vast peopled lake, Where all that Love, Religion, Com.,merce gives Of life and motion, ever imoves and lives. Here, tap the steps of temples, from. the wave Asceniding, in procession slow a..d grave, Priests, in whi te gar mnts, go, with sacred wands And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands: While, there, rich barks-fresh frion thos,, sunny tracts Far off, bevond the sounding cataractsGlide iswith their precious lading, to tie sea, Plume,ns of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory, Genl.-s f:o the Isle of Meroe, an.I those grains Of gold, wash'd downv by Abyssinianl rains. Here, where the waters wind into a bay Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way To Sais or Bubastus, among beds Of lotus-flowers, that close above their heads, Push their light barks, and ],id, as in a bower Singf, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour; While, haply, not far off, beneath a bank Of h) s,so.ning acacias, manlv a p,rank i' play'd in the cool current by a train Ofa i nyimphsl, lovely as she, whose chain Aron tidl tw o onquerors of the world was cast, But, for a third too feeble, broke at last! Enchanted zenith the whole scene, I lingered delightedly on my voyage, visiting all those luxurious and venerable places, whose names have been consecrated by the wonder of ages. At Sais I was present during tlhe Festival of Lamps, and read, by the blaze of innumerable lig,hts, those sublime words on the temple of Neitha:-" I am all that has been, that is, atil that will be, and no man hath ever lifted my veil." I wandered among the prostrate obelisks of Heliopolis, and saw, not without a igh, the sun smiling over her ruins, as if in mockery of the miss of per ishable grandeur, that had once called itself, in its pride, The City of the Sun." But to the Isle of tihe Golden Veisis was, I own, mv fondest pilgrimage;-andI there, as I rambled through its shades, where bowers are the only temples, I felt how far more worthy to form the shrine of a Deity are the ever-living stems of the garden and the grove, than the moe -.?ciois columns the inanimate quarry can supply. Every onere new pleasures, new interests Baaite d me; and thouith Melancholv stood, as usual, for ever tiear, Aher shadow fell but half-way o ver my va,r-tnt path, leavin, the rest but more wselcoinel- brilliant from the contrast. To rela t e fmy various adventures, duiriti this short voyage, would only le- tain me from events, fir, fair more wotthiy of record. Amidst I all thi e lss variety of attrations, the great object of m y journey hadt been fiorgotten;-the mystc ies of this land of the sun still rem tined, to me, as much mvsteries as ever, and as yet 1 bad bh ee ititiate(l in nothin,r but its pleasures. It aas not till tirt nmems orable evening, when I first stoold i) foce ilthe Iramis of Memphi, and bI)eheld them towering aloft, like the saitch-ti)awers of Time, from whose summit, ashen about to expire, he will lolok his last-it was not till this momnent that the re'tt secret a,ioounced in my dream agai n rose, in all its insertaitl)le drlkess upon my thoughits. Tiere was a solemiitv in the sulnshine r,stitg upon those monuments -a stillness, as of reve rence, in the air that breathed a r oaund them, which seemed to steal, like the music of past times, into my heart. I thiou ht vwh-tt myriads iof the wise, the beau- 1 tiful, and the brare. hl -l s'l;-iit:) dlt since earth first saw those wondlers; aida ii the "i l-li.is of my soul, I exclaimed, -- " Must man alon.e, thlen. p lrish. m:st minds and he ti'ts be whos e bea ms Bring the sweet time of nig ht-fiow crs and dreams. loot the cold Dian of the Nortlh, who chains In vestal ice the current of young veigs; But she, whlo haunts the gay, Bublastiant grove, And owns she sees, from her bright heaven above, Nothing on earth to latch that heaveni, btut love! THa. ris ing of the lmoon, slow and majes ti c, a s if conscious of the honours that awaited her upon eaqth, was welcomed with a loud acclaim from every eminienice, where multitudes stood watching for her first light. And seldom had that lig,ht risen upon ai more beautiful scene. The city of Mem phis —still brand, though no longer the unrivalled Memphis, that had borne away from Tlhebes the crown of supremacy, an(] worn it uadispulted thiroug,h ages-n)v, softened by the mild moonlighlit thait harmonized with her decline, shone fortb among her lakes, heil pyramids, and her shrines, liko oue o i 53 THE EPICUREAN. Thus did I exel,-Lim, in tli(- wor,ls of one )f their owiiegyp tian poets, as, aiiticipa.tiiig the vtrioiis delights of the festival, I cast away from i-ny mind all,-rl,)oniy thoughts; and, hasten ing to my little barlz, in wlii(-,h I t)oN, lived the life of a Nile bird, on the waters, steered my course to tl-ie islaiid-temple of the Moon. CIIAPTER V. THE MIRROR LIBRARY those tireams of human glory that must ere long pass away. Even'already iin was visible around her. The sands of thei Libyan desert were gaining upon her like a sea; and there, among solitary columns and sphinxes, already half sunk from sight, Time eemed to stand waiting, till all that now flourIshed around him should fall beneath his desolating hand, like the rest. On thme waters all was gaiety and life. As far as eye could reach, the lights o' innumerable boats were seen studding, like rubies, the surface of the stream. Vessels of every kind -from the light coracle, built for shooting down the cataracts, to the larie yacht that glides slowly to the sound of flutes-all were aloat for this sacred festival, filled with crowds of the voung and the gay, not only from Memphis and Babylon, but from cities still farther removed from the festal scene. As I approached the island, I could see, slitteriuinon through the trees on the bank, the lamps of the pilgrims hastening to the ceremony. Laining in the direction which those lights pointed out, I soon joined tlse crowd; and, passing thirough a long alley of sphinxes, whose spangling marble gleamed out from the dark sycaiorce arouid them, reached in a short time the grand vestibule of the temple, where I found the ceremonies of the evening alreadv commenced. In this vast hall, whih as suarounded by a douible range of columns, and lar open over-win e ad to the stars of h eaven, I saw a group of ymaidens, movin i n a sor t of measured step, between wblnl antdne round a s m all shrine, upon which stood o ne of the.ow ie s acred birds, that, on account of the Isicarmio to wime are cdencated tocalm of the w ingsound of w orship of the mpri. The vestibule was dimly lithtedh ther e being but one samp of naphtha hung on each o f the great pillars that eltcirce it. Brhaving taen my station beside onm onf taoste a tilwars, I had a clear view of ther oung lancers, aa in succession thev passed me. The drapery of all was wvhite as snow; and each wore loosely, beneath tp dacrkbure zonea, s d tona or bandelet, studded, like theaven at midtisg ht, with small s i lver stars. Throu gh their,l ark locre-wa,- wre athed the white lily of the Nile —that sa-cred flower be-ing,- accounted no less welcome to the moon, than the golden blossoms of the bean-flower are known to be to the sun. As they passed under the lamp, a gleam of lin ht flas hed from their bosoms, which, I could pernc eiv e, was the reflgcto of te small mirror, that, in the manner of the women of the E'ast, each of the dancers wore beneath her left shoulder. There was ro music to regulate their steps; but, as they gracefully went round the birdI on the shrine, some to the beat of the castanet, some to the shrill ring of a sistrumwhich they held uplifted in the attitude of their own divine Isii —continued harmoniously to time the cade nce of their feet; while other.;, at every step,,book a small chain of silver, whose sound, miinglIing, with those of the castanets and sistrums, produced a wild but not unipleas,ing harmony. They seemed all lovely; but there was one —whose face the light had not yet reached, so downcast she held. it —who attracted, and, at leng-thi, riveted all my looks and thoughts. I know not why, but there was a something in those halfseen fe-atures-a charm in the very shadow, that hung over their imag'ined beaiuty —which took my fancy more than all the out-shining- loveliness of her companions. So enchain-ed was I by thisi coy mystery, that her alone, of all the group, could I either see or think of —her alone I watched, as, with the same downcast brow, she glided gently and aerially round the altar, as if her presence, like tl-.at of a spi ri t, was a new feeling-I-a new sense-coming as suddenly upon me as that ra dinazince into the vestibule, and, a t once filling my wholeuns and hb aerdbad that bri ght fi t vision bat in gered anothe momenmt beff sred v (yes, I should in my transport have wholly forgot ten who I and where, and thrown myself, ii pros;trate ador at,ion, a t o I ery fee t But scarcely had titat guish of harmony been board, when the sacred bird, which bad, till now, been standing motionless as an image, spread owide his wio gs and flew into the Temple; while hiis, graceful young worshippers, with a fleet hess like his own, fo~llowed-'and she, who had left at dream in my heart never to be forgotte!n, vanished along with the rest. As she went rapidly past the pillar against which I leaned, the ivy that eonircled it te claudt in her drapery, and dibesiegagoneod some orpiiment, Iwhaicl i fell to the groungid. It wai the s mall mirror which I b ad seen sitheing on h e r bosom. Hastily and tremiiulouslyv T picked it u-p, an~d hurried to restore it; but sheiit was alrsn;an lo.et to my eyes it the crowd. In va in did I trs to follrhof;-t empise a,stlready filled, and numbera s of e ager ptirs pssedno towards the portal. But the servan~ts of the( Temple denied alil fitrther entrance, and still, as I presented mnss welcef, their white waupnds barre d thee wat. Perplexed and i ntate d amid thehat Ddrow o f fmlces, regardinig all as cuiemice thazt impl~(ed- ed y pr}rs, I stood on tiptoe, gazing into the un s y aisle,,, e ithel a oear t s es aingl he, as I c aught, fi'om time to ti,is o glof ioe of somespuhnrled zo n e, o r lotuworebe grots i ath thc led me to fthcv tob are descovered the fair object sfhouler. posited iBut iot was all in vain; -in every directio,, files of saicred~ nymphs we —~re m-oving,but nowhere could I ditscover her withtohe alone I s ought. In this s tate ofbreatgle ss aty giett ion ad d I staco foe r some time T-bewildered with lhe cobtfuseion of face s and alights, a s tcc a-, with t he cloud- of incense that ro ll ed arok Te d md mey-ti ll, fes - vereata end impatient, I could tin efdre it no longer. Forcins, my way out of the vestibule into the co(, w asth hare rie back through the alleyv o f sphinxes to the sl ore, and flAog myself into my boat. There lies, to the n orth of Mempshi s, a solitary lakn ie, (wh ich at this season of the year, mi ng les with th e rest of the waters,) upon whose sCt o res stands the Necrdup, olis, or City of the Deasea place of melancholy grandeur, c overed over with shrines tam ncl py ra mids, where ninty a ntingey head, proud eve n in death, has tlaino a waiti ng through long ages the resurrection white azed, Theoud crae of a teougha rawnge to sepu ly el fre ts underneath, the humbler d eiz ents o f the to mb are del posited-lookiang out on e ach successive generation tlha' vis itstibule; wi t thesa cae wid theatur es t he mean time y wore cugh turies aao. itvery ligt and tre e, cowsecrated to deate, froa the aspohodel-flown a m l to the raystiac plaiidtlin, H geands its sweet hess or shadow to this place of tomnbs; and the only noise that disturbs it,; eternal calm, is the low bumming sound of the priests at prayer, when a new inhabitant is added to the Silent City. It was towards t hi s p lace of death that, i n a mood o f mind, as usu al, half gloomy, half bright, I now, almost omncons ciously, directed my bark. The form of the younf Pri es t ess was continually before me. That one brighIt look of hers, the very remem-br-anc-e of,%which was worth althe actual smiles of others, never for a moment left my rmind. Absorbed in such thoug,hts, I continued to row on, scarce knowing whither I went, till, at length, s4tartled to find myself within the shadow of the City of the Dead, I looked up, and beheld, rising in succession befo~re me, pyramid beyond pyramid, each towering more loftily than the other-whiile all were out-topped in grandeur by one, upon whose summit the 34 THEWEPICUREAN. 55 mystic wisdom of the Egyptians loves to shadow out the History of the Soul; the winged globe with a ser pent-the rays descending frotl above, like a glory-and the Thslban b eetle, as he comes forth after thle waters have passed away, an d the first sunbeam falls on his regenerated winds. In the middle of the chapel, on a low altar of g ran ite, lay a lifeless f emale from, enshrin e d within a case of crystal-a s it is the custom to preserve the dead i n Ethiopia-and looking as freshly beautiful as if the soul had but a fe w hour s departed. Among the emblems of death, on the fron t of the altar, were a slende r lotus branch broken in t w o, a nd a small bird just wingi ng i ts fligh t from th e spray. To these memo rials of the dead, h owever, I paid but little attention;.ar there was a living object there upon which my eyes w'e-~ now intently fixed. The lamp, by which the whole of the chapel wa s illumina - ted, was placed at the head o f the pale i mage i l the shrine; and between its light and me stood a fe male form, ben ding over the monument, a s i f to g aze u pon the s ilen t features within. The position in which this figire was placed, inter cepting a strong light, afforded me, at first, but an imperfect and shadowy view of it. Yet even at thi s mere outline I felt my hear t beat hiigh-and memory had no less share, as it proved, in this feelinag than imagination. For, on the head changing its position, so a s t o let a gleam fall upo n the fea - tures, I saw, with a transport which had almost led me to betray my lurking-place, thait -it as she-the young weorshipper of Isis-tthle same, te very same, wehom I ha d seen, bripghtenihg the holy place wher e she stood, and looking like, B nta n inhabitan t of som e purer world. The movement, by which s he had no w afforded me an oppo rtunity of r e cognizing her, w as made in raising from the shrine a small cross of silver, which lay directly over the bosom ofthe lifeless figure. Bri ng ing it close to her lips, she kissed it with a religious fermour; then turning her eyes mournfully upw ards, hel d t hem fixed wit h a de gree o f in spired earnestness, as if, at that moment, in direct commu nion with Heaven, th ey saw neither roof, nor any other earth ly barrier, betweeni them and the s kies. What a powe r is there in innocence! whose very helpless ness is its safeguard-in whose presence even Passion him self stands tabashed, and turns p i d orshipper at the very alta which he came to despoil! She, who, but a s hor t hour be fore, had presented herself to mly imagination as something I could have risked immortality to win-she, whon gladly, from the floor of her own lighted temple, in the very face of its p roud ministers, I wofld. h have bor ne away in triumph and dared all punishments, divine and human, to m ake her mine-that very creature was no-,A before me, a s if thrown by fate itself, into m y po,weI-staondig there, beautiful andi alone, with lnotihiing but h er innocence for her guard! Yet, no-so touchlincg vwas the puiri ty of the whole scene, so calmh and august that proelection which the dead extended over t hi living, that every earthly feeling was forgotten as I gazed, and love itself became exalted into reverence. But, entranced as I felt in witniessing- such a scene, thus to enjoy it by stealth seemed to me a wrong, a sacrilege and, rather than let her eyes encounter the flash of mine, oar disturb, by a whisper, that sacred silence, in which Youth and Death held communion through undying Love, I would have suffered my heart to break, without a murmur, where I stood. Gently, as if life itself depended on my every move ment, I stole awray from that tranquil and holy scene —lea ing it still holy and tranquil as I had found it-and, gliding back throul,7h the same passages and windings by which I had entered, reached again the narrow staiIrvay, and re-as eended into light. The sun had just risen. and, fr'om the summit of the &fat bian hills, Mwas pouring dow n his beams into that vast valle? of waters —as if p~roud of last night's homage to his own d f rine Isis, now fading away in tlie superior splendour of hen Lord. MWy first impulse was to fly at once fr'om this danger ous spot, and in new loves and pleasures seek forgetfulnons of the wvondrous scene I had just w.:tnessed. " Once," I es claimed, " out of the circle of this erchantment, I know too well my ow n susceptibility to new impres sions, to feel any dough, that I shall soon break the sp~ell that is lrow around me." But vain were all my efforts and res(lves. Evren while swveamng to fly that spot, I founed mly sters still lingering fondly round the pyramid —my eye. still turned towards the portal which severed this enchantress from the world of the living. Hour after ho r did I wander through that City i/ Turning away, with a shudder, from the cemetery at this ttought, I heard the sound of an oar plying swiftly through the water, and, in a few moments, saw, shooting past me towards the shore, a small boat in which sat two female figures, muffled up and veiled. Having landed them not far from the spot where, under the shadow of a tomb on the bank. I lay concealed, the boat agail. departed, with the same fleetness, over the flood. Never had the prospect of a lively adventure come more welcome to me than at this moment, when my busy fancy was employed in weaving such chains for my heart, as threatened a bondage, of all others the most difficult to break. To become enamoured thus of a creature of my own imagination, was the worst, because the most lasting, of follies. It is only reality that can afford any chance of dissolving such spells, and the idol I was now creating to myself must for ever remain ideal. Any pursuit, therefore, that seemed likely to divert me from such thoughts-to bring back my imagination to eayth and reality, from t he vagu e regi o n in which it had been wandering wa s a relief far too s easonable not to be welc omed with eagerness. I had watched the course which the two figaures took, and, having hastily fastened my boat to the bank, stepped gently on shore, and, at a littl e distance, followed th em. The windings through I*.ch th ey l ed were intricate; but, by the buidht lipgh t of the dadtn, I was enabled to keep the ir forams in view, as, with rapid step, they glided among the monurr.etits. At length, in t he s hade of a small pyramid, whose p eak barely surmounted t he plane-trees that grew niglh, they vanished from my sight. I hastened to the spot, but there was not a sign of life around; and, had my creed extenided to another world, I might have fancied these forms were spirits, sent down from thence to mock me —so instantaneously had4 they disappeared. I searched through the neihlbouring grove, but all there was still as death. At length, in examining one of the sides of the pyramid, which, for a few feet from the ground, was furnished with steps, I found, mnidwav between peak and base, a part of its surface, which, although presenting to the eye an appearance of smoothness, gave to the touch, I thought, indications of a concealed opening. After a variety of efforts and experiments, I, at last, more by accident than skill, pressed the spring that commanded this hidden aperture. In an instant the portal slid aside, and disclosed a narrow stairway within, the two or three first steps of 6,hich were discernable by the moonlight, while the rest were all lost in utter darkness. Though it was difficult to conceive that the Fersons whom I had been pursuing would have ventured to pass through this gloomy opening, yet to account for their disappearance otherwise was still more difficult. At all events, my curiosity was now too eager in the chase to relinquish it;-the spirit of adventure, once raised, could not be so easily laid. Accordin,gly, having sent up a gay prayer to that bliss-loving QueCn w hose eye alone was upon me, I passed through the portal, and descended into the pyramid. AT the bottom of the stairway I found myself in a low, narrow passage, through which, wi, -.- ut stooping almost to the earth, it was impossible to proved. Though leading through a multiplicity of dark windings, this way seemed but little to advance my progress-its course, I perceived, being chiefly circular, and gathering, at every turn, but a deeper intensity of darkness. " Can any thin,," thought 1, " of human kind sojourn here?"-and had scarcely asked myself the question, when the path opened into a long gallery, at the farthest end of which a gleam of light was visible. This welcome glimmer appeared to issue from some cell or alcove, in which the right-hand wall of the gallery terminated, and, breathless with expectation, I stole gently towards it. Arrived at the end of the gallery, a scene presented itself to my eyes, for which my fondest expectations of adventure could not have prepared me. The place from which the light proceeded was a small chapel, of whose interior, from the dark recess in which I stood, I could take, unseen myself, a full and distinct view. Over the walls of this orat w painted some of bhose various symbols, by which the i i 55 TIIE EPICUREAN. CHAPTER VI. T M LIBARY on tihe preceding night. The lamp still stood burning upon the crystal shrine; the cross was lying where the hands of the young mourner had placed it, and the cold image, within thile sh rii e, wore still the same tranquil lookl, as if resigned to the solitude of death-of all lone things the loneliest. RetI emebering the lips that I had seen kiss that cross, and kindling with the recollection, I raised it passionately to my own; -but the dead eyes, I thought, met mine, and, awed and saddened in the midst of my ardour, I replaced the cross upon the shrine. I had now lost every clue to the object of my pursuit, and, then with all that sullen satisfaction which certainty, even when unwelcome, brings, was about to retrace my steps slowly to earth, when, as I held forth my lamp, on leaving the c ha pel, I perceived that the gallery, instead of terminating here, tookl a sudden and sniake-like bend to the left, which had before eluded my observation, and which seemed to give promise of a pathwayl v still farther into those recesses. Reanir;n ted by this discovery, which opened a new source of ho pe to my heart, I cast, for a moment, a hesitating look at my lamp, as if to inquire whether it w ou ld be faithful through the gloom I was about to encounter, and then, without furthec consideration, rushed eagerly forward. Silence, till, alrea hdy, it rw mid-day, a nd, under thte sse's me ridian eye, the nlightv pyf r amid of py ramids stood, like a great spirit, shadowlh ss. A,ai did thosve wreill and patsionate feelinmos id, rhiclr, fowr the mom ent, h er presence had sub,lued i nto reveren ce, return to take possession of my imagination and my senises. I even reprloache d n.-self for,he awe, th at had held mp. spellboulnd b efore hep. "What," thought I, "n ould my comp rnions of the G arden sat, did they kinow that their chiefhe whose path Love had streoed with trophies-ew als now pininr for t simple E.-yptian girl, n whose presence he had not dared tc utter a singile sigh, and Acho had vanquished the victor, without even knowing,- her triumph!" A blush came over mv cheek at the huimiliatingz thought, ar~d I determined, at all risks, to await her coming. That she should be an inmate of those gloomy caverns seemed inconceivable; nor did there appear to be any etreess out of their depths but by the pyramid. Again, tltcr*.finre, like a sentinel of the dead, did I pace up and down am ong, those tombs, contrastiti ngouriif'lly the burning fever in my own veins with tile cold qluliet of those who lay slumbe,ing a,'ound. At length the intense glow of the sun over mv head, and, still more, that ever restless agitation in my }leart, became too much fi)r esetn strength like mine to endure. ]Exhausted, I threw myself d mqDat the base of the pyramid —choosing my place dlirect'y under the portal, where, even should slumber surprise m!,, my heart, if not my ear, might still keep watch, and her footstep, light as it was, could not fail to awake me. After maniy an inieffctu-al strtugle against drowsiness, I at length sunk into sleep —l)ut not into forgetfulness. The same image still hamnted me, in every variety of shai)e, with which imagilation, assisted by memory, could invest it. No,",, like the goddess Neithat, upon her throne at Sais, she seemed to sit, with the veil just raised from that brow which till then no mortal had ever beheld —and now, like the beauutiftl enchantress Rhodope, I saw her rise from out the pyramid il which she had dwelt for ages, THE path led, for a while, through the same sort of narrowak m indiigs as those which I had before encountered in descentiding the stairway; and at length opened, in a similar manne r, into a straight and steep gallery, aloung each side of which sicod, closely ranged and upri,ght, a file of lifeless bodies, whose glassy eyes appeared to glare upon me preter naturally as 1 passed. Arrived at the end of this gallery, I found my hopes, for the second time, vanish; as the path, it was maniifest, extended no further. Tlie only object I was able to discern, by the glimmering of my lamp, which now burned, every minute, fainter and fainter, was the mouth of a large well, that lay gaping before ire-a reservoir of darkness, black and unfathomable. It nowr crossed my memory that I had once heard of such wells, as being used occasionally for passages by the priests. Leanino down, therefore, over the edge, I examined anxiouslv all within,i in order to see if it afforded the me ans of a descent into the chasn; but the sides, I could perceive, were liad and;mooth as glass, being varnished all over with theft sort of darmr pitch, which the Dead Sea throws out oln its slinly shore. After a more attentive scrutiny, however, I observed, at the depth of a few feet, a;ort of iron step, proctilug dimly from the side, and, below it, another, which, thiugh hardly perceptible, was just sutlfhcient to encourage an adventurous foot to the trial. Thour h all hope of tracinig the young Priestess was now at an eCi(i-it being impossible that female foot should have veintured.is this des(ent-yet, as I had engaged so far in the advenrtu-e, and tihere was, at least, a mystery to be unravelled, I deter,mnined, at all hazards, to explore the chasm. Placing my lamp, therefore, (wtlich wNas hollonv ed at the bottom, so as to be worn like a lrelnet,) firmly upoi my head, and having thus both hands at liberty for exertion, I set my foot cautiously on the iron step, and descended into the well. I found the same footing, at regular intervals, to a considerable depth; and had already counted near a hundred of these steps, whenll the ladder altogether ceased, ard I could descend no further. In vain did I stretch down my foot in search of support-the hard slippery sides were all that it encountered. At length, stooping my head, so as to let the light fall below, I observed an opening or window directly above the step on which I stood; and, taking for granted that the way must lie in that direction, contrived to clamber, with no small difficulty, through the aperture. I now found myself on a rude and narrow stairway, the steps of which were cut out of the living rock, and wound spirally downward in the same direction as the well. Almost dizzy with the descent, which seemed as if it would never end, I, at last, reached the bottom, where a pair of massy iron gates were closed directly across my path, as if wholly to forbid any further progress. Massy and gigantic, however, as they were, I found, to my surprise, that the handl of an in fant might have opened them with ease-so readily did tleo'r stupendous folds give way to my touch, " Fair Rhodlope, as story tells, Tile bright u..eartlhly niymph, who dwells 'Mtidl sunless gohl a.l.. jewels hid, The Lady of the Pyramid!" 80 hon- had my sleep continued, that, when I awoke, I 'ound the moon (tattiln resplendent above the horizon. But all around was loo'xing tranquiil and lifeless as before; nor lid a print on the grays betray that any foot had passed there since my own. Refreshed, however, by my long rest, and with a fancy still more excited by the mystic wonders of which I had been dreaming, I now resolved to revisit the ch apel in the pyramid, and put an end, if possible, t o this strange mystery that haunted me. Having learned, from the expetrienc o e of the preceding night, the inconvenience of encountering those labyrinths without a light, I now hastened to provide myself Kyith a lamp from my b oat. Tracking my wi ay back with some difficulty to the shore, I there fs)Lind not only my lamp, but a lso some dates and dried fruits, of which I was always provided with store, for my roving life upon the waters, and which, after so many hiouirs of abstinence, were now a most welcome and necessarv relief. qihus prepared, I again ascended the pyramid, and was proceeding to search out the secret spring, when a loud, disrnal noise was heard at a distance, to which all the melancholy echoes of the cemetery gave answer. The sound came, I knew, from the Great Temple on the shore of the lake, and was the sort of shriek which its gates-the Gates of Oblivion a.s they are called-used always to send forth fiom their hinges, when opening at night, to receive the newly-landed dead. I had, more than once before, heard that sound, and always with sadness; but at this moment, it thrilled thr,,,{h me like a voice of ill omen, and I almost doubted whether - should not abandon my enterprise. The hesitation, however, was but momentary; —-een while it passed through my mind, I had touched tlhe spring of the portal. In a few seconds tnore, I was again ill the passage beneath the pyramid; and, being enabled by the light of my lamp to follow the windings la,e rapidly, soon found myself at the door of the small thapel in the gallery. I entered, still awed, though there was now, alas, nought {ivin Xwithin. They y)oug t Priestess had vanished like a spirit into the darkness; -anld l'. the rest remained as I had left it 56 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. CHAPTER VII. -~~~~~~~~H EPCREN 5 chantress, whose steps had led me to this abode of mystery and knowledge, I instantly plunged into the chasm. Instead of that vague, spectral twilight, which had at first me t my eye, I now found, as I entered, a thick darklness, which, though far less horrible, was, at this moment, still more disconcerting, as my lamp, which had been, for some time, almost useless, was now fast expiring. Resolved. however, to make the most aQ its last gleam, I hastened, with rapid step, through this gloomy region, which appearnd to be wider and more open to the air than any I had yet passed. Nor was it long before the sudden appearance of a bright blaze in the distance announced to me that my first great Trial was at hand. As I drew nearer, the flames be. fore me burst high and wide on all sides;-and the awful spectacle that then presented itself was such as might have daunted hearts far more accustomed to dangers than mine. There lay before me, extending completely across my path, a thicket, or grove, of the most combustible trees of Egypt-tamarind, pine, and Arabian balm; while around their stems and branche s were coiled serpents of fire, whicl, twisting themselves rapidly from bough to bough, spread the contagion of their own wild-fire as t hey went, and involved tree after tree in one general blaze. It was, indeed, rapid as the burning of those rrccd-behs of Ethiopia, whose lig h t is ofte n seen brightening, at night, the distant cataracts of the Nile. Through the middle of this blazing gr ove, I could now perceive my only pat hway lay. There was no t a moment, therefore., to be lost-for the conflagration ga ined rapidly on either side, and already the narrowing path between was strewed with vivid fire. Casting away my now useless lamp, and holding, my robe as so me slight protectiont over my heai,l I ventured, with trembling limbs, into the blaze. Instantlv, as if mv presence had given new life to the flames, a fresh outbreak of combustion arose on all sides The trees clustered in to a bower o f fire abo ve my heard, while the serpents that hung hissing from the r ed branches shot showers of sparkles dow n upon me as I pa ssed. Never re decision and activity of more avail:-one minute later, and I must have perished. The narrow opening, of which I haint so promptly availed myself, closed instantly behin d me; and as I looked back, to contemplate the ordeal which I ha d passed, I saw t hat the wh ole rove- was al r eady on e mass of fire. Rejoiced to ha ve esca ped this first trial, I instantly plucked from one of the pine-trees a bough that was but just kindled, and with this for my only guide, hastened br eathlessly forward. I had advanced but a few pac es, when the path turned suddenly off, leading downwards, a s I cou ld perceive by th e glimmer of my brand, into a more confined region, th ro ugh which a chi lling air, a s if from some ieigl-)ourinm waters, blew ov er my brow. Nor h ad I procee de d far in thi s c ourse, w hen the sound of torrents-mixed as I thought, from time to time, with shrill wailings, resembling the cries of persons in danger or distress —fell mournfully upon my car. At every step the n oise of the das hing wa ters increased, and I now perceived that I had entered an immense rocky cavern, through the middle of which, headlong as a "inter-torrent, the dark flood, to whose roar I had been listening, poured its waters; while upon its surf ace floate d g rim spectre-like shapes, which, as they wvent by, sent forth those di s ma l shrieks I had heard-as if in fear of some aw ful precipice to wards whose blink they were hurrying. I saw plainly that across that torrent must be my course. It was, indeed, fearful; but in courage asd pe r sever ance now lay my only hope. What awaited me on the o pposite tsh orer I k new no t; for all there owas immersed in impenetrable gloom, nor could the feeble light which I carried send its glimmer half so far. Dismissing, howrever, all thoughts but that of Fressing onward, I sprung from the rock on1 which I stood into the flood, trusting that, with my right hand, I should be able to buffet the current, while, with the other, as long as a gleam of my brand remainled, I might hold it aloft to gultide me safely to the shore. Long, formidable, and almost hopeless wvas the struggle I had now to maintain; and more than once, overpowered by the rush of the waters, I had given myself up, as destined to follow those pale, death-like apparitions, that still wvent past me, hurrying onward, with mournful cries, to find their doom in some invisible gfulf beyond At hmgslth, just as mry strength was nearly exchausted, and the las3t remains of the pinge branch were dropping from my hland, I sawv, outstretching tow~ards me into the water, a lilht No sooner, however, had I passed through, than the astoundrlog din, with whaich the gates clashed together again, was such as migtht have awak ened death itself. It seemed as if every echo th rougho th rthat vast', subterranean world, from the C atacombs of Alexandria to Thebes' Valley of Kings, had caught up and repeated the thundering sound. Startled as I was by the crash, not even thi s supernatural clangour could divert my attention from the sudden light that n ow broke around me-soft, warm, a nd w elcome, as ar e the b sta r m hs of his own Sout h to otf. eyes of the mariner who has loia been wandering t hrough the cold seas of the North. LIookii ing for the source of this splendourI, I saw, through an archw ay o pposite, a long illuminated alley, stretch ing away as far as t h e eye could reach, and fenced, on one side, with thlickets of odoriferous shrubs; while along the other extend,M a line of lofty arcades, from which the light, that filled the wi,ole area, issued. As soon, the, asd n f the din of the deep echoes had subsided, there stole gradually on my ear a strain of choral music, which appeared to come mellowed and sweeteled in it s p assage, through man y a spacious hall within tholse s hining arc a des; while among the vo ices I could distinuish some female tones, which, to wering high and clear above all t hae r est, form ed the spire, as it were, into which the harmon liy tapered as it rose. So excited was my fancy by this sudden enchantment, that -though never had I caught a sound fromn the fair Egyptian's li ps-I yet p ers uad ed myself that the voice I now heards was hers, sounding highest a nd m ost heavenlv of all that choir, and calling to me, like a distant spirit from its sphere. Ani-, mated by thi s th ought, I flew forward to the archway, but fi)unld, to my mortification, that it was guarded by a trelliswask. whose bars, though invisible at a distance, resisted all ,lv eellrts to force them. aWhile occupied in these ineffectual struggles, I perceived, a) the left of the archway, a dark cavernous opening, which ,(eemed to lead in a direction parallel to the lighted arcades. ,Notwithstanding,, however, my impatience, the aspect of this fsassage, as I looked shudderingly into it, chilled my very blood. It inwas ini)t so much darkness, as a sort of livid and ghastly twilight, from which a damp, like that of deathvaults, exhaled, and through which, if my eyes did not deCrive me, pale, phantom-like shapes were, at that very moment, hovering,. Looking, anxiously round, to discover some less formidable outlet, I saw, over the vast folding-gates through which I had just passe d, a blue, tremulous flame, which, after playing for a few seconds over the dark ground of the pediment, settled gradtuatlly into characters of light, and formed the following wV( is; Here the letters faded away into a dead blank, more awfully intelligible than the most eloquent words. A new hope now flashed across me. The dream of the Garlen, which had been for some tinme almost forgotten, returned fteshly to my mind. " Am I, then," I excl ai med, " in the Sth to th-e promised mystery? and shall the great secret of ternal Life indeed be mine?" "1 Yes!" seemed to answer out of the air, that spirit-voice, which still was heard at a distance crowning the choir with Its single sweetness. I hailed the omen with transport. Love and Immortality, both beckoning me onward —who would give even a thought to fear, with two such bright hopes In prospect? Having invoked and bles-ed that uuknown en THE EPICUREAN. 57 11 Light as a lime-bush, that -cei,,es Soine wand,,itg bid among its leaves." You, who would try Yon terrible track, T. live, or to die, But ne'er to look back You, who a.,pire To be purified there, By the terrors of Fire, Of Water, and Air If danger, and pain, A.d death, you despise, On-fo,, again Into light you shall rise i Rise into light With that Secret Divine, N-,,, sh,,o.ded from sight By the Veils of the Shrine! But if TH MIRO LIRAY double balustrade, with a flight of steps between, ascending, almost perpendicularly. from the wave, till they seemed lost in a dense mass of clouds above. This glimpse-for it was nothing more, as my light expired in giving it-lent new spring to my courage. Having now both hands at liberty, so de,,)erate were my efforts, that, after a few minutes' strug gle, I felt my brow strike against the stairway, and, in an in stant, my feet were on the steps. Rejoiced at my escape from that perilous flood, though I knew inot whither the stairway led, I promptly ascended the steps. But this feeling of confidence was of short duration. I had not mounted far, when, to my horror, I perceived that each successive step, as myfoot left it, broke awayfrom beneath me, leaving me in mid-air, with no other alternative than that of still mounting by the same momentary footing, and with the appalling doubt whether it would even endure my tread. And thus did I, for a few seconds, continue to ascend, with nothing beneath me but that awfitil river, in which-so tranquil had it now become-I could hear the plash of the falling fragments, as every step in succession gave way from under my feet. It was a most fearful moment-but even still worse remained. I now found the balustrade, by which I had held during my ascent, and which had hitherto appeared to be firm, growinr, tremulous in my hand, while the step, to which I was about to trust myself, tottered under my foot. Just then, a momentary flash, as if of lightning, broke around me; and I saw, hanging out of the clouds, so as to be barely within my reach, a huge brazen ring. Instinctively I stretched forth my arm to seize it, and, at the same instant, both balustrade and steps gave way beneath me, and I was left swinging by my hands in the dark void. As if, too, this massy ring, which I grasped, was by some magic power linked with all the winds in heaven, no sooner had I seized it than, like the touching of a slring, it seemed to give loose to every variety of gusts and tempests, that ever strewed the sea-shore withl wrecks or dead; and, as I swung about, the sport of this elemental strife, every new burst of its fury threatened to shiver me, like a storm-sail, to atoms! Nor was even this the worst;-for, still holding, I know not how, by the ring, I felt myself caught up, as if by a thousand whirlwinds, and then rouind and round, like a stone-shot in a sling,, continued to be whirled in the midst of all this deafening chaos, till my brain grew dizzy, my recollection became confused, and I almost fancied myself on that whleel of the infernal world, whose rotations Eternity alone can number! Human s t rength could no longer sustain such a trial. I was on the point, at least, of loosing my hold, when suddenly the violence of the storm moderated;-my whirl through the air gTadually ceased, anld I felt the ring slowly descend with me, till-happy as a shipwrecked mariner at the first touch of land-I found my feet once more upon firm ground. At the same moment, a light of the most delicious softness filled the iwhole air. Mlusic, such as is heard in dreams, .iame floatilg at a distance; and as my eyes gradually re,overed their powers of vision, a scene of glory was revealed to them, almost too bright for imagination, and yet living and real. As fatr as the sight could reach, enchanting gardens were seen, opening away through long tracts of light and verdure, and s)arkllinr, every where with fountains, that circulated, like streams of litfe, among the flowers. Not a charm nvas ihere w aiting, that the fancy of poet or prophet, in their wiarmest pictures of Elysium, have ever yet dreamed or promised. Vistas opening into scenes of indistinct grandeur-streams, shining out at intervals in their shadowy course-and labyrinths of flowers, leading, by mysterious wieldings, to green, spacious g lades full of splendour and repose. Over all this, too, theire fell a light, from some unseei souice, resembling nothing that illsintroes our upper world-a sort of golden moonlight, mingling the warm radianisce of day with the calm and melancholy lustre of night. Nor were there wanting inhabitants for this sunless Paradise. Through all the bright gardens w ere seen wandering, with the serene air and step of happy spirits, groups both of young anlid old, of venerable and of lovely forms, bearing, mss(3st of them, the Nile's white flowers on their heads, and branches of the eternal palm in their hands; while, over the I verdant turf, fair children and maidens weent dancing to aerial music, whose source was, like that of the light, invisible, but I which filled the whole air with its mystic sweetness. Exhausted as I was by the.painful trials I had undergone, no sooner did 1 perceive those fair groups in the distance, o than my weariness, both of frame and spirit, was forgotten. A thought crossed me that she, whom I s oug ht, might hapln be among them; and n otwithstanding th e feeling of awn with which that unearthly scene inspired me, I was about to fly, on the instant, to ascertain my hope. But while in the act of making the effort, I felt my robe gently pulled, and turning round, beheld an aged man before me, whom, by the sacred hue of' his garb, I knew at once to be a Hierophan& Placing a branch of the consecrated palm in my hand, he said, in a solemn voice, " Aspirant of the Mysteries, wel come!"-then, regarlding me fo)r a few seconds with grave at'tention, added, in a tone of courteousness and interest, " The victory over the body hath been gained! Follow me, young Greek, to thy resting-place." I obeyed the command in silenice-and the Priest, turning away from this scene of splendour, into a secluded pathway, where the light gradually faded as we advanced, led me to a small pavilion, by the side of a whispering stream, where the very spirit of slumber seemed to preside, and, pointing silently to a bed of dried poppy-leaves, left me to repose. THOUGH the sight of that splendid s ce ne, wh ose glories opene d upon Imee like a momentary glimpse into another world, had, fof an instant, re-animated my strength and spirit, yet, so completely was my whole frame subdued bv fatigue, that, even had the form of the youg, Priestess herself then stood before me, my limbs would have sunk in the effort to reach her. No sooner had I fallen on mv leafy couch, than sleep, like a sudden death, came over me; and I lay, for hours, in thiat deep and motionless rest, which not even a shadow of life disturbs. On awaking I saw, beside me, the same venerable person age, who had welcomed me to this subterranean world on the preceding night. At the foot of my conch stood a statue, of Grecian worklnianiship, representing a boy, with wirgs, seated gracefully on a lotuis-flower, and having the forefinger of his right hand pressed to his lips. This action, together with the glorv round his brows, denoted, as I already knew, the God of Silence and Light. Impatient to know what further trials awaited me, I was about to speak-, when the Priest exclaimed anxiously, "Hush!" -and, pointing to the statue at the foot of the couch, said," Let the spell of that Spirit be upon thy lips, young stranger, till the wisdom of thy instructors shall think fit to remove it. Not unaptly doth the same deity preside over Silence and Light; since it is only out of the depth of contemplative silence, that the great light of the soul, Truth, can arise!" Little used to the language of dictation or instruction, I was now preparing to rise, when the Priest again restrained me; and, at the same moment, two boys, beautiful as the young Genii of the starq, entered the pavilion. They were habited in long garments of the purest white, and bore each a small golden chalice in his hand. Advancing towards me, they stopped on opposite sides of the couch, and one of them, presenting to me his chalice of gold, said, in a tone between singing and speaking, "Drink of this cupOsiris sips The same in his halls below; And the same he gives, to cool the lips Of the Dead who downward go. "Drink of this cup-the water within Is fresh from Lethe's stream; 'Twill make the past, with all its sin, And all its pain and sorrows, seem Like a long-forgotten dream.i! "The pleasure, whose charms Are steel)'d in wo; The knowledge, that harms The soul to know; "The hope, that, bright As the lake of the waste, Allures the sight, But mocks the taste: "The love, that binds Its innocent wreath, Where the serpent winds, In venom, beneath; -All that, of evil or false, by thee Hath ever been known or seen, Shall melt away in this cup, and be Forgot, ax it never had been!" I THE MIRROR LIBRARY. CHAPTER VIII. THE EPICUREAN. these rocky walls descended a cataract whose source was upon earth, and on whose waters, as they rolled glassily over the edge above, a gleam of radiance rested, sihowing how brilliant and pure was the sunshine they had left behind. From thence, gradually growing darker, and frequently broken by alternate chasms and projections, the stream fell, at last, in a pale and thin mist-the phantom of what it had been on earth-into a small lake that lay at the base of the rock to receive it. Nothing was ever so bleak and saddening as.tht appear. ance of this lake. The usual ornaments of the waters of Egypt were not wanting to it: the tall lotus here uplifted her silvery flowers, and the crimson flamingo floated over the tide. But they looked not the same as in the world above; -the flower had exchanged its whiteness for a livid hue, and the wings of the bird hung heavy and colourless. Every thing wore the same half-living aspect; and the only sounds that disturbed the mournful stillness were the wailing cry of a heron among the sedges, and that din of the falling waters, in their midway strugg,lle, above. There was, indeed, an unearthly sadness in the whole scene, of which no heart, however light, could resist the influence. Perceiving how much I was affected by it, "Such scenes," remarked tihe Priest, "are best suited to that solemn complexion of mind, which becomes him who approaches the Great Mystery of futurity. Behold "-and, in saying thus he pointed to the opening over our heads, through which, though the sun had but just passed his meridian, I could perceive a star or two twinkling in the heavens-" in the same manner as from this gloomy depth we can see those fixed stars, which are invisible now to the dwellers on the bright earth, even so, to the sad and self-humbled spirit, doth many a mystery of heaven reveal itself, of which they, who walls in theli,ght of the proud world, know not!" He now led me towards a rustic seat or alcove, beside which stood an image of that dark Deity, that God without a smile, who presides over the silent kingdom of the Dead, The same livid and lifeless hue was upon his features, that hung over everything in this dim valley; and, with his right hand, he pointed directly downwards, to denote that his melancholy kingdom lay there. A plantain-that favourito tree of the genii of Death-stood behind the statue, and spread its branches over the alcove, in which the Priest now seated himself, and made a sign that I should take my place by his side. After a long pause, as if of thought and preparation, "Nobly," saidl he, " young Greek, hast thou sustained t) first trials of Initiation. What still remains, though of vital import to the soul, brings with it neither pain nor peril to the body. Having now proved and chastened thy mortal frame by the three ordeals of Fire, of Water, and of Air, the next task to which we are called is the purification of thy spirit-the effectual cleansing of that inward and immortal part, so as to render it fit for the reception of the last lumin ous revealment, when the Veils of the Sanctuary shall be thrown aside, and the Great Secret of Secrets unfolded to thy view!-Towards this object, the primary and most imn portant step is, instruction. What the three purifying elements thou hast passed through have done for thy body in struction will effect for " "But that lovely maiden!" I exclaimed, bursting from my silence, having fallen, during his speech, into a deep reverie, in which I had forgotten him, myself, the Great Secret, every thing-but her. Startled by this profane interruption, he cast a look of alarm towards the statue, as if fearful lest the God should have heard my words. Then, turning to me, in a tone of mild solemnity, "It is but too plain," said he, "that thoughts of the upper woorld, and of its vain, shadowy delights, still engross thee far too much, to allow the lessons of Truth to sink profitably into thy heart. A few hours of meditation amid this solemn scenery-of that wholesome meditation, which purifies, by saddening-may haply dispose thee to ret ceive, with due feelings of reverence, the holy and imperish able knowledge we have in store for thee. With this hope I now leave thee to thy own thoughts, and to that God, be. fore whose calm and mournful eye all the vanities of the world, from-which thou comest, wither!" Thus saying, he turned slowly away, and passing behind th e statue, tof ards w hich he had pointed during the last sen tence, suddenly, and, as if lay enchantment, disappeared from my sight. Unwilling to thr ow a s light on t his s tr ange ceremony, I leaned forward, with all due gravity, and tasted the cup; which I had no sooner done than the young eup-bearer on the other side, invited my attention; and, in his turn, preventing the chalice which he held, sung, with a voice still tweeter than that of his companion, the following strain: " Drink of this cup-when Isis led Her boy, of old, to the beaming sky, She mingled a draught divine, and said' Drink of this cup, thou'lt never die!' Well as I had hi therto kept my philosophy on it s guard against the illusions with which, I knew, this region abounded, the young cup-bearer had here touched a spring of imagination, over which my philosophy, as has been seen, had but little control. No sooner had the words, " thou shalt never die," struck on my ear, than the dream of the Garden came filly to my mind; and, starting half-way from the couch, I stretched forth my hands to the cup. But, recollecting myself instantly, and fearing,- that I had betrayed to others a weakness fit only for my own secret indulgence, I sunk back again, with a smile,of affected indiflerence, on my couch —while the young minstrel, but little interrupted by my movement, still continued his strain, of which I heard but the concluding words: "And Memory, too, with her dreams shall come Dreams of a former, happier day, When Heaven was still the Spirit's home, And her wings had not yet fallen away; Thou gh the assurances of immortality contained in these verses would at any other moment-vai n and visionary as I though t them-have sent my fan cy wa ndering into reveries of t he f uture, the effort of self-control I had just made enabled me to h ear them w ith indifference. Having gone through the form of tasting,, his second cup, I agflaiin looked anxiously to the Hierophant, to ascertain whether I might be permitted to rise. His assent hav ing been given, the young pages brought to mv couch a robe and tunic, which, lik e their own, were of linen of the purest white; and having assisted to cloth e me in this sacred garl), they then p lac e d upon my head a chaplet of myrtle, in which the symbol of Initiation, a golden grasshopper, was seen shining out from among the dark leaves. Though sleep had done much to refresh my frame, something more was still wanting to restore its strength; and it was not without a smile at my own reveries I reflected, how much more welcome than even the young page's cup of immortality %-,as the unpretending, but real, repast now ret before me -fresh fruits from the Isle of Gardens in the Nile, the delicate flesh of the desert antelope, and wine from the Vineyard of the Queens at Anthylla, which one of the pages fanned with a palm-leaf, to keep it cool. Having done justice to these dainties, it Ivan with pleasure [ heard the proposal ofthe Priest, thats we should walk forth together, and meditate among the scenes without. I had not forgotten the splendid Elysium that last night weloomed me -those rich gardens, that soft unearthly music and light, and, above all, those fair forms I bad seen wandering about -as if, in the verv midst of happiness, still seeking it. The -ope, which had then occurred to me, that, among those bright groups might haply be found the young maiden I sought, now returned with increased strength. I had little doubt that my guide was leading me to the same Elysian scene, and that the form, so fit to inhabit it, would again appear before my eyes. But far different, I found, was the region to which he now conducted me;-nor could the whole world have produced a scene more gloomy, or more strange. It wore the appeara,-ce of a small, solitary valley, enclosed, on every side, by rlcks, which seemed to rise, almost perpendicularly, till they reached the very sky;-for it was, indeed, the blue sky that I saw shiniing- between tl..eir summits, and whose light, dimmed thus and near'y lost'n its long descent, formed the melancholy daylight of this nether world. Down the side of I .- 9 11 Thus do I say and sing to thee, Heir of that boundl... heaven on high, Though frail, and fall'., nd lost thou be, Drink ofthi3 cup, thou'lt never die!" 11 Glimp.e. of glory, n',-r forgot, That tell, like gl,,.ins n. s..set sea, What o.ce hatli bee., what o is iot, B.t, oh! what g.i. hall brightly be." 60 THE MIRROR L(BRARY. the visitants of this mysterious realm were, after their descen from earth, never seen or heard of;-being condemned, for some failure is their initiatory trials, to pine away their lives in those dark dungeons, with which as well as with altars, this region abounded. Such, I shuddered to think, miglt probably be my own destiny; and so appalling was the thought, that even the courage by which I had been hitherto sustained died within me, and I was already giving myself up to helplessness and despair. At length, after some hours of this gloomy musing, I heard a rustling in the sacred grove oehind the statue; and, soon after, tlhe sound of the Priest's voice-more welcome than I had ever thought such voice could be-brought the assurance that I was not yt a wholly abandoned. Findinw hi s wiay to me tlwrough the gloom, he now led me to the s ame spot, o n which wte had parte d so many h ours before; and, addressing me in a voice that retained no trace of disple asure, bespoke tmy attenti o n, w hile he s h ould reveal to me some o f those divine truths, by whose infusion, he sai d, in to the soul of man, its puri ficati o n can alone be effected. The v-a l ley had now become so dark, that we could no hlountg r, as we sat, discern each other's faces. There was a melanc in hole o y in the voie of my i n structor that well accorded with the gloom around us: and, saddened and subdued, 1 wnows listened with resignation. if not with interest, to those sublime, but, alas, I thought, vain tenets, which, with all t he warmth of a true believer, this Hierophomnt ex pounded to me. ie s,po ke f p e teie of the pre-xistece of the soul-of its abode, from all eternity, in a place of splendour and bliss, of which whatever we have m ost bcautifu i n our conceptions here is but a dim traoisc ript, a clouded remembr ance. In the b lue deptlsth of etherlvc, he sail, lay that " Country of the Soudl"-its boundary alone visible in t he line of m ilky light, which, as by a barrier of stars, separate s it from thel dark ea rth. " Oh, rea lm of purity! Home of the yet unfallen Spiit!-iwhere, in the lays of her first in nocence, s he w and ered; ere yet her beautv was soiled. by the touch of earth, or her resplendent wings had wither ed aw ay. Methiolks I see," lie cried, "at this moment, those fielns of radiance-I look back, through the mists of life, into th at luminous world, where the sou ls that have never lost their higho, heavenly rank, still soar, w ith - out a staidn, above the shadowless stars, and there dwell to gether in infinite p erfection and bliss!" As lihe spoke these words, a burst of pure, bri ll ian t light, lilte a sudden opening of heave n, broke through the valley; and, as sooas s my eyes w ere able to endure th e splendour, su ch a vision of glor y and love liness opened u pon them, as t ook even my sceptical spiri t by surprise, a nd m ade it yield, at once, to the pot ency of the spell. Suspended, as I thought, in air, and occupying the whole of the o pposite r egion of the valle y, there appeare d an immenese orb m t n kc ru g a of light, within which, through a haze of radiance I could see distinctly fair groups of young female spirits, who. in silent, but harmonious movement, like that of the stars, wounid slowly through a variety of fanciful evolutions; seemiing, as they linked and unlinked each other's arms, to form a living labyrinth of beauty aid grace. Though their feet ap. peared to glide along a field of light, they had also wmings, of the most brilliant hue, which, like rainbows over waterfalls, when played with by the breeze, reflected, every moment, a new variety of glory. As I stood, gazing with wonder, the orb, with all its ethe. real inmates, began gradually to recede into the dark void, lessening as it went, and becoming more bright, as it lessen. ed; —till, at length, distant, to all appearance, as a retiring comet, this little world of Spirits, in one small point of in tense radiance, shone its last and vanished. " Go," exclaimed the rapt Priest, "ye happy souls, of whose dwelling glimpse is thus given to our eyes, —go, wander, in your orb, through the boundless heaven, nor ever let a thought of this perishable world come to mingle its dross with your divine nature, or allure you down earthward to that mortal fall by which spirits, no less bright and admirable, have been ruined!" A pause ensued, during which, still under the influence of wonder, I sent my fancy wandering after the inhabitants of that orb —almost wishing myself credulous enough to believe in a heaven, of~ which creatures, so much likie those I hadh worshipped on earth, weere inmates. At length, the Priest, with a mourn ful sigh at the sad con trust he was about to draw between the happy spirits we had just seen and the fallen ones 0f earth, resumed again his me lunchely History ef the Seoul. Tracing it gradlually. from tho BP:No now left to mv own solitary thoughts, I w;as fully at; leisure to reflect, with some decree of coolness, upon the inconveniences, if not dangers, of the situation into which my love of adventure had hurried me. However prompt my imag-ination was alwvays to kindle, in its own ideal sphere, I have ever found that, wshen brought into contact with reality, it as suddenly cooled;-like those meteors, that appear to be stars, wihile in tiv air, but the moment they touch earth, are extinguished. And such was the feeling of disenchantment that now suc'eoded to thie awild dreams in wlich I had been indulging. As lang as Fancy had the field of the future to herself; even immortality did not seem too distant a race for her. But ahien human instrumenets interposed, the illusion allva,fishled. From mortal lips the promise of immortality seemed a mockery, and even imag,ination had no wings that could carry beyond the grave. Nor was this disappointment the only feeling that paiii ned and haunted me;-the imprudence of the step, on whic h I had ventured, now appeared in its full extent before my eyes. 1 had here thrown m nyself into the power of the most artful priesthood in the world, without even a chance of being able o escape fronm their toils, or to resist any machinations with which they might beset me. It appeared evident, from the tate of preparation in which I had found all that -woIIdertful apparatus, by which the terrors and spleudours of Initiation l are produced, that my descent into the pyramid was not unexpected. Numerous, indeed, and active as were the spies of the Sacred College of Memphis, it could little be doubted that all my movements, since my arrival, had been watchfully tracked; and the many hours I had employed in waanderiug I and exploring around the pyramid, betrayed a curiosity and spirit of adventure which might well suggest to these wily priests the hope of inveigling an Epicurean into their toils. I was well aware of their hatred to the sect of which I was Chief;-tthat they considered the Epicureans as, next to the Christians, the most formidable enemies of their craft and power. " How thoughtless, then," I exclaimed, " to have placed myself in a situation, where I am equally helpless against fraud atind violence, and must either pretend to be the Idupe of their impostlires, or else submit to become the victim of their vengeance!"' Of these alternatives, bitter as they both %%ere, the latter appeared by far the more welcome. It wN'asv with a blush that I even looked back upon the imiockeries I had already yielded to; and the prospect of being put through still further ceremonials, and of b eing tutored and preached to by hypocrites whom I so much despised, appeared to me, in my present mood of mind, a trial of patience, compared to which t he fl ame s a nd whi rltwinds I had alre ady encount ered were pastime. Often and impatiently did I look up, between those roclky walls, to the brig-Iht sky that appeared to rest upon their suimmits, as, pacing round and round, through every part of the vallev, I ecldeavoured to find some outlet from its gloomy precincts. But vain were all my endeavours; —that rocky barrier, wvhich seemed to end but in heaven, interposed itself every where. Neither did the image of the young maiden, tlou ah constantly in my mind, now bring with it the least conlsolation or hope. Of what avail was it that she, perhaps, was an inhabitant of this region, if I could neither behold her smile, nor catch the sound of her voice-if, while among preaching priests I wasted away my hours, her presence was, alas, diffusing its enchantments elsewhere. At length, exhausted, I lay down by the brink of the lake, and gave myself up to all the melancholy of my fancy. The pale semblance of day-light, which had hitherto glimmered around, grew, every moment, more dim and dismal. Even the rich gleam, at the summit of the cascade, had faded; and the sunshine, likse the swater, exhausted in its descent, had now dwvindled into a ghostly glimmer, far worse than darkness. The birds upon the lake, as if about to die with the dying light, sunk down their heads; and, as I looked to the statue, the deepening shadow s gave such an expression to its mournful features as chilled my very soul. The thought of death, ever ready to present itsel4;to my imagination, now came, with a disheartening w eight, such as I hadl never before felt. I almost fancied myself' already ill the dark vestibule of the grave —removed, for ever, from the world above, and with nothing but the blank of til eternal ~leep before me. It had happened, I knew, freqluently, that I 60 THE MIRROR L[BRARY. ICHAPTER IX. :~~~~~~~~H EPCRA 61 Irst moment of earthward desire to its final eclipse in the shadows of this world, he dwelt upon every stage of its darkening descent, with a pathos that sent sadness into the very dtepthls of the heart. The first downward look of the spirit tox, ards earth-the tremble of her wings on the edge of Heaven-the giddy slide, at length, down that fatal descent-and the Leathern cup, midway in the sky, of which when she has once tasted, Heaven is forgot-through all these gradations he traced mournfully her fall, to that last stage of darkness, when wholly immersed in this world, her celestial nature becomes changed, she no longer can rise above earth, nor even remember her former home, except by glimpses so vague, that, at length, mistaking for hope what is only, alas! recollection, she believes those gleams to be a light from the Future. not the Past. " To retrieve this ruin of the once-blessed soul-to clear away from around her the clouds of earth, and, restoring her lost wings, facilitate their return to Heaven-such," said the reverend( man, "is the great task of our religion, and stuh the triumph of those divine Mysteries, in whose inmost dept oo the life and essence of that holy religion lie treasured. How-,, ever sunk, and changed, and clouded may be the Spirit, yet as long as a single trace of her original light remains, there is still hope that " Here the voice of the Priest was interrupted by a strain of mournful music, of which the low, distant breathings had been, for some minutes, audible. but which now gained upon the car too thrillingly to let it listen to any more earthly sound. A faint lig}: too at that instant broke throughl the valleyand I could percei- e, not far from the spot where we sat, a female figure, veiled, and crouching to earth, as if subdued by sorrow, or under the influence of shame. The feeble light, by which I saw her, came from a pale, noon-like meteor whi ch had gradually fo rm ed itself in the ai r as the music approaclwcd, and now shed ove r the rocks and the lak e a gl imme r as cold as that by which the D ead, in their own kine dom, gazss upo each other. The music, too, wh ich appeared to rise f rom out of the lake, fill of the breath of its dark waters, sptoke a despondency i n every no te which njo language could exp-ess; —and as I listened to its tones, and look ed upon that fallen Spirit, (for such, the holy man whispered, was the form before us,) so entirely did the illusioIl of t scene take pose ss siion nf me, th a t, with almost painful an xiety, I notw awaited the result. Nor had I gazed long before th a t form rose slowly from its droopire position;-the air around it irew bright, and the pale meteor ov er- head assumed a mo re ch ee rful and living light. The veil, whic h ha d be fo r e shrouded the face of the fiiuare, became every minute smor we transpare nt, and wthe featthres, one by one, gradually disclosed themselves. H aving trembli ngly weartd hed the progress of thc r apparition, I now started itom me seat, and half exclaimed, "It is she!" In another minute, this veil had, like a thin mist, mel ted away, a nd the y oung priestess o f the Moon stood, for the thir d time, revealed befo,re mv eyes! To rh in stantly tow ards her was my first impulse-but ish e arm of the Priest held m,w firmly back. The fresh light, which h ad begun to flow in from all sides, collected itself in a floo d of glory around t he spot wh e re she stood. I nstead of melanch oly music, strain s of the most exalted rapture were heard; andg a the young maiden, buoant as the inhabitants of t he fairy o rb, amid a blaz e of light like that which fell upon her in the Temple, asc en ded slowly into the air. "'Sta y, beautiful vision, stay!" I exclaimed, as, breaking from the hold of the Priest I flung myself prostrate on the ground —the only mode by which I could expressg the admiration, even to worship, w ith which I was filled. But the vanishing spirit heard me not: —receding into the darkness, like that orb, whose heavenward track she seemed to follow, her form lessened by decrees away, till she was seen no more; while, gazing, till the last luminous speck had disappeared, I allowted myself unconsciously to be led away by my reverend guide, who, placing me once more on my bed of poppy-leaves, left me there to such repose as it was possible, after such a scene, to enjoy. and fancies in which, duriobg my descent from earth, I had indulged. I had now see n once mor e th at maichless creat ur e, who had been my guiding star into this mysterious realm; and that she was destined to be, in s ome way, con - nected with the further revelation s tha t awaited me, I sraw no reason to dou bt. There was a sublimi ity, too, in the doce trines of my reverend teach er, and even a hope i n the prw - mises of immortality held out by him, which, in spite o f retd son, won insensibly both upon my fancy and my pride. The Future, however, w;as now but of secondary consider& tion;athe Preseft, and that deity mf the Prese taesnt, woman, were the objects that engrossed my whole soul. It was, indeed, for the sakoe of such beings a lone that I considered irnr mort ality desirable o e, nor, withlout them, would eternal life llhaase appeared to me worth a single prayer. To every fliuther trial of my patience and faith, I now made up my mind to submit without a murmur. Some kind chance, I folidly persuaded myself, might yet bring me nearer to the object of my adoration, and enable me to address, as mortal wNoma., one who had hitherto been to me but as a vision, a slha(le. The period of my probation, however, teas nearly at an end. Both frame and spirit hiad now stood the trial; anid as the crowning test of the purification of the latter was that power of seeing into the w(orl(l of spirits, with whiich I tqad proved myself, in the Valley of Visions, to be credowed, there now remained, to complete mv Initiation, but this one nii(ght more, when, in the Temple of Isis, and in the presence of her unveiled iim-age, the last grand revelation of the Secret of Secrets wN as to be laid open to me. I passed the morning of this day in c,,a "ally with tl';e same venerable peirsonage, wliho had, fii),' Iirst, presided over the ceremonies of my instruct' - -nd who, to inspire me with due reverence for the. -. r and magnificence of his religion, now conducted r,..., ougli the long range of illuminated galleries and shrin.ps, that extend under the site upon which Memphis and the Pyramids stand, and form a counterpart under ground to that mighty city of temples upon earth. He then descended with me, still lower. into those wind- - ing crypts, where lay the Seven Tables of stone, found by Hermes i't the valley of Hebron. "On these tables," said ie, "is written all the knowledge of the antediluvian race-the decrees of the stars from the beginning of time, the annals of a still earlier world, and all the marvellous secrets, both of heaven and earth, which woull have been, Returniing to t he r egion, forom w hich we had descended, we next visit ed, in succession, a sepie s of small shrines represen1ting the various objects of adoration throughout Fgrypt, andt a r t thes furnishing to the iest al occa sion f or explH tining the mysterious nature of animal wtorship, and thle r(pfinsd do-. trines of theology that lay veiled under its forms. Ever y shrine was consecrated to a particular fatith, and contained a living image of th e deity which it adlored. Beside the -eat of Mendes, with his refulgent star upon his breast, I saw the crocodile, as presented to the eyes of its itolator ait Arsinoe, with costly gems in its loathsome ears, and rich bracelets of gold encircling its feet. Here, floating through a tank in the centre of a temple, the sacred carp of Lepidotum showed its silvery scales; while, there, the Isiac serpents trailed lo guidly over the altar, with that sort of movementei wh i ch is thought most favoural)le to the astI)ilrations of their votaries In one of the snmall (chapellls we found a beautiful child, employed in ftedinig and wvatchiing over those golden l)eetlet which are adored for tll(hir brightnless, as emiiblems of the aun; while, in another, stood a sacred ibis upon its pedestal, so like, in plumage and attitude, to the bird at the young Priesteas, that most gladly would I have knelt down atnd worshipped it for her sake. After visiting all these various shrinies, and healing the reflections which they suggested, I wras next led by my guide to the Great Hall of the Zodiac, on whose ceililg was delinea ted, in bright and undying colours, the map of the firmament, as it appeared at the first dayswn of time. Here, in pointing out the track of the sun among the spheres, he spoke of the analogy that exists between moral and physical darkness-of the sympathy with whic h all spiritual c'eatures regard the sun, so as to sadden and decline when he sinks into his wintry hemisphere, and to rejoice when he resumes his own empire of light. Hence, the festivals and hymns, with whiich moat 61 THE EPICUREAN b,lt fo,- this*key, Lost in the U,ive,,s.1 S"I --------- CHAPTER X. TRiz apparition wi'-,h which I had been blessed in that Valmy of Visions-for sc the place where I had witnessed these wonders was called-'.)rought back to my heart all the hopes 62 TH IRRLBAY of the monotonous trial my patience had to suffer. After a short interval, however, the flashes ceased;-the sounds died away, like exhausted thunder, through tle abyss, and dark ness and silence, like that ofthe grave, succeeded. Resting my back once more against the pillar, and fixing my eyes upon that side of the Sanctuary from which the pro mised irradiation was to burst, I now resolved to await the awful moment in patience. Resigned, and almost immova ble, I had remained thus for nearly another hour, when sud denly along the edges of the mighty Veils, I perceived a thin rim of light, as if from some brilliant object under them;-r(e sembling that border which encircles a cloud at sunset, when the rich radiance from behind is escaping at its edges. This indication of concealed glories grew every instant more strong; till, at last, vividly marked as it was upon the dark ness, the narrow fringe of lustre almost pained the eye-giv ing a promise of a fulncss of splendour too bright to be en dured. My expectations were now wound to the highest F pitch, and all the scepticism, into which I had been cooling down my mind, was forgotten. The wonders that had been presented to me since my descent from earth-that glimpse into Elysium on the first night of my coming-those visitants from the land of Spirits in the mysterious valley-all led me to expect, in this last and brightest revelation, such visions of glory and knowledge as might transcend even fancy itself, i-oi leave a doubt that they belonged less to earth than heaven. While, with an imagination thus excited, I stood waiting the result, an increased gush of light still more awakened my attention; and I saw with an intenseness of interest, which made my heart beat aloud, one of the corners of the mighty Veil raised slowly from the floor. I niiow felt that the Great Secr et, w hatever it might be, was at hand. A vague hope e ven c r o ssed my mind-so daholly ha d imag ination now r sumed her empire-a t tha st l d prosplendid promise of my dre a m was on the very point of being realized! With surpris e, however, and, for the moment, with so me disa)pointmelnt, I p e rc eived, th at the massy corner of the Veil w,as but lifted sufficiently from the groun d to allow a female figure to emerge from under it-and then fell over its mystic splendou,'s as utterly dark as before. By the strong light, too. that issued when the drapery was raised, and illuminat ed the profile of the emerging figure, I either saw, or fancied tl,at I saw, the same bright features, that had already so often mocked me with their momentary charm, and seemed desw tined, in-deed, to haunt my fancy as unavailingly as even the fond vain dream of Immortality itself. Dazzled as I had been by that short gush of splendour, and distrusting even my senses, when under the influence of Pa much excitement, I had b~ut just begun to question myself as to the reality of my impression, when I heard the sounds of light footsteps approaching me through the gloom. In a se. cond or two more, the figure stopped before me, and, placing the end of a ribanid ge ntly in my hand, said, in a tremulous whisper, "F Follow, and be silent." So sudden and strange was the adventure, that, for a momernt, I hesitated-fearing that my eyes might possibly have been deceived as to the object they had seen. Casting a look towards the Veil, w%hich seemed bursting with its luminous secret, I was almost doubting to which of the towo chances I should commit myself, when I felt the riband in my hand pulled softly at the other extremity. This movement, like a touch of mag-ic, at once decided me. Without any further deliberatioin, I yielded to the silent summons, and following my guide, who was already at some distanc-,e lbefore me, found myself led up the same flightt of marlel( stteps, tby which the Priest had conlduc~ted me into the Sancetuary. Arriv ed at their summit, I felt. the pace of my conduc~tress qulick~en, and giving one more look to the Veiled Shrine, w hose glori s we left burning uselessly behind us, hastened onward into the gloom, full of confidence in the belief, that she, w ho now held the other end of that clue, was one whom I w~as ready to follow devotedly through the world. of the nations of the earth are wont to welcome the resurrec tion of his orb in spring, as an emblem and pledge of the re ascent of the soul to heaven. Hence, the songs of sorrow, the moirnfil ceremnonies-like those Mysteries of the Night, up on the Lake of Sais-i- therich they brood over its autum nal de scett into t he shades, as a tpmpe of the Spirit's fall into this world If death. len d isc ourse es such as these te hours passed away; and thiough th er e was nothing in the light of this sunless region t a o mi tr ae e ye toe da. lie e of day, my own feelings told me a that the fight dre ne ear;- igor, in spite of my incredulity, could I refrai n fr om a slight flut ter of bho pe, as that promise d moment a,' retelationly drew nigh e, when the My stery of Mys teries was t o dde made all my own. Thlii conssummation, however, aas less near than I expected. My patience had s till further trials to encounter. It was necessaryv, I now frimnd, that, during the greater spart of the night, I should keepy watch p in the Sof c tuTar of tle Teple, alone and in ut ter dirlzness:tlh ptreparing myself, by meditation, for the awful nacrtamnit, whene the irradiattiona from behind the sacred Veils Ors to burst upaon me. A t the appointed hour, we l eft the Hall of th e Z odiac, and pr,ceed(ed througl a long l ine of m arble galleri es, where the lams we re? mo re thinly scattered as e advan ced, till. at length, fae flerrtd ours elves in total darkness. Here the Phiest, a e taoe isp e igame by the a, and leading down a flight of steps, iyto a pla,e wlheie'e the sa m e deel) gloom prevailed, said, with a voice trembling, as if from excess of awe, "Thou t art o within the Sa,ctuo yv of o ur go dde ss, Isis, and the veails, that conceal her sacred h imtge, are before thee!" After exhorting me earliestly to that tr air of tIhougstt, which best accord-d with t e irt o the spiritof the llace ee I stood, and, a bov e all, to that full and Ltihes itatiugll ftitit, with which alone, he said, the inltifes ta tioen of such mysteries should be ap proached, the Ively manl too l eave ft' me, and re-ascended the steps; hile ses o spell-bitsemd did I feel by that deep dark ness, that the las t sonund of his fwiwtsteps died upon my ear, befor e I ventured to stir a limfb fr'ioo the position in which he had left me. The prospec t of the long watch I had now to look forward o ass dreadtful. Even dan"eter itsel,If, if in an active form, .vostldhave been far preferable to thisi sort of saf,but dull, pro ation, by whichl patie ac te conle virtue put dto the gproof. Having as tfcertairoed how far the sp ace a round te was free freom obstzalues, I evid(lavoured to i)ertile the ime by pacigt, ip and dl,w-n withiro tose linmits, till m I becatm e tired of the moinotodotis (chlioes of mv own tread(l. iir a, then to what I felt to be a m a s sive pidlar, Iaur, lealong wearily against it, I surrendered mvselt' to a train of thoughts and feelings, far diffr rettt from those a withl which the good Hierophant had hoped to iuispire rue. " If these priests," thouglht I, " possess really the secret o f life, dwhy are taey themselves the victims of death? fwhy sink into the grave with the cupe of immortality in t their tands? But no, safe boasters, the eternity they so lavishly promise is reserved for atother, a filture world —-hat ready resource of all priestly promises-that depository of the airy pledges of all creeds. Another Sorld!-alas! where dotl it lie? or, what spirit hath ever come to say that Lfe} is there?" The conclusion at which, half sadly, half passionately, I arrived, was that, life being but a dream of the moment never to come again, every bliss so vaguely promised for hereafter ought to be secured by the wise man here Aid, as no heaven I had ever heard of from these visionary priests opened half such certainty of happiness as that smile wshich I beheld last night-" Let me," I exclaimed, impatiently, striking the massy pillar till it rung, " let me but make thact beautiful Priestess my own, and I here w^illingly exchlange fo~r her every chance of immortality, that the combined wisdom of Eg~fflpt's Twelve Temples can offer me!" No sooner had I uttered these w ords, than a tremendous peal, like that of thunder, rolled over the Sanctuary, and seemed to shake its very walls. On every side, too, a success'on of blue, vivid flashes3 pierced, likie lances of light, through the gloom, revealing to me, at intervals, the mighty d, mle in which I stood —its ceiling of azure, studded with stars —its colossal columns, towvering aloft, —and those dark, air ful veils, whose'massy drapery hung fi'om the roof to the floor, coveringf the rich glories of the Shrine beneath their folds. E; o wseasy had I grow n of my tedious wsatc~h, that this stormy and fitful illuminlation, during which the Sanctum'y seecmed to] rocks to its base, was by nc mnean, al] uricelcomeb initcrrnption WITH such rapidity was I hurried along by my unseen guide, full of wonder at the speed with which she ventured througi: these labyrinths, that I had but little time left for reflection upon the strangeness of the adventure to whicl, I had com mitted myself. My knowledge of the character of the Mem phian priests, as well as some fearful rumoturs that had reach 62 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. CHAPTER XI. THE EPICUREAN. mids, was still, thoungh divested of many of these wonders, a scene of interest and splendour such as the w hole world could not equal. While the shores still sparkled vith mansions and temples, that bore testimony to the luxury of a living mt arc,-Iie voice of the Past, speaking out of unnumbered ruins, w hose sutlnmits, here andl there, rose blackly above the wave, to(l of' timmes long fled, and generationls long swept away, before m lihse giant remains all the glorw of the present stood humbled. Over the southern banl k of the Lake hung the dark relics of the Labyrinthh;-its twelve Royal ['alaces representing the mansions of the Zodiac- its tlihudering por tals and constellated halls, having left nothing now behind but a few frowning ruins, which, contrasted with the soft groves of acacia and olive around them, seenmed to rebuke the luxuriant smiles of nature, and threw a melancholy grandeur over the whole scene. The eff ects of the air, in re-animatin g the y oung Priestess were less speedy than I had expected;-her eye s ap here still closed, and she rema ined pale and insensible. Alarmed, I now rested her head (sashicl had been, for some tine, supe ported by my arm ) agai nst the base e o f one of the columns, with my cloak for its pillow, while I hastened to procure some water from the Lake. The temple stood high, and the den scent to the shore was precipitous. But, my Epi cure an habits having but little impaired my activity, I soon descended, with the lightness of a d esert dedeer, to the bottom. Here, plucking from a lofty bean-tre e, w h ose flowers stood, shinin g like gold, above the Mater, one of those large hollowed leaves that serve as clips for the Hebes of the Nile, I filled it from the Lake, and hurried back with the cool draught t *wards the Temple. It was not, however, without some difficulty that I at last succeeded in bearing my rustic chalice steadily up the steep; more than once did an unlucky slip waste all its contents, and as often did I return impatiently to refill it. During this time, the young maiden was fast recovering her animation and consciousness; and, at the moment when I appeared above the edge of the steep, was just rising from the steps, with her hand pressed to her forehead, as if confusedly recalling the recollection of what had occurred. No sooner did she observe me, than a sholt c,y of alarm broke from her lips. Looking anxiously round, as though she sought for protection, and half-audibly uttering the words, " Where is he?" she made an effort, as I approached, to retreat into the Temple. Already, however, I was by her side, and taking her hand, as she turned away from me, gently in mine, asked, " Whom dost thou seek, fair Priestess?"-thus, for the first time, breaking the silence she had enjoined, and in a tone that might have re-assured the most timid spirit. But my words had no effe ct in calming her apprehension. Trembling, and with her eyes still averted towards the Temple, she continued in a voice of suppressed alarm, " Where can he be?-that venerable Athenian, that philosopher, who " " Hec-e, here," I exclaimed, anxiously, interrupting her"behoh)I(l him still by thy side-the same, the very same, who sass tltie steal from under the Veils of the Sanctuary, whom thouii hast guided by a cluie through those labyrinths below, and whll now only waits his command. from those lips, to lev{,tc himself through life and death to thy service." As 1 sl,,,! these words, she turned slowly round, and looking timidly in my face, while her own burned with blushes, said, in a tone of doubt and wonder, " Thou!" and then hid hei eyes in her hands. I knew not how to interpret a reception so unexpected. That some mistake or disappointment had occurred was evidenlt; but so inexplicable did the whole adventure appear to me, that it w as in vain to think of unravellinlg any part of it. Wteak and agitated, she now tottered to the steps of the Temple, and theire seating herself, with her forehead against the cold marble, seemed for some moments absorbed in the most anxious thought; while silent and watchful I awtaited her doecision, though, at the same time, with a feeling which the resullt proved to be prophetic —that my destiny was, from thenceforth, linked insep~arably with hers. The inward struggle by which she was agitated, though violcult, was not of long continuance. Starting' suddenly from her seat, wsith a look of terror towards the Temp~le, as if the fear of immediate pursuit had alone decided her, she pointed eagerly towards the East, and exclaimed, " To the Nfile, without delay!" —clasping her hands, after she had thus spoken, with the most suppliant fervour, as if to soften the abruptneus of the mandate she had given, and appealing to me at the ed me, c oncerning the fate that ofte n attended unbelievers in their hands, awaken ed a momentary suspicion of treachery in my mind. But, when I recalled the face of my guide, as I had seen it i the sm all chapel, with that divine look, the very m emory of which bro ught pur ity into the heart, I found my suspicion s a ll vanish, and f elt shame at having harboured th e m but an instant. In t he mea n while, ou r rapid course continued without any Interrua )tion, throhugh vwindings even more capriciously intricate than any I h ad y et passed, and whose thick gloom seemed never t o have been bro ken by a singl(t glioe er of light. A1y u nseen condluctress was still at some s before me, and the a light clue, to vhiicli I cl dpnri as i ft it were Destiny's own thread, w as s til l kept, bv the speed w'i heter course,s a t ftll stret ch be twee n us. At length, suddenly stoberain, wshe said, in a breathless hisper, "Seat thyself here;" ad, at thef hee d t e same moment, led me by the hand t o a sort of low car, in wh ich, ob eying her brief command, I lost not a moment in pl acing myself, whil dr the m aiden, no less promptly, took her seat by my side. A sudde n c lick, l ike th e touclrin of a spring, was t hen heard, and the car- whichi, as I had felt i n e ntering it, leaned halfway over a steep desc nt-on being let loose from its statio io, s hot down, almost perpendicularly, into the darkness, wi rd ith a ra idity lwi( h, at first, nearly deprived me of breath. The Mwheels slid smo othly and noiselessly in grooves, and the imipetus, which the car acquired in descending, was sufficient, I perceived, to carry it up an eminence that succeeded-from tie s ummit of which it acgain rt i cshed down another declivity, eve n still more londl a an d precipitou s than the fo)rmer. In this m ann er Bue sroc ee d e,d, by alternate fall s and r ises, till, at lengzth, from the ktst and steepest elevation, the car descended uponl a level of de -ep sa ngd, where, after running for a few lyards, it b y degrees lo st its motion, and stopped. Here the maident, asighting atain, fllaced the riballd in my naidg, —and ao'ain I fol lowo d her, tiho al waitsh m ore slowness a:~d difficulty than betbre, as our way noe led up a flight of l:p- mesn a nd time-wor steps, n whose ascent seemed to the ,-'tri md and insecure foot innterminable. I'erceivice, wiith iri-.t Hlenuor my guide advanced, I w as on t he poi2rt ot m akini an effort to assi.,t her p togoress, whe n the creak of an openig deor above, and a faint gleam of light which, at the sa me roiecnt, shonoe upon her figure, appris e d me th at here were at trcst n arrive d wi thin r each of' sunshine. .r,rfitll y I f)llooked through thiw opening, and, by the dim iht, could discern that w e were now in the sanctuary of a vt, ruined temple-hav ing entered by a s ec ret passage und-r the p edestal, upo n whic h a n image of the idol of the p lace odelce stood. The first movement of the young maiden, after csing again the po rta l under the pedestal, wa s, without even ,t serle l ook towards me, to cas t herself down up on her i,nnes, wit h he r hand clasped and uplifted, as if in thanksorivill or prayer. But she was unable, evidently, to sustain lherself in this position;-her strength could hold out no ionder. Ov ercome by agitation and fatigue, she sunk senseless upon the pavement. Bewilder ed as I was myself, by the strange eavents of the rwiwht, I stood for some minut es looking upon her in a state of Ihelplessness and alarm. But, reminded, by my own feverish senisations, of the reviving effects of the air, I raised her gently in my arms, and crossing- the corridor that surrounded the sanctuary, found my way to the outer vestibule of the Temple. Here, shading her eyes from the sun, I placed her, reclining upon the steps, where the cool ncrth-wind, then blowing freshly between the pillars, might play, w ith free draught, over her brow. It alas, indeed —as I nows sawt, with certainty —the same becautiful and mysterious girl, who had been the cause of my ~escent into that subterranean world, and who now, uinder ~ uczh strange and unaccountable circumstances, wvas my guide back again to the realms of day. I looked around to discover the re we were, and beheld such a scene of grandeur, as, could my eyes'have been then attracted to any object bult the pale form reclining at my side, might well have induced them to dwrell on its splendid beauties. I was now standing, I found, on the small island in the centre of Lake Ma~ris; and that sanctuary, where we had ;ust emerged from darknress, formed part of the ruins of an ancient temple, which wvas, (as I hlave since learned,) in the grander days of AIrathis, a place of pilgrimage for worsh-ippers fromn a1l parts of Eg;ypt.. The fair Lake, itself, out of whose war, rs ollce rose pavrilions, palaces, and even lofty p)Ta 63 64 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Ithe nimble lizards upon the bank appeared to move less imbly, as the light fell on their gold and azure hues. Ove. l come as I was with watching, and weary with thought, it was not long before I yielded to the becalming influence of the hour. Looking fixedly at the pavilion-as if once more to assure myself that I was in no dream or trance, but that I the young Egyptian was really there-I felt my eyes close as I gazed, and in a fbw minutes sunk into a profound sleep. tsame time, with a look that would have taught Stoics them elves t e nderness. I lost not a moment in obeying the welcome command. Wi th a thousand wild hopes naturally crowding upon my fancy, at the t houghts of a voyagse, ounder such auspices, I desc ended rapid ly to the shore, and hailing one of those boats that ply upon the L ake for hire, ao han g ed speedily for a pas sag;e down the canal to the Nile. Having learned, too, firom the boatma n, a more easy path up the rock, I hastened back to the Temple for my fair charge; and, without a word or look, th at coulad alarm, even by it s kindness, or disturb the innocent confidence which she now evidently reposed in me, led her d own by t he wididing pa th to the boat. Every th i ngo a round looked sunny and smiling as we em barked. The morning wa s in its first fr eshness, and tile pq. h of the breeze mirht clearly b e tra ced ov er the Lake, a s it went wakebnin up the waters from their sleep of the ni ght. The gay, golden-h-ins,ed fbirds that haunt these s hores, w ere, inal ev e ry direction, s yimmiti, al ong th e Lake; while, with a graver coiia ciousa ess of beauty, the swan and the p e lican w ere seen dressing their w h ite p lu m age in the mirror of its wave. To add to the liveliness of th e scene, there ca me, at intervals, ain th e br eeze, a stdeet tinkline of mus ical instruments from boats at a distance, e mployed thus early in pursuing the fis h of th ese wa ters, that allo w themselve s to be decoyed into the Rets by music. Th e vpeissel I had selected for our voyage was one of those urnall pleasure-boats or yachts-so much in use among the luxu rois navigators of the Nile-iis the centre of which tises a pa vilion of cedar or cypress wood, adorned richly on the outside, with religious emblems, a nd gaily fitte d up, wi th in, for feasting and repose. To the door of this pavilion I now led my compan ion, an d, after a fw word s of kindness-temipered cautiously with as much reerve a s the deep tend er ness of my feeling towards her would admit-left her to court that restoring rest, which the agitation of her spirits so much required. For moysell; though repose was hardly less necessary to me, the state of forment in which I had been so long kept, ap peared to render it hopeless. Having thrown myself on the deck of the vessel, under an awning which the sailors had raised ifer me, I continued, for some hours, in a sort of vague day-dream —sometimlles passing in review the scenes of that stubterranealn drama, and sometimes, with my eyes fixed in drowsy vacancy, receiving p assively the impressions of the bright scenery through which we passed. The banks of the canal were then luxuriantly iswooded. Undei the tufts ot'tile light and towvering palm were seen the orang(,,e and the citron, iilterlacing,- their b)otughs; while, here and there, huge tamalisks thickened the shiade, and, at the very edge of the bank, the willow of Bab-,lon stood lbeldinig its graceful branches into the water. occasionally, out of the depth of these groves, there shone a small temple or pleasure-housc; while, now and then, an opening in their line ot' foliage allowed the eye to wander over extensive fields, all covered with be-ds of those pale, sweet roses, for which this district of Egypt is so celebrated. The activity of the morning hour w,as visible in every direction. Flights of doves and lapsewings were fluttering,, among the leaves; and the white heron, which had been roosting all night in some date-tree, nlow. stood sunning its wings upon the green bank, or floated, like living silver, over the flood. Tile tlosswers, too,!,oth of land and water, looked all just freshly awakeniedl;-andl, most of all, the superb lotus, which, having risen along with the sun from the Xwave, was now holding up her chalice for a full draught of his light. :Such w ere the scenes that now successively presented themselves, and mingled wsith the vague reveries that qoated through my minld, as our bout, with its high, capacious sail, swept along the flood. Thougfh the occur.,r..ces of the last fe'w days could not but appear to me one continued series of Mwonders, yet by far the greatest marvel of all was, that she, whose first look fad sent wild-fire into my heart-whom I bdthought of ever since with a restlessness of passion, that would have dared all danger and wrong to obtain its object -.she wvas now at this moment resting sacredly within that pavilion, while guarding her, even from myself, I lay motion ses at its threshold. Meanwhile, the sun had reached his meridian height.- The busy hum of the morning had died gradually awvay, and all around bras sleeping in the hot stillness of nloon. Trhe Nilegoose, having folded up her splendid wings, weas lying moioless on the shadow of tile sycamores ill the water. Even IT was by the canal through which we now sailed, that, in the more prosperous days of Memphis, the commerce of Up per Eg ypt and Nubia was transported to her ma-gnificent Lake, and from th ence, hav ing pa id tribut e to the queen of cities, %,%as poured forth again, through the Nile, into the ocean. The course of this canal o to the river was n ot direct, but ascending in a so uth-easterly direction towards the Said; and in calms, or with adverse winds, the passage w as tedious. But as the breeze was now blowing rs ly fr eshly om t he north, there was ever y pro spe ct of our reaching t he ri ver before nightfall. Rapidly, too, as our galley swept along the flo od, its motion was so smooth as to be hardl y fe lt; a nd the quiet gurgle of the b waters, and the drows y song of the boatm an at the prow, werealin it the only s o unds that disturbed th e d eep si lence which prevailed. The sun, i ndeed, had ne ar ly sun k behind the Libyan hills before th e sleep, into which these sounds had contributed toa lull me,,wtis broke n; and the first object on w hich my eyes rested, in awitog, w as that fair young Pries tess -seate d witn in a po rch which shaded the door of the pavilion, and bend iging intently over a small volume thiat lay un rol led on her lap Her face was but half-turne d towards me; and as sh once or twice, raised her e yes to the warm sky whose light fell, softened through tile trellis, over her cheek, I found all those feeling s of reverence, w hich she had inspired we wi th in the chal)el, return. There w a s even a purer and holi e r charm around her countenance, thus s een by the natpral li ght of day, than in'those dim and unhal lowed regi ons below. She was now looking, too, direct to the glorious sky, and lier pure eyes and that heaven, so w orthy oof each other, met. After contemplating her f or a fe w moment s, with little less than adoration, I r ose ge ntly from my resti iig-place, and ap proached th e pavilion. But the mene movemtenet had startleN her from her devotion, and, blushing and confused, she cover ed the volume with the folds of her r obe. In the art of winning upon female confidence, I had long of course, been schooled; and, now that to the lesson s of gallantry the inspiration of love was added, mmy ambition te please and to interest could hardly fail, it may be supposed, of success. I soon found, however, how much less fluent is the heart than the fan cy, and h ow very diffsrent may be the operations of making love and feeling it. In the few w iords of greeting now exchanged between us, it wa"s evident t h at the gay, the enterprising Epicurean was little less embarrass ed than the secluded Priestess;-and, after one or two inef fectual efforts to converse, the eyes of both turned bashfully away, and we relapsed into silence. From this situation-the result of timidity on one side, and of a feeling altogether new onl the other-we were, at length4 relieved, after an interval of estrangement, by the boatmen announcing that the Nile was in sight. The countenance ofthe young Egyptian brightened at this intelligence: and the smile with which I congratulated hel upon the speed of our voyage was responded to by another fiom her, so full of gratitude, that already an instinctive sympathy seemed e,+ tablished between us. We were now on the point of entering that sacred river, of whose sweet waters the exile drinks in his dreams-for a draught of whose flood the royal daughters of the PItolemies, when far away, on foreign throues, have been known to sigh in the midst of their splendotir. As our boat, with slack-en — sail, was gliding into the current, an inlqry from the boat men, whether they should anchor for the night in the Nile, first reminded me of the ignorance in which I still remained, with respect to the motive or destination of our voyage. Embarrassed by their qulestion, I directed my eyes towrards3 the Priestess, whom I saw wvaiting for my anlswerl with a look of anxiety, which this silent reference to her wtishes att once dispelled. Unlfoldingt cagefuly the v olulme wvith1 whichl I had seen her so much occupied, she tool; fi'o br etween'l its fohtls a small 64 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 0 CH.PTER XII. -~~~~~~~~H EPCREN 6 leaf of papyrus, on which there appeared to be some faint lines of drawing, and after looking upon it thoughtfully for a few moments, placed it, with an agitatedl hand, in mine. In the medan time, the boatmnen) had taken ill their sail, and the yacht dri)ve slowly d,)w i the river with the current; while, by- a li,t wicli had beh(i kiindiedl at sunset onil the d(ck, I s~lesd e x.ainin~ the 1eaf that the PrIiestess had given meher d irk eyes fixerl a lxiouslv onl my co)uiitenance all the w hi le. The lines trced uponl the papyrus were so ftilit as to be almost ivisible, ani I waas for some timne wholly unable t o firm a coijec,u e as to their import. At leng th, however, I 3suceeded ii mi:kisii out that they were a sort of map, or autliiues-tracedl sightly and unsteadily with a Meniphian reed(-of a part of that mountainous ridge by which Upper Egypt is bounded to tl.e east, together with the names, or rather enmblems, of the chief tewns in its immediate neighboutrhood. It was thither, I riowv saw clearly, that the young Priestess wished to pursue her course. Without further delay, therefore, I orIdered the boatnmen to set our yacht before the wind, and( ascend the current. My command was promptly obeyed: tlie awhite sail again rose into the region of the breeze, and the satisfaction that beamed in every feature of the fair Egyptiii shiowed that the quickness with which I had attended to her wishes was not unfelt by her. The moon had wow risen; anind thoug,h the current was against us, the Etesian wind of thie season blew strongly up the river, and we were soon fl,tiing before it, through the rich plains and?roves of the Said. The love with which this simple girl had inspired me, was pilltly, perhaps, from the mvstic scenes and situations in which I had seen her, not unmingled with a tinge of superstitiotis awe, under the influence of which I felt thle natural buoyancy of my spirit repressed. The few words that had passed between us on the subject of our route had somew hat loosened this spell; and what I wanted of vivacity and confidence was more than compensated by the tone of deep sen sibility whiich love had awakened in their place. We had not proceeded far, before the glittering of lights at a distance, acd the shooting up of fire-works, at intervals, into the air, apprized us that we were then approaching one of those night-fairs, or marts, which it is the custom, at this season, to i)ld upon the Nile. To me the scene was familiar, but to my voun, companion it was evidently a new world; and the mixture of alarm and delight with which she gazed, from unider her sveil, upon the busy scene into which we now,nv sailed, gave an air of innocence to her beauty, which still more heightened it. every charm. It was one of the widest parts of the river; and the whcle surface, from one bank to the other, was covered with boats. Aloiin the banks of a green island, in the mniddle of the stream lay anchored the galleys of the principal traders-large floating bazaars, bearing each the name of its owner, emblazoned in letters of flame, upon the sterni. Over their decks were spread out, in g,ay confusion, the products of the loom and needle of Etypt-rich carpets of Memphis, and likewise those variegated veils, for which the female emnibroiderers of the Nile are so celebrated, and to which the name of Cleopatra lends a traditional charni. In each of the other galleys wvas exhibited some branich of Egyptian workmanship-vases of the fragrant porcelain of On-cups of that frail crystal, whose lihes change like those of the pig,eon's plumage-enamelled amulets graven with the head of Anubis, and necklaces and bracelets of the black beans of Abyssiniao While Commerce was thus displaying her various luxuries in one quarter, in every other, the spirit of Pleasure, in all its couintless shapes, swarmed over the waters. Nor was the festivity confined to the river alone; as along the banks of the island and on the shores, illuminated mansions were seen glitteringr tlrough the trees, from whence sounds of music and merrimnt came. In some of the boats were bands of minstrels, who, from time to time, answered each other, likve echoes, across the wave; and the notes of the lyre, the flageolet, and the sweet lotus-, n ood flute, w ere heard, in the pauses of revelry, dying; along the waters. Mecanwshile, fr'om other boats stationed in the least lighted p~laces, the workers of fire sent forth their wonders into the air. Bursting out suddenly from time to time, as if in the *very exuberance of joy, these sallies of flame appeared to reach the sky, and there, breaking into a showver of sparkles, shed such a splendour around, as brigffhtened even the white Arabian hills — making them shine as doth the brow of Mount Atlas at night, ~n the fire from his own bosom is playing around its snows. im opportunity this mart afforded us, of provuidihg ourselves with some less remarkable habiliments than those in which we had escaped from that nether world, was too seasonable not to be gladly taken advantage ofby both. For myself, the strange mystic garb which I wore was sufficiently concealed by rry Grecian mantle, I hich I had fortunately thrown round me on the glitlirt of my watch. But the thin veil of m y companion was a far less efficient disgu ise. She had, indeed, flslrn g away t he golden beetles from her hair; but the s ac r ed robe of h ien order ewas st ill too vis ible, and the st ars o f the bandelet shoneo brightly through her veil. Most gladly, therefore, did she avail herself of this opportunity of a chane; and, as s he t ook from out a casketwhich m, aith the v o lu me I had seen h e r reading, appea red it be her only treasure-a small jewel, to give in exchange for the simple garment s she had chosen, ther e fell out at the same time, the very cross of silver which I had seen h er kiss, as may be remembered, in the monumental chapel, an d wh ich, was afterwards pr es se d to my ow n lips. This link between us, (for such it now appeared to my imagination) called us) again in my heart all the burning feelings of that moment;and, had I not abruptly turned away, my agitation would but too plainly have betrayed itself. The object, for which we had delayed in this gay scorn., having been accomplished, the sail was again spread, a:0 we proceeded on our course up the river. The souil~hs ay,, the lights we had left behind died -raduially away, and act now floated along in moonlight and silence once more. Swe.n:t dewvs, worthy of being called "the tears of Isis," fell rcfreshingly throtu,gh the ail, and every plant and flower sent its fragrance to meet them. The winid, just strong encDCmgh tI, bear iis smoothly against the current, scarce stirred the slatde1vw of the tamarisks on the water. As the inhabitants fi'~, m all quarters,ere collected at the night-fair, the Nile was mioe thalt] Usually still and solitary. Such a silence, indeed, pr;'vailed, that, as we glided near the shore, we could hear the ruistling of tile acacias, as the chameleons ran up their stems. It,,,as, altogt,lter, sulci a night as only the climate of FEgyi,t can b)otast, when the w]hle scene around lies lulled in tlhalt sort of bright tranquillity, which may be imagined to light the slumbers of those happy spirits, who are said to rest in the Valley of the Moon, on their way to heaven. By such at light, and at such an hour, seated, side by side, on th. delck of that bark, did we pursue our course 11p the lonely Nile-each a mystery to the other-our thoughts, our objects, our very names, a secret;-separated, too, till now, by destinies so different; the one, a gay voluptuary of the Garden- of Athens; the other, a secluded Priestess of the Temiiples of Mem>11i3; —and the only relation yet established betweeni us being tlhat dangerous one of love, passionate love, on one side, and the most feminine and confiding dependence on the othelr. The passing adveniturc of the night-fair had not only dispelled a little our mu,tuial reserve, but had luckily furnished us with a subject on whii(h we could converse without embarrassmenit. From this topic I took care to lead her, without any interruption, to others-being fearful lest our former silenice should return, and the music of her voice again be lost to me. It was only, iindeed, by thus indirectly unburdening my heart that I was enabled to avoid the disclosure of all I thought and felt; and the restless rapidity with which I flew from subject to subject was but an effort to escape from the only one in which my heart was really interested. " How bright and happy," said I-pointing up to Sothis, the fair Star of the Waters, which was just then shining brilliantly over ouir heads-" How bright and happy this world ought to be, if, as your Egyptian sagees assert, yonI pure and beautiful lumlinlary was its birth-star!" Then, still leaning back, and letting my eyes wander over the firmament, as if seekinlg to disengagre them from the fascination which they dreaded —" To the study," I exclaimed, " for ages, of skies like this, may thee pensive and mystic character of your nation be traced. That mnixture of pride and melancholy which naturally arises at the sight of those eternal lights shining out of darkness; —-that sublime, but saddened, anticipation of a Fulture, which steals sometimes over the soul in the silence of such an hour, when, though Death appears to reign in the deep stillness of earth, there are yet those beacons oflImmo~ tality burnling in the sky." Pausingf, as I uttered the word " immortality," with sigh to think how little mny heart echoed to my lips, I looked in the face of my companion, and saw that it had lighted up, as I spoke, into a glow of holy animation, such as Faith dlon 65 THE EPICUREAN. 66 THE MIRROR LfBRARY. gives;-such as Hope herself wears, when she is dreaming of heaven. Touched by the contrast, and gazing upon her with mournful tenderness, I found my arms half opened, to clasp her to my heart, while the words died away inaudibly on my lips,-" Thou, too, beautiful maiden! must thou, too, die for ever?" My self-command, I felt, bad nearly deserted me. Rising abruptly fiom mv seat, I walked to the middle of the deck, and stoo0, for some moments, unconsciously gazing upon one of those fires, whicli-according to the custom of all who travel l) nighrt on the Nile —our boatmen had kindled, to scare ac ay tihe crocodiles from the vessel. But it was in vain that I endeavonred to compose my spiit. Every effort I made huit more deeply convinced me, that, till the mystery which hng riound that maiden should be solved-till the secret, with which my own bosom laboured, should be disclosed -it was fruitless to attempt even a semblance of tranquillity. My resolution was therefore taken;-to lay open, at once, the feeliigs of my own it-art, as far as such revealnent might be hazarded, withcut startling the timid innocence of my companion. Thus resolved, I resumed my seat, with more, composure, by her side; and taking from my b6som the small mirror which she had dropped in the Temple, and which I had ever since worn suspended round my neck, presented -it with a trembhin hand to her view. TThe boatmen had just kindled one of their night-fires near us, and its light, as she ~ aned forward to) loo-k at the mirror, fell upon her facLe. The quick blush of surprise with which she rec,ognised it to be hers, and her look of bashful yet eager inquiry, in raising her eyes to mine,,,%ere appeals to wvllich I was not, of course, taird in answering. Beginning with the first moment w%,heni I s-aw her in the Temple, and passing hastily, but with wrsthat burned as they went, over the impression which she had then left upon my heart and fancy, I proceeded to describe the particulars of my descent into the pyramid -my surlrise and adoration at the door of the chapel-my encounter with the Trials of Initiation, so mysteriously pret, ared for me, and all the various vis~ionary wonders I had witaessiel in tiat region, till the moment when I had seen ner st,e —.ing fiom under the Veils to approach me. Th(,:,igh, iii detailiang these events, I had said but little of the feelirs they had awakened in me —though my lips had sent back mamy a sentence3, uniuttered, there ",as still enoug-h that co)uld nieittior be subdued nor disguised, and which, like that light firom unler the veils of her own Isis, glowed through every wordi that I,poke. Wh~en I told of the scene in the chapel-of th e s ilent interview which I had witness ed between the dead and tile li'ving —the maiden leaned down her head and wept, -i s from a he dirt full of ticars. It seeme,e a pleasure to her, however, to lifrtei t; and, when she lohkea at me heare there was an earnest and affectionate cordiality in her eyes, as if the kniowledge of my having, been present at that imoi'n-ii ful scene, had openedi a new source of sympathy midintelligence between us. So neiglhbouiring, are thie fountrains of Love and of Sorrow, and. so imperceptibly do they ofteii muingl their streams. Little, indeed, as I was guided by art or design, in my manner and conduct towards this innocent girl, not all the most experienced gallantry of the Garden could have dictated a policy half so seduictive as that which my new mas,,ter, Love, now taughlt me. The same ardo-ur which, if shown at once, and without reserve, minihIt probably hia,,e startled a hieairt so little prepared fi)r it, being now chieckedI and softened by the timidity of real love, won its way without alarm —, and, when most diffident of success, was then most surely on its way to 1-i was so, near the dawn of day when we partedl tlhat w( found the sun sinking westward wten we re,joined cach other. The smile, so frankly cordial, with which she met me, mighi have been taken fo r tlaai greeting of a lodjg-melloceka frlcn shi p, did not the blush and the caas t-down eyelid t hat feol owed betray symptoms of a feeling newer and lesp i ccalm. For myself, lightened as I was, in some degree, by the avowal which I fao m ade, I was ),e t too cofistcious of te 1ih e i hap spd eca thus given to our intercous,I dra, not to fgp t0l some l it tle alarm at t he pro spect of returning to the themed. We w e re both, tmorefor e, a like willing to allow our ttftti qotenty veuturedo lok pn,'by the varie ty of strange I wects t hat pres e n ted tahsmltemislves on the wad, a ion. n sui bect th at evidautly both were aline on wil ling to aypri i f d. thch. The river was now all stirarim g wi th cobmert e athem life Every inst ant w e met with boat, descegymlibeo th e set wholly iscdeenecadewnt of aid faom iail o r aar, that t he been sat idly o n the dfre c shly rtisei frm ether biritardosiing undr playing upon theiwr douenle-em Aer lookineg as. Tfew geat e rceu,ter of these boaits came ldnw'itli thos..e large emeralds, from the mine in thoadse rl, n te i on urnres, it iao said, are brifhte.t at the gall of the G n lon; hve sonict breougt cargoes o f franlmkit vcesepoic from the awacia mtr oves near the Rretrsp Sema. On the decars of others, tha t hao f en, asle to the Golden Mountains beyond Syenie, wereheae d b,,(locs an,d fi'agments of that sweet-smellihg pro l whai ies yea eart cty Ia,hed down, ga y the Gr ee n Nile oul Nallia, it thai smasel of the floe,ds. Our comipaniions up the stream were fitr h,'ss nuimero)us. Occas ionally a bo at, returvie g lightene d from the fbir ofr last night, shot rapidly past us, with tSiose pa high saitofl catcth every breeze from over the hills;-nwhile, now and then, we overtook one of those barhess full of bees, tnot a re s e nt -,t this seasof to colonise the gardea, of the sow tl, and tat i awd,vah tage o f the first flowersh altenr the irelatedtioul has passed 1 For a shorting ti) n teis down stomet ivrie ty of ojects enaobleui us to divaert so faar our coandersatioth al. to kee p it from lient inm upo n the o ne, sole sub ect, round whirst h it constantly Fovero ed. But nig wfnowto fas advanced b e to imi feexpected, wa s not long staecessful. As evening af d v alaced, ther wh ole scen e became more wsolitary. tWe less f requent ly ventured to look upo n each i oth e r, and o ur intervals of silence grew juces lo ofg. It wps near scnset, -,,lyhien, in passing a small temple o n taeh sh,re, whose porticoes w ere now fill of the evening ligh t, we saw issuing, fr'om at thiicke,t of acanithus near it, a train of young maideins graicefully linked tog.,ethier in the dzance by stems of the lotus and r at arms' length bet ween them. obein ri tresses were alsd wreatled with this gey emblem of the seau son, and in such It'ofti.sion were its white flowers twisted around their whasts and arm.,, that thley migh-t have been takleni, as they ligh~tly, b-oundied along, the bank, for Nymphs of the Nile, then fi'eshly ris~en from their brighIt gardens under the wave. After looking- for a few minutes at this sacred dance, the maiden turned away her eye.,, wNith a look of' pain, as if the remembrances it recalled were of no welcome itorture. This momentary retrospect, thiis glimli,se into the. past, appeared to offer a sort of clue to the secret for which I puinted;-and accordingly I proceeded], as gradually and de.licateiy as my imipatience wvould allow, to ava til mys,elf of the openiing- Her owil franikness;, however, relieved nme, fi'om the embarrassment of muchel ques.,tioningi,. She appeared even to feel that the confidence I sought was due to me; and beyondI the natural hesitation of maidlenly modesty, not a shadie t,f reserve or evasion a,ppearedl. To attem-ipt to repeat, ill her own to-uching words, thes 66 THE MIRROR LFBRARY. CHAPTER XIII. <:itx.c-:., tilt' n ittzoa'es Vwitlll' (clne111S{11 O(Ip oI t oe Iountaln ot w-hic slc she l'oke bt tatstedl, au feeling —what thousan ds o f fu mrlrrr1ers, sii'e her, lave lelt-thfat Christianity is the true and o!dy religionl ot' 1he sorrowful. " This, stuldy of hler secret houlrs be~came still more dlear to i her, as well tiom the peril with w,llich, at that period, it was aht twtiiehded, as fincm tlld necesity she F elt herself fnder tf coe healin fo-om thacsae awoould v her the screcious light that had u beed llBu s kiarseledt idr her o t hi at. Te o timid to e nc ounter the+ fiercew pers(ecultion,f wrhich awaited all wh Io wsere suspected of tt leanlill,. to) Christianlity, she conitinued to officiate inl the pompls alnd ceremlonlies otf t~he Temle ~l:-though, often, with sucth remnorse sof soul,N thalt she woutld pause, in then midst of theC rite's, and4 pray+ inward'l'(ly to) God, that he w ould forg'ive th~is prt~fitna~tionI of hli 81irit. "In tlle meanttime her daulgltter, thc youngT Alethc, grew up still lovelbier tlmntl hetrse lf, unl addled, e very hsour, b~oth to her happyinless alnd her fears. Whlen arrivetd at a suflqcienlt age, she was"l taughrit, likec t~le other c'ldldren of thec priezstesses, t~_ takes a shml'e ill the stervice and~ ceremonlies of the shrines The? dllty of somc o~f those younglt servitors uas to lookv afte. the tioxewes fier the atltar;-of others, to take care that the satcred vastes uerc filled eviery daty w ith fresh water from the Nile. Thle tatsk of someli was;1 to prelserve, in perfcet polish, those silvecr imagfes of thc Mloon which the priest~s ca, rried in p)rocessionls; wvhile others wele, als w0e have seen, emp~loyed in tbed~ing the consecrated anlimals, and inl keelting thtir p~lume~ anld scatles b~right for' the admirinlg ees of their worshippers. "The office allotted to Alethc-thle most hlonoulrable the se nfliuor minlistries-u-as to wtrait upoul the sacred b~irds ot' the Moon, to feed them daily wsith those eggfs fi'omn the Nile w hic h they loved, and p~rovide for their use that purest w ater, whichl alonle these delicate birds will touc~h. Trhis employment was thle delight, of her chlildish hours; and that ibvis. which Alciphron (the E~piculreanl) sawt her danlce round inl the Temple, was, of all tile sacred flock<, her especial favoulrite, and hnd b~een daily fonldled anld fed by her from insfancy. " Music, as b)einlg one of the chief spells of this enlchanted region, was an accomplishmenlt required of all its minlistrants, anld the harp, the Iyre, anld thc s.acred flute, sounded nlowhere so sweetly as througfh thcse subterranean gardens. l'he chief object, inldeed, in the education of the youth of the Tcmple. was to fit them, by every grace of art anld nature, to give effecto the illusion of those shows andl phantasms, in wvhich the entire charm and secret of Initiation lay. " Among the means employed to support the old system o! superstitiona, again~st the infidelity and, still m~ore, th~e new F'aith thalt menlaced it, was anl increased display of splendour atnd marvels inl those mysteries for wh-ich Egyp~t has so) long been celebrated. Of thcse ceremonlies so manly imitations had, ulnder valrious names, multiplied throughotut E urope, that at lenlgth the parent sup)erstitionl raln a risk of be;.ng eclipsed by its p~rogeny; and, in order still to rank ats the first P'riest hood inl thse world, it becalme necessary tot those of Egypt te remainl still the be~;mp.w~lAtora ,~t}t.r! in recrn the dictates of his eloquent toog ue; -hile til.' s'Li:tm: ~;umb)er of' y'oung females, seletettd for thle bealuty of tt ir p,';mrLirshif, were employed in arranging and trans rib ingt til pr,'c [;iou s leavses i' A:lg g' tle scribe s so s elected w eas th ecm irlyolng Theodea wh;-sse rare~its, though attached to the Pagan worship, w ere not unwilI'i:: to profit bjy the acconiplisliments of theirdla~ul-ght tec, thls occupied iIl a task, which they looked on as puiure ld ii'}rtrical. To the maid h1 self, hocever, her employmci et broug;hrt far other feeliins arid con(sequlences. She rea td attx iously as sh.c wrot, and the d11 nc t:'uths so eloqrientlv illsrs trated, iontt th:lir i ay, b,y degrees, from the paige to li rer t heart. Dr ~epy, too, as thec wruitteri ords aflectedl her, the 'iscrurses efion the lips of the 1r'at teacher himselfL whtich she had fieoqrent opportunitics of hearing, sunknlm s till nlotte deeply into her nind. There w as at oIcet a sublinmity and gentleness in his iews of reiirion, which, to the telnder hearts and lively imagina tiont s of women, never fidled to airpeal c ith conrvincr ing power. Accordingly, the list of lfis fimalt prliins was niumilerous aid the nimes of Barbara,.Illiania, i Herndis, aoyd I others, bear horouorabll testimony to his influence other tthat sex. "'Io TheeraI ti'le fbelingr with whitch }lis discourses insp~iredI her, *.;s like a n,iwv sroul-a conisciorisniess of sliritual exist- I elinC, nleve r before felt. Bv t}he eloquence of the comment s he I was awaskened into admriration of the text; and whnc, by the e ki ld~less of a Cateclhumnie'r ofthe school, who had been struc;k byv h,- innocenut zeal, sle, for the first time became possessor of it copy of the Scrilturos, she could iiot sleep for thinkiug of htr sw a icd tre asure. WVith a mixture of pleasure anid fear she hid it fioim all eyes, arid was like one who had reerived a dcirie guest uridier her roof, and felt fearfifl of betrayirig its diivi- | nity ti) the world. h "At heart so awakie w ould have bcen with ease securedl to ~e fuith, had her opportunritics of hearing the sacre wd w o rd continlued. But circumstalnces arose to deprive. her of thifs advastage. The mild Origeri, long harassed anid thwarted in i' labours by the tyranny of Demetrius, Bishop of Alexandria, | was obliged to relinquish his school, and fly fiom Egypt. The | | occupation of the fair scribe, was, therefore, at an end: her intercourse with the followers of the new faith ceased; and the l owing enthusiasm of her heart gave W ay to more worldly inmpressions. "Among other earthly feelings, love conduced not a little. tv wean her thoughts from the true religion. While still very coring, she became the wife of a Greek adventurer, who had r,me to Egypt as a purchaser of that rich tapestry, in which s a tir needles of Persia are rivalled by the looms of the Nile. | Having taken his young bride to Memphis, which was still the great mart of this merchandise, he there, in the midst of his b speculations, died-leaving his widow on the point of becom- h lag a miather, while, as yet, but ini her nineteenth year. a " For single andi unprotected females it has been, at all 1 times, a favourite resource, to seek for employment in t he ]setvcof some of those great temples by which so large a por- 1 t THE MIIRROR LIBRARY. before-when the acacia-bou-gh, which she herself had plucked, seemed to acquire a sudden sacredness ill her eyes, as soon as the priest hadl breathed upon it-on all such occasions Theora, though with fear and trembling, would venture to suggest to the youthful worshipper the distinction that should be drawn between the sensible object of adoration, and that spiritual, unseen Deity, of which it was but the remem brancer or type. "With sorrow, however, she soon discovered that, in thus but partially letting in light upon a mind far too ardent to rest satisfied with such glimmerings, she but bewildered the heart which she meant to guide, and cut down the feeble hope around which its faith twined, without substituting any other support inl its place. As tlhe )eauty, too, of Alethe began to attract all eyes, near fears crowded i1pon the notner's heart; -fears, in which she w,as but too muLch justified by the characters of some of those around her. "In this sarte rl 1)e( as sn.ly e-silv be (onceived morality did not always go lihai(1 in Nl, with rw igi oin. The nypocritical aI(d lllol)itionls Olcti,, vIl() wal at this period, High Priest of Meopl —, zas a i;, inii,,evry resp)ect, qualified to presidei over a cysti- - of' s,cl sipl,iid fraud. He had reach ed that effy tin e timie ot lifet, when enough of the warmth ad r-igour of youth remains to ( give aiimaition to the counsels of age. But, in his instance, youth had left only the baser p siots behind, while {ge( but }wlr'mlit with it a more refined maturity of niischief. The adis intages of a faith appealing a l most who lly to the seises(, were well understood by him; nor had he failed eitli r to dis..:.er that, in order to rendes religion sut)bs,rvinit to his own iiite rests, he must shape it ad roitly to the initerests and pa.ssionis of others. " The state of anxiety and reinsorse in which the mind o the hapless Tiheora w as kept bh the scenes, however artfully veiled, which she daily w itnessed around her, became at length intolerable. No perils that the cause of truth could bring with it would be half so dre adftil as this endurance of sinful ness and deceit. Her child was, as yet, sure and innocent; but, without that sentinel of the soul, Religion, how long might she continue so? " This thought at once dec idedl her: all other fears vanish. ed before it. She resolved instantly to lay open to Alethe the whole secret of her soul; to makeni this child, who was her only hope oil earth, the sharer oif all her hopes in heaven, and then fly with her, as soon as possible, fronm this unhallowed spot, to the tfar desert-to the mountainis-to any place, how ever desolate, where God and the consciousness of innocence might be with them. "Thiie promptitude with which her young pup)il caught from her thie divinie truths was even beyond what she expected. It was like the lighting of one torch at another, so prepared was Aletlhe's mind for the illumination. Amply, indeed, was the anxious mother now repaidl for all her misery, by this perfect communiion of love and faith, and by the delight with whi.h she saw her beloved child-like the young antelope, when fi*st led by her dam to the well-drink thirstily by her side, at the source of all life and truth. m "But such happiness was not long to last. The anxieties that Theora hall suffered began to prey upon her health. She felt her strength da,tily decline and the thoughts of leaving. alone and unguarded in the world, tlitt treasure which she had just devoted to Heaven, gave her a feeling of despair which Lbut hastened the ebb of life. Had she put in practice her resolution of flying from this place, her child might have been now beyond the reach of all she dreaded, and in the sol, tude of the desert would have found at least safety from wrong But the very hapinisiess she had felt in her new task diverted her from this project;-and it was now too late, for she was already dying. "She still continued, however, to conceal the state of her health from the tender and sanguine girl, who, though observ ing the traces of disease on her mother's cheek, little knew that they were the hastening footsteps of death, nor even thought of the possibility of ever losing what was so dear to her. Too soon, however, the moment of separation arrived; and while the anguish and dismay of Alethe were in propor tion to the security in which she had indulged, Theora, too felt, with bitter regret, that she had sacrificed to her fond con sidenition much precious time, and that there now remained but a few brief and paisiful moments, for the communication of all those wishes and instructions on which the future destine of the y o ung orpha n depended. "'She hatl, indeed, time for little mlore than to placeth "Accordingly, every contrivance that art cou ld d evise, or tabou r execute-every r esource that the wonderful knowledge of the Pr iests, in pyrotechny, mechanic$, and dioptric.s, could command-was brou ght into action to heig hten t he effe ct of their Mysteries, and give an air of enchantment to every thing connected with them. "1 The final scene of beatification-the Elysium, into which the Initiate was received —formed, of course, the leading attraction of these ceremonies; and to render it captivating aulike to the senses of the man of pleasure, and the irtagiiation of the, spiritualist, was the great object to which the attentioln of the S acred College was d evoted. By the i nfluence ofmtie Priests of Memphis oei those of the o the r Temples they had succeeded in extending their subterranean frontier, both to the north and south, so as to inclhde, within their ever-lighted Paradise, some of the gardens excavated for the use of the other Twelve Shrines. ' The beauty of the young Aletke, the touching sweetness of her voice, and the sensibility that breathed throughout her every look and movement, rendered her a powerful auxi'iary in such appeals to the imamination. She ].ad been, accos.! ingly, in her very childhood, selected from among her fair companions, as the most worthy represenitative of spiritual loveliness, in those pictures of llysium-those scenes of another world-bv which not only the fancv, but the reason, of the excited Aspirants w;as dazzled. " To the innocent child herself these shows, were pastime. But to Theora, who knew too wvell the imposition to which they were subservient, this profanatioin of all that she loved was a perpetual source of hlo-rror and remorse. Often would she —when Alethe stood smiling before her, arrayed, perhaps, as a spirit of the Elysian world-turn away, with a shudder, from the happy child, almost fancying she saw already the shadows of sin descending over that innocent brow, as she gazed upon it. " As the intellect of the young maid became more active and inquiring. the apprehensions and difficulties e~ the mother increased. Afraid to communicate her own pre(cious secret, lest she should involve her child in the dangers that encom passed it, she yet felt it to be no less a cruelty tha, a crime to leave lier wholv immersed in the darkness of Paganism. In this dilemma, the only resource that remained to her was to select, and disengage from the dross that surrounded them, those pure particles of truth which lie at the bottom of all reli gions; —those feelings, rather than doctrines, of which God has never left his creatures destitrtte, and which, in all ages, have furnished, to those who sought after it, some cltue to his glory. "The unity and perfect goodness of the Cryeator; the fall of the human soul into corruption, its struggles with the dark ness of this world, and its final redemption and re-ascent to the source of all spirit;-these natural solutions of the pro blem of our existence. these elementary grounds of all reli gion and virtue, which Theora had heard illustrated by her Christian teacher, lay also, she knew, veiled under the the ology of Eg'ypt; and to impress them, in their abstract purity, upon the mind of her susceptible pupil, was, in default of more heavenly lights, her sole ambition and care. " It was generally their habit, after devotiurg their morn ings to the service of the Temple, to pass their,venings and nights in one ofthose small mansions above ground, allotted, within the precincts of the Sacred College, to some of the most favoured Priestesses. Here, out of the reach of those gross superstitions, which pursued them, at every step, below, she endeavoured to inform, as far as she could venture, the mind of her beloved girl; and found it lean as naturally and instinctively to truth, as plants long shut up in darkness will, rhen light is let in upon them, incline themselves to its rays. a" Freq uently, as they sat together on the terrace at night, md~irins that glorious assembly of stars> whose beauty first misled mankind into idolatry, she would explain to the young listener by what gradations of error it was that the worship, thus transferred from the Creator to the creature, sunk still lower and lower in the scale of being, till man, at length, presumed to deify man, and by the most monstrous of inver ions, heaven was made the mere mirror of earth, reflecting back all its most earth.!y features. " Even in the Temple itself, the anx'-ous mother would en dlearour to interpose her purer lessons among the idolatrous ceremonies in which they were engaged. When the layofrite Ibis of Alethe took its station upon the shrine, and the young maiden was se,'l approaching, with all the gravity of wor ship, thq vecry bird which she had played with but an hour I 168 T EPIURAN 6 sacred volume solemnly in her hands; to implore that she would, at all risks, fly from this unholy place; and, pointing in the direction of the mountains of the Said, to name, with her last breath, the venerable man, to whom, under Heaven, she looked for the protection and salvation of her child. "The first violence of feeling to which Alethe gave way was s-ucceeded by a fixed and tearless grief, which rendered her insensible. for some time, to the dangers of her situation. [ier s(-le comfort consisted in visiting that monumental chapel where the beautiful remains of Theora lay. There, night after night, in contemplation of those placid features, and in prayers for the peace of the departed spirit, did she pass her l,ielv and-however sad they were-happiest hours. Though thre mystic emblems that decorated that chapel were but ill-, stited to the slumber of a Christian, there was one among t.em, the Cross, which, by a remarkable coincidence, is an emnblem alike common to the Gentile and the Christian-bei,g, to the former, a shadowy type of that immortality, of which, to the latter, it is a substantial and assuring plodge. " Nig,htly, upon this cross, which she had often seen her lost mother kiss, did she breathe forth a solemn and heartfelt vow, never to abandon the faith which that departed spirit had bequeathed to her. To such enthusiasm, indeed, did her he'art at such moments rise, that, but for the last injunctions ftr -m those pallid lips, she would, at once, have avowed her p rilous. secret, and boldly pronounced the words,' I am a Christian,' among those benighted shrines! "But the will of her, to whom she owed more than life, was to) be obeyed. To escape from this haunt of superstition must now, she felt, be her first object; and in planning the ma,iis of effecting it, her mind, day and night, was employed. It wsi. with a loathing not to be concealed, that she now found herself compelled to resume her idolatrous services at the s,ri, e. To some of the offices of Theora she succeeded, as is to, ctstmn, bv inheritance; and in the performance of these t-l t.;-aiictified as they were in her eyes by the pure spirit slh. h-Ld soeen eng,aged in them-tbere was a sort of melanc;5lv pleaLsure in which her sorrow found relief. But the part she as again forced to take, in the scenic shows of the 51x'ri(os, brought with it a sense of degradation and wrong w'iich shei could no longer endure. ' Alre tdy )lad she formed, in her own mind, a plan of escatpe, in which her acquaintance with all the windings of this .n-stic reahm gave her confidence, when the solemn reception ,f Alciphron, as an Initiate, took place. "From the first moment of the landing of that philosopher it Alexondria, he had become an object of suspicion and ,watchfulness to the inquisitorial Orcus, whom philosophy, in civ shiap e, naturally alarmed, but to whom the sect over which hlie vyiun Athenian presided was particularly obnoxious. rie acconmplishments of Alciphron, his popularity, wherever ie went, and the bold freedom with which he indulgecd his ,it It the expense of religion, were all faithfully reported to he High Priest by his spies, and awakened in his mind no ,iillly elis towa rds the stra nger. In dealing with an inidol, such a personage as Orcus could know no other alterna-t ive but that of either converting or destroying him; and hrugih Iis spite, as a man, would have been more gratified ,y the latter proceeding, his pride, as a priest, led him to ,refer the triumph of the former. " The first descent of the Epicurean into the py-amid be ame speedily k wnotsi, and the alarm was immediately given d the priests belowv As soon as they had discovere d that ~u-ec young philo sopher of A h ens was the intrud er, and that A, snot onlv still co ntinued to linger round the pyramid, but ~ aa observed to look often and wistfully towards the portal, a wavs concluded that his curiosity would impel him to try a se.cond descent; and Orcus, blessing the gfood chance which iaad thuls brought the wild bird into his net, resolved not to auffir an opportunity so precious to be wasted. a"Instantly, the whole of that wrondlerful machinery, by which '.he phantasms and illus~ions of Inlitiation are produced, were put in activ e preparation throughout that subterranean realm; ~.nd the increased stir and vigilance awakened among its inmates, by this more than ordinary display of the resources of priestcraft, rendered the accomplishment of Alethe's purpose, at such a moment, peculiarly difficult. Wholly ignorant of the i-~portaalt share which it had been her own fortune to t *e in attracting the young philosopher dolts to this region, she bt~t heard of. him vaguely, as the Chief of a great Greeij.*e t, who had been le,l lay either culriosity or accident, to,ql -- himself to the first trialls of Inzitiation; and whom: the priests, she could see, wer e endeavouring t o e nsnare in their toils, by every art anl lur e wit h which their dark sc ience had gifted them. " To her miiind, the image of a philosopher, such as Alc.e phron had been represented to her, came associat ed with ideas of age and reverence; and, more t han once, th e possibility of his being made instrumental to her deliverance flashed a hope across her h eart in w hich she could not refrain from ins dulFitng. Often had she bee n told by Theaira of the lany Gentil e sages, who had laid their wisdom down humb ly at the foot of the Cuoss; and t houg h this Initiate, she feared, could hardly be among the number, yet the rumours which she had gdathered fr om the servants of the Temple, of hi s undisguised contempt for the errors Heatheer n ism, led her to hope she might fipnd tolerance, if not sy mpath y, in her appeal to him. "Nor was it solely with a view to her own chance of delivera nce that she thus connected him i n her t hou ght s with the plo an w hich she meditate d. The look of proud and selfgratulating malice, w ith which the Hig h Pries t had mentiona ed this' Infidel,' as he styled him, when giving her instrnlctions in th e scen s e ewas to act beforein the sphlosopeh er in the valley, too plainly i nformed her of the dark destiny that hung over him. She knew how niany X ere the hapl ess candidates for Initiation who had been doomed to a durance worse than that of the grave, for but a word, a i w hisper, breathed against the sacred absurdities that they witness e d; a nd it was evident to her tha t the venerable Greek (fo r such her fancy represented Alciphroni) Mwas no less interested in escaping froin the snares and perils of this region than herself. ' Her own resolution was, at all events, fixed. That visionary scene, in which she had appeared before Alciphronlittle knowing how ardent w%ere the heart and imagination over which her beauty, at that,t mome nt, exercised its influence -Ewas, she s(:lemnly resolved, the very last unholy service, that superstition or imp)osture should ever command of her. " On the following nig-ht the Aspirant %%,as to watch in the Great Temple of Isis. Such an opportunity of approaching and addressing him might never come again. Should he. from compassion for her rituationi, or a sense of the danger of; his own, consent to lend his aid to her flight, most gladly would she accept it —well assured that no danger or tr c,a(' lery she might lislk (-otld be half so odious and fearful as those which shie 1 ft behind. Should he, on.llte contrary, ireje(ct the proposal, her determination was equally fixed-to trust to that Go)d whose eve w atches over the innocent, and go forth alone. " To reach the island in Lake M(mris Adwas her first great object; and there occurred fortunately, at this time, a mode of effe(eting he l purpose, by whitchi both the diffi(culty and dangers of the attempt would!)e much diminished. The day of the a'.uual visitation of the Iliglh Priest to the Place of- Weeping —as that island in the centre of the Lake is called-Mwas now fast approachinig-; and Alethe knew that the self-niovinig car, by which the High Priest and one of the Ilierophants are conveyed dowvn to the chambers under the Lake, stood then waiting in readiness. By availing herself of this expel dienit, she would gain the double advantage both of facilitating her own flight, and retardlinig the speed of her pursuers. ,, Haviyg paid a last visit to the tomb of her beloved mother, and wept there, long and passionately, till her heart almost failed il the strugg,leIaliavitng paused, too, to give a kiss t4 her favoturite ib)i.s, which, although too much a Christian tc worship, she was still child enough to love-shle went earlv, with a trembling step, to the Sanctuary, and there l-id herself in one of the recesses of the Shrine. Her intention was to steal out from thence w hile it wvas yet dark, andl before the illumination of the great Statue behlind the Veils had begun. But her fears delayed her till it was almnost too late; —already was the image lighted up, and still she remained tremb~lingo in her hiding-place. " In a few minutes more the mighty Veils would have been withdrawn, and the glories of that scene of enchantment htid open —when, at.length, summoning all her courage, and taking adviantage of a momentary absence of those epmnloyed in preparing this splendid mockery, she stole from under the Veil, and found her way, through Fhe gloom, to the Epicuriah. There was then no time for explanation; —she had but to trust to the simple words,'Follow, and be silent;' alna the implicit readiness with which she found them obeyed filled3 her with no less surprise than the philosopher himself h tf3 fek in hearing them. ." In a second or two they waere onl their waly tht,oug~h tile 69 THE F.PICUREAN. s'i.'i'i ted with it in her niomocv ed I lie devotion of wum iii' at a ccrtaiii s iin a d hour lare flocks of llrds assi mlle in to ijecs tu-'coi~ecatc-lie vey prfictiiisbutthe ra ine, of Folclic this rocky moulitaili forms ollC of the ~'er we o belef tI ichothr a n ths slentricc intiji rock, till the cleft closes upon one of thli]i urln! cc, whi'nl a i iii~ttha lve ~ioll i imaelytrimph Bt te svei V Through the ravine, rendered famous by this Clhatrmr-flit of''~~'iardi-isii~to hichI v'is risignhertha of such the multituide consider it-there ran, in anl( iewlt times, a cmii of he e("r 5(050tec Soltar-th inftiece uchcanal from the Sili, to some great and foi orton city, nuwv r wold s's oer hr miid-ail te horor ithburied in the desilt. To} a short distance fium tle livar this vili i ce li' 11 mist tach er t reard he rproitecanlal still exists, hutl after halviug passed throug~h the defile, ufidl 110' wio's shenowsmie-in ll tis po~pet Iits scantywatl isdisappear, anldare w~holly lost under the san~ds ii ~ii bu nespI~c fter fewshorthour, my ream It was in the iieiohbourhoiid of this pl~ace, as I cotldl cidieit of ls~5) IC wooli b at'i nd, nd ticha drk casm from the delineations on0 the leaf-wohere a flisit of hirils to'1 Oen ctweiio's f~tes,as oul disevr tem, presented the namce o)f thec moutitain-that the alsodle of the wid as elrth foim icai on, asunder.Solitary, to whorn Aletlie was about to consimrl lerself, wvan It ~as t ne he w nowwholy ii my ower t faredsittiated. Little as I kintew f the geosruzlihy oif Egyvpt, it at o'vi i see but ll()sof eath, ad thesolitde ofthe ducki me, that t e hail lunc Siii(( lift this mi t!t oii be at ay I umet. sigl~ houht f wrng r dceit tuard coding (ight; atid, as the wind had beeon, ever since, ~liisircg evesaveted he acrlege Evn peS~in isel fee a olywards the horizon, wve musot be nlow, at least, a day's sail to of th cautuar-andLove,pureLove stod in he pace f I is discovcry, I confess filleds my heart with.i fi-eing of Reii~~~~~~l'in. ~~~~~joy which I found it difficult to coulceal. It seemed as if As hug a I now ot er sory I culdinduge,at last foirtune was conspirig with love iln my behalf, and, bay tI s 1 in rreas ofthefutre Bt, ow-wat xpetatin, hatdelaying the moment of our separation, afforded me a chance prii'pet rcaind tMy sisge canceof appnesslayiiiat least of happiiiess. Her look and manner, too, walen inl tli hoe hwe~ci esuive ofbeng bleto ivet hr tougtsformed of our mistake, rather encouraged than chilled thlis fromthef~tl po~e t he editted ofweaingher by secret hope. In the first maoment of astonishment hier eves per-asiili nd r~Tieii, fom tat ustee fith,whih Iop~ened upon me with a suddeimess of splendour, under wh~ic h hadhefie ate an no fered sa ofattchig hr, er-I felt my own wink as though lightning hadl crossed them. ~~rtiiii~~~s for ever ~~~~ver of her lip), which showed the conflict of feeling theti going Iiithei~~atin o thse houhts I ad tared rommy on within, crossedl her arms upoti her bosomn, auld looked restligplac an cotume topaceup nd own,undr adown silently upon the deck; her whole countenance siuking liuruig in tll ehaused bth b thoght nd folin, Iinto an expression, sad, bult resigfnedl, as if she now felt that ~iin don aid hatbhz ofligh, ito slep,whih t my fate wsas on the side of wrongs, and saw Lovo already stealnCO On aakig I oun thevei of lete lad crefuly ver I was not slow, of course, in availing myself of what I fan' my bow, hileshe,herslf, at nar m, uner te shdow cied to be the irresolution of her mind. But, still, fearful of of te sil loki anxousy uon tat eaf,whih he moherexciting alarm by any appeal to fee~ling~s of regard or teuxderbad gven er ad emloye apprenty incompriug Its(lSS, I but addressed myself to her imagination, and to that outlneswit th cor eof he ive, a wel a wih te frmslove of novelty atidt wonders, whic h is e ver ready to be awaof te roky illsby wichwe wre pssig. Se lokedkenaed withiii the youtlifiil breast. WVe were nows a.pproaching paleandtiouled andros eaerlyto eet e, s ifshehad that regioni of miracles, Tiu bes. "IJii a daly or twvo,1' said I, bug and impateutly waited or my waking we shall see, towzerilig alio(vo the wauters, the colossal Ave, Herheat, t ws pain ha ben dstubedfro it sett- 00 of Sp~hinxes, and the bright Olielisks of the Sun. We rity andw~ bginnng t tae alrm a itsown eeligs. shall visit the plain of Memlnon, and liiholdl those migh't;. sta-l liut thughlagelyconcios oftheperl t whch he as tiues that fling their shitdows at sunrise ever the Libyan rlls; widleen; l tli di-'t'ice betw eiil us anld all that most kinidleil ie d he e o s r e to g thoih he m to iin zny 1,ilesion ail tl~e same time chilled mnc hopes. 5 fi~ ri a h is b a no aprioi lt o t0,l i h u. li,u ched ciimmtialioii of thoul itht and foeeiliugs, I l nllw al teicto th brd ta o w n, a d l a e te s otdvi t'io weell, I (lionglit, both h'-r sex' nature arid my own, to feel tm t wae allt thaiilov BAt thou ghd acknowledged tr um h. B t athe asve n I lsi n, o nqii 1 )( o tei oid wors ii< of ted ic re w o ws,il sto e, rt its t yp te a n u si ttitene Isuche c u ir e. ~ e h d i id i p s e l it i t i i aOn sni'o'rer o ld aro e i n m ye miud oine - i lo k fr mheh r l inwi s et t o g y fohh o t n he s n w s a r a v s u ~ g ( feari ii, eellr hrpr s ne -li ke~ thea flaer torembli g i the hi~r leez h o t w r fte s li a p s,le a l o n e2 a h o un l i n ke d a s s h ie w a s i n t h e w o r s ld t o b t m y o n BtIe a a l, a t d e l, l e h i l d l l, a d f e u fevl t iere br i s~e e m e a slsee p ofr f ires, b e tes herl soulve a n dhea en TH LPCUREAN. 71 We shall hear the image of the Son of the Morning respond- Ing to the first touch of light. From thence, in a feAw hours, a breeze like this will transport us to those sunniy islands ne ar the cataracts; there, to wandaer, among the sacred palm- groves of Phile, or sit, at nozontide hour, in those cool alcovs e s, which the waterf(i,l of Syene shadows under its arch. Oh, who is there that, with senes of such loveliness within reach, would turn c(,ldlv away to the bleak desert, and leave this fair world, with all its enl(ihantients,. shining unseen and unen joyed? At least "-I added, taking tenderly her hand in ine-'- let a f,xw more da s be stolen from the dreary fate to which thou hast d(otedl tlihyself, and then -" She had heatd -,Int the -last few words-the rest had been lost upon iher. Sttrtled by the tone of tenderness into which, in despite of all my resolves, I had suffered my voice to soften, shle l)o1 (lfd for * iistaint with passionate earnestness into rmy face; then, Idrl)ppig upon her knees with her clasped hands upraised,l exclaimed-" Tempt me not, in the name of God I imrplore thee, tempt me not to swerve from my sacred duty. Oii! ta!cl mle instautly to that desert mountain, and I will bles, tile foir ever." This appl)ea-l, I fault, could not be resisted-even though my heart were to lbreak foi it. Having silently intimated my assent to ir piraLyer, by a slight pressure of her hand as I raised her fron the deck, I proceeded immediately, as we were still in full career, for the south, to give orders tiat our sai s,lshoId lie istitly lowered, and not a moment lost in retracin,g our ~'OllF.Me. Il giving t-hee directions, however, it, fur the first time, occuriedl to mn, tihtt, as I had hired this yacht in the n iei(dohhouilhooidl of'lmphis, where it was probable the flight ofthe youn,g Prie stess would be most vigilantly tracked, we should run the risk of betiayir., to the boatmen the place of her retreat;-and there Was now a most favourable opportunity fior taking precautions against this danger. Desiring therefore, that we shotlid be lauded at a small village onl the shiore, un- der pri tence of payiian a visit to some shrine in the neigehbotirhiood, I there dismissed our barge, and was relieved from fear of further observ.ltiou, by seeing it again set sail, and resume its course fleetly up the current. From the bolts of all descriptions that la-y idle beside the bank, I noIv selected one, in every respect, suit!d to my puirpose-being, in its shape and accommodations a milniature of our fi,riier vesse l, but, at the same time, so light and small as to be manageattble by myself alone, and requiring, with the advantage of the current, little more than a hand to steer- it. This boat 1 succeeded, dwithlout much difficulty, in purchasing, and, after a short delay, we were again afloat down the currett;-the suI just tlhei sinking, in conscious glory, over his own gol(leii shlrines, in the Libyan waste. Tile e veting was cahnler and Galore lovely than any that had yet sn illed,it,oi osur vo)yatge; aiin, as we left the shore, a strain of sweet iilii,y came soothingly over our ears. It was the voice of a yourg Nubian girl, whom we saw kneeling before anll acacia, uponi the bank, and singing, while her coimreanions stood artound, the wild sonig of iivocation, w:.-.h, in her counitry, they address to that enchanted tree: solitude daaws hearts t ogether, and ho w much more we se emed to bel ong to each other, than whenth ere w ere eyes around us Thime same feeling, but without the same sense of it3 danger, was manifest in every look and word of Alethe. The consciousness of the one great effort which she had made appeared to have satisfied her heart on the score of duty —while the devotedness with which she saw I attended to her every wish, waso felt with all that trusti ng gratitude which, i n woman, is the day-spring of love. She was, t herefore, happy, in nocently happy; and the confiding, and even affectionate, unreserve of her mannier, while it rendered my trust more sacred, mud it also far more diticuilt. It was only, however, upon subjects unconnected with situation or fate, that she yie,lided to such interchange of thought, or that her voice veltured to answer mine. The moment I alluded to the destiny that anwaited us; all her cheerfulniess fled, and she became saddened (nid silent. When I described to her the beauty of my own i] native land-its founts of inspiration and fields of glory-lher eyes sparkled with sympathy, antid sometimes even softened into fondness. But when I ventured to whisper, that, in that glorious country, a life full of love and liberty awaited her; when I proceeded tc contrast the adoration and bliss she might command, with the gloomy austerities of the life to which she Maas hastening-it was like the coming of a sudden cloud over a sumnmer sky. Her head sunk, as she listened;-I mwaited in vain for an an swer; and when, half playfully reproaching her for this si lence, I stooped to take her hand, I could feel the warm tears fast falling, over it. But even this-feeble as eras the hope it h(ld out-wa s still a glimpse of hap))iniess. Though it f)reboded that I should lose her, it also whispered that I was loved. Like that lake, in the land of Roses, whose waters are half-sweet, half-bitter, I felt my fate to be a compound of bliss and pain-but its very pain well worth all ordinary bliss. And thus did the h-outrs of that night pass along; while every moment shortened our happy dream, and the current seemed to flow with a swifter pace than any that ever yet hurried to the sea. Not a feature of the whole scene but lives, at this moment, freshly in my memory;-the broken starlight on the water;-tthe rippling sound of the boat, as, witholut oar or sail, it went, like ia thing of enchantment, down the streamn;-the scented fire, burning beside us upon the deck, and then that face, on which its light fell, revealing, at every moment, some new charm-some blush or look, more beautiful than the lust! Often, while I sat gazing, fo)rgetful of all else, in this world, our boat, left wholly to itself, would drive from its course, and bearing us away to the bank, get entangled in the water flowers, or be caught in some eddy, ere I perceived where we were. Once, too, when the rustling of my oar among the flowers, had startled away from the bank some wild antelopes, that had stolen, at that still hour, to drink of the Nile, what all emblem did I think it of the young heart then beside me -tasting, for the first time, of hope and love, and so soon alas, to be scared from their sweetness for ever! "Oh! Abyssitian tree, WVe pray, we pray to thee, By the glow of thy golden fruit, AOfl the vilt o f thy flowe r And the greeting mute Of thy bough's salute To the stranger who seeks thy bower. THE night was iow fiar advanced-the bend of our coumse towards the left, and the clositng in of the eastern hills upon the river, gave warning of our approach to the hermit's dwell ing. Every minute now appeared like the last of existence; and I felt a sinking of despair at my heart, which would have been intolerable, had not a resolution that suddenly, and as if by inspiration, occurred to me, presented a glimpse of hope, wvhi ch, in some dcgree, calmed my feelings. TMuch as I had, all my life, despised hypocrisy-the very sect I had embraccd being chiefly recommended to me hy the war they coitinued to wage upon the cant of all otheIt it was, nevertheless, in hypocrisy that I now scrupled not X take refuge from that calamity which to me was far wote than either shame or deathi, niy separation from Alethe. In my despair I adopted the humiliating plan-deeplyhumiliating as I felt it to be, even amid the joy with which I welcomed it-of offeritig myself to this hermit, as a convert to his faith, and thus becoming the fellow-disciple of Alethe under his care From the moment I resolved upon this plan my spirit felt lig,htened. Though having fully before my eyes the mean labyrinthl of impost -:e into which it would lead me, I thought of nothing but the oaence of our continuing still together. Is "Oh! Ablyssiniai tree, How the traveller blesses thee Whenl the night no Ioon allows, Anid the sunset lour is near, And thou b,end'st thy boughs To kiss his brows, Sayill,A' Com.e, rest thee here.' Oh [ Abyssin,ianl tree, Thus bow thy head to me!" I I i.i 71 THir El -r-UREAN. CHAPTER XV. In the burden of this son,- the companions of the young Nubianjoined; and we heard the words, 11 Oh! Abyssinian tree," dying away on the breeze, long after the whole group had n lost to our eves. Whether, in the new arrangement which I had made for cnir voya,-e, ai-iy motive, besides those which I professed, had a share, I can scarcely, even myself-so bewildered were thenmyfeelin,, —s-determine. Butnosoonerbadthecurrent borne us a.way fro,-n all human dvellin,,, and we were alone = the watei-s. wit. not a soul near, than I felt how closely such 2 THE MIRROR LIBRARY.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ this hope, all pride, all philosophv, w%as forgotten, and every Memphis she had been taught by her mother to sing to ti thiiu seemed tolerable, but the prospect of losing her. rising sun. Thus resolved, it w as with somewhat less irluctant feelings Scarcely less startled than my companion, I looked up, ard that I now undertook, at the anxious desire of mny companion, saw, at the very summit of the rock above us, a lighit, appear. to ascertain the site of that well-know n mountaiii in the neighli- ing to come from i small opening or window, thr J igh which bourhood of which the anchoret's dwelling lay. We had those sounds likewise, that had appeared to me z) supernaalready passed one or.o stupendous rocks, whico stood, de- tuial, issued. There cotld be no doubt, that we had now tached, like fortresses, o ver the river's bl ink, and w hici h in found-if not the dwelling of the anchorite-at least, the haunt some degiee corresponded with the descreiption on the leaf. of some of the Christian brotherhood of these locks, by whose So little was there of life now stirring along the shores, that assistance we could not fail to find the place of his retreat. I had begun almost to despair of anv assistance from inquiriv, The agitation, into which Alethlie had been thrown by the when, on looking to the w estern bank, I saw a boatman amoing' first burst of that psalmody, soon yielded to the softening rethe sedges, towing his small boat, with some difficulty, up colle(tions w hich it brought back; and a calm came over her the current. Ilailiiig him as we passed, I asked,-" W,here 1irow,i such as it had n(eer befiore worni, since we met. She stands the Mountain of the Birds?"-.aid he hadl hardly time, seelmed to feel as if she had now reached her destined haven as hlie pointed above us, to answer "There," when Awe per- and hailed, as the voice of heaven itself, those solemn sounds ceived that we were just then entering into the shadow, which bv which she Mas we lcomed to it. this mighty rock flinos across the whole of the flood II lier tiaiqiillity, however, I was very far fiom yet sym InII a few moments we had reached thie mouth of the ravine, pI)atlising. Full of impatience to learn all that awaited her or which the Mountaiii of the Birds forms one of the sides, as well as mvself, I pushed our boat close to the base of the and throughl which the scantv canal from the Nile flows. At rock,. so is to bring it directlv under that li,ghted window on the sight of this awful chasm, within some of whose drearv the summit, to explore my way up to which was now my imrecesses (if we had rightly interpreted the leaf) the dwoelliiig mediate object. Having hastily received my instructions of t'ie Solitaiy was to be found, our voices sunk at once into fiom Alethe, and made her repeat again the name of tim a low whispler, wh-lile Alethe turned round to mne Fithli a look Christian whom Xe sought, I sprang upon the bank, and was of awe and ea,ernliess, as if doubtful whether I had not already not long in discovering a sort of path, or stairway, cut rudely disappeaied irom her side. A quick movemeint hosewvr, of out of the rocl, and leading, as I found, by easy windings, her hand towards the raviue, told too plainly that her plurpose up the steep. was still unchanged. Immediately checkiing, therefore, witli After ascending for some time, I arrived at a level space my oars, the career of my boat, I succeeded, after no0 small or ledge, which the hand of labour had succeeded in convert exertion, in turning it out of the current of the river, and ing into at garden, uid which was planted, here and there, steering into this bleak and stagnant canal. with fig,-trees and palms. Around it, too, I could perceive, Our transition firom life and bloom to the very depth of through the glimmering light, a number of small caves or idesolati(on was immediate. While the water on one side of grottos, into some of which, human hbeiiisgs might find an en the ravine lay buried in shadow, the white skeleton-like crags trance; while others apipeared of no la rger dimiensions than of the other stood aloft in the pale glare of moonlight. The thos.e tombs of the Sacred Birds which are seen ranged around sluggish stream through which we moved yielded sullenly to Lake Meris. the oar, and the shriek of a few water birds, which we had I was still, I fotund, but half-wiy up the ascent, nor was roused from their fastnesses, was succeeded by a silence, soI there visiblei any fiurther means of continuiing my course, as dead and awful, that our lips seemed afraid to disturb it by the inittistiri froni hence rose, almost perpendicularly, like a a breath; and half-whispered exclamations, " How dreary!" wall. At length, however, oil exploring more closely, I dig -" fow dismal!" —were almost the only words exchanged covered behind the shade of a fig-tree, a large ladder of wood, between us. resting firmly against the rock, alirt aflibeding an easy and safe We had proceeded for some time through this gloomy de- ascent ul) the steep. file, when, at a short distance before us, among the rocks upon Havin,g ascertained thus far, I again descended to the boat which the mnioonlight fell, we could perceive, on a ledge ele- for Alethe wihom I found trembling talready at her short soli vated but a little above the canal, a small hut or cave, which, tude; and lhaving led her up the staisrway to this quiet gar firom ai tree or two planted around it, had siome appearance den, left her lodged there secutrely, amid its holy science of being the abode of a human being. "This, then,," thought while I pursued my way upward to the light upon the rock I, "is the home to which she is destined!"-A chill of despair At the top of the lollng ladder I found myself o1n another camne again over my heart, and the oars, as I sat gazing, laly ledge or platform, somewhat smaller than the first, but plant motionless in my hands. ed, in the same manner, with trees, and, as I could perceive I fiound Alethe, too, whose eyes had caught the same object, by the mingled light of mornliing and the iioon, emnbellished (,rawi,ig closer to my side than she had yet ventured. Lay- with flowess rs. I was inow near the summlit;-thliere remained ing her hand agitatedly upon mine, " We must here," said but another short ascent, and, as a ladd,er iagainst the rock, she, "part for ever." I turned to her as she spoke; there supplied, as before, the means of scaling it, I wis in a few was a tenderness, a despondency, in her countenance, that at Inililites at the opening from which the light issued. once saddened and inflamed my soul. "Part!" I exclaimed, I had ascended gently, as well from a feeling of awe at passionately-" No!-the same God shall receive us both. the whole scene, as fiomni an Unwillingness to disturb rtudely Trijhy faith, Alethlie, shall, from this hour, be mine; and I will the rites on which I intruded. My approach, therefore, being live and die in this desert with thee!" uiheard, an opportunity was, for some moments, aflforded Her surprise, her delight, at these words was like a mo- me of observing the group within, before.nmy appearance at mentary delirium. The wild, anxious smile, with which she the window was discovered. looked into my face, as if to ascertain whether she had indeed In the middle of the apartment, which seemed to have heard my words aright, bespoke a happiness too much for been once a Pagan oratory, there was coilected an assembly reason to bear. At length, 10ie fulness of her heart found re- of about seveos or eight persons, some male, some female, lief in tears; and, murmuing forth an incoherent blessing on kneeling in silence round a small altar;-while, among them, my name, she let her head fall languidly and powerlessly on as if presiding over their solemn ceremony, stood an aged my arm. The light from our boat-fire shone upoii her face. man, who, at the moment of my arrival, was presenting to I saw her eyes, which she had closed for a moment, again one of the female worshippers an alabaster cup, which she opening upon me with the same tenderness, and-merciful applied, with profound reverence, toher lips. The venerable Providence, how I remember that moment! —was on the point countenance of the minister, as he pronioiinced a short prayer of bending down my lips towards hers, when, suddenly, in over her head, wore an expression of profound feeling that the air above us, as if coming direct from heaven, there burst showed how wholly he was absorbed ill that rite; and when forth a strain of choral riusic, that with its solemn sweetness she had drank of the cup-which I saw had engraven on its filled the w hole valley. | side the image of a head, with a glory round it-the holy man Breaking away from my caress at these supernatural sounds, bent down aud kissed her firehead he maiden threw herself trembling upon her knees, and, not After this parting salutationi the whole group rose silentiy dt ring to look up, exclaimed wildly, "My mother, oh my from their knees; and it was then, for the first time, that by mother!" a cry of terror from one of the women, the appearance of a It was the Christian's morning hymn that we heard -the stranger at the window was discovered. The whole assem same as I learned afterwards, that. on their high terrace at bly seemed startled and alarmed, except him. that sunerici 12 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. THE EPICUREAN. 73 person, who, advancing from the altar, with an unmoved look, raised the latch of the door adjoining to the window, and admitted me. There was, in this old man's features, a mixture of elevanonl and sweetness, of simplicity and energy, which commnanded at once attachment and homage; and half-hoping, hlalf-fearing, to find in him the destined guardian of Aletlie, I looked anxiously in his face, as I entered, and pronounced the tuame " Melailius!"-" Melanius is my name, young stranger," lie answered; "and whether in friendship or in enmity thou comest, MAIelanius blesses thee." Thus saying, he made a sign withi his right haud above my head, while, with involuntary respect, I bowed beneath the benediction. " Let this volume," I replied, " answer for the peacefulness of my mission "-at the same time placing in his hands the copy of the Scriptures which had been his own gift to the mother of Altthe, and which her child now brought as the credential of her claims on his protection. At the sight of this sacred loede, ewhich hie iinstantly recognized, the solemnity which had at first marked his reception of me, softened into tenderness. Thoughts of other times appeared to pass thirough his mind: and as, with a sigh of recollection, he took the book from mv- lhands, somei( words on the outer leaf caught his eye. They were few -but contained, most probably, the jast wishes of the dying Theora; for, as he read them over eagerly, I saw tears in his aged eyes. " The trust," he said, with a faltering voice, is precious and sacred, and God will enable, I hope, his servant to guard.it fait!iflly." During this short dialogue, the other persons of the assembly had departed-being,, as I afterwards learned, brethren from the neighbouring bank of the Nile, who came thus secretiy before daybreak, to join in worshipping their God. Fearfil lest their descent down the rock might alarm Alethe, I hurried brieflv over the few vwords.of explanationi that renaine(l, and leaving the venerable Christian to follow at his eisure, hastened anxiously down to rejoin the young maiden. rich city, Antinoe, though he mingled not with its multitude, his name and his fame were ever among them, and to all who sought after instruction or consolation, the cell of the hermit was always open. Notwithstanding the rigid abstinence of his own hbrb;ts, he was yet careful to provide for the comforts of others. Corn tent with a rude pallet of straw, himself, he heAd always I,.}; the stranger a less homely resting place. Fror hi grotto, the wayfaring and the indigent never went unref,-hr-hd; and, with the aid of some of his brethren, he had forIre, gardens along the ledges of the mountain, which gave arn air of life ana cheerfuiness to his rocky dwelling, and supplied him with the chief necessaries of such a climate —fr'it and shade. Though the acqluaintance he had faJrned with the mother of Alethe, during the short perioe of her attendanice at the school of Origen, wa s soon interru} ted, andi never afterwards renewed, the interest w h ic h bre h,,lte then tbke in her fate was far t too lively to be for gotten He had seen the zeal with which her young heart welc mied instruction; and the tho ugh t that so promising, a candi late for heaven should have Relapsed into idolatry, c a me often, with disquietin g apprerlera sion, over hi s mind. It was, oe therefore, with true I Csure, that, but a year or two befo r eale Theoa's deth, he hd learned bv a private con mmunication from her, transmitted through a Cluristian embtalm-n er of Memplhis, that " not only bad her ow n hea rt takeen root i n the faith, but that a enew bud ha d flowered with t he same divine hope; ad that, ere long, he mi ght see them both transplanted to the desert." The coming, therefore, of Alethe was far-less a surpris e to. him, tha n her coming tihus alone sas a shofck and a sorrow e and the silence of their firs t meet ing she owed how painfully bo th remembered th at the tie which had brought them together was no lo nger o f this wol -I-thLbt the lfaid, wuhic h should have been then joined with their s, was h sh oosw moulder lug ig the tomb. I now saw, tha t even religion like his wa s not p roof again st the sadness of mortality. For, a s t h e old man rput aside the ringlets f ro m he r fo rehead, and contemplated in tha t clear countenance the reflection of what her m other had been, there mingle d a mournfulness with his piety, as he said, " Heaven rest her soul!' which showed how little even the cer tainty of a ieaven for those we love can recon cile us to the paip n of having lost the m on earth. The full light of day had now risen upon the des ert, and our host, reminded, by the faint looks of Alethe, )f the m an y anxious hours w e had passed M, ithout sleep, proposed. th at we should seek, in the chamber s of the rock, such rest as a her mit's dwelling could offer. Pointing to one of the largest of these openings, as he addres sed me-og Thot wilt fi nd," i hae said, "in that gro otto a bed of fresh doum leasses, and may the consciousness of havin g protec ted the orlhan sweeten thy sleep!" I felt how dearly this praise had been earned, and already almost repented of having deserved it There was a sadness in the countenance of Alethe, as I took le ave of her, t o which the forebodings of my oyu n heart but too fatithfully respon ded nor co uld I help fearindt, as her hand parted ligeri,gly from mine, that I' had, b ththi s sacrifice, plated her beyond my reach for ever. Having lighted for me a lamp, which, in these recesses, even at noon, is necessary, the holy man led me to the en trance of the grotto. And here, I blush to say, my careel of hypocrisy began. With the sole vi, -s (ot obtainling another glance at Alethe, I turned humbly to solicit the benediction of the Christian, and, having conveyed to her, while bending reverently down, as much of.the deep feelings of my soul as looks could express, I then, with a desponding spilt, hurried into the cavern. A short passage led me to the chamber ^itllin —the psalis of which I found covered, like those of the-^ Rotters of' Lycopolls, with paintings, which, though executed long ages ago, looked as fresh as if their colours were but laid on yesterday. They were, all of them, representation.s of rural arnd domestic scenes; and, in the greater numb~er, the melancholy ima. ginetlon of the artist had called in, as usmal, the presence of Death, to throw his shadow over the picture. My attention was particularly drawns to one; series of ~ub jects, throughout the whole of which tile same group —consisting of a youth, a maiden, anld two aged p~ersons, who appeareid to be the father and mothel' of the girl —were represented in all the details of their daily life. Thle looks ands~ attitudes of the young people denoted that they were lovcrB: ME. LAN IUS was one of the first of those zealous Christians ff Egypt, who, followin,- the recent example of the hermit, Paul, bade farewell to all the comforts of social existence, and betook themselves to a life of contemplation in the desert. L,ess selfish, however, in his piety, than most of these ascetfcs, Melanius forgot not the world in leaving it. He knew that man was not born to live wholly for himself; that his relation to hum an kind was that of t he link to the chain, and that eve n hi s sol itud e s hould b e tu rned to the advantage of (thers. In flving, therefore, from the din and disturbance of life, he sought not to place himself beyond the reach of its E,ympathies, but selected a retreat where he could combine all the advantages of solitude with those opportunities of being useful to his fellow-me, which a neighbotrhoodl to their populous haunts would afford. Tpoat taste f br the lor b tenan ea, t is the gloom of subterranean recsses, which the oe of Mi sraim inheri t from their Ethiopian ancestors, had, by hollowing out all Egypt into caverns and crypts, supplied these Christian anchorets with an ample choice of retreats. Accordingly, some found a shelter in the grottos of Elethya;others, among the royal tombs of the Thebaid. In the middle of the Seven Vallevs, where the sun rarely shines, a few have fixed their dim an(] melancholy retreat; while others have sought the iieiglhbourhood of the red Lakes of Nitria, and there, like those Pag;ani solitaries of old, who fixed their da-elling among the palm-trees near the:Dead Sea, pass their whale lives in musing amidst the sterility of nature, and seem to find, in her desolation, peace. It was on one of those mountains of the Said, to the east of the river, that Mlelanius, as we have seen. chose his place of secltsion-havin,- all the life and fertility of the Nile on one side, and the lone, dismal barrenness of the desert on the other. Halfway down this mountain, where it impends over the ravine, he found a series of caves or grottos dug out of the rock, whic,h had, in other times, ministered to some purpose of mystery, but whose use had long been forgotten, and ,heir recesses abandoned. To this place, after the banishment of his great master, Oriven, Melanius., with a few faithful followers, retired, and there, by the example of his innocent life, as well as by his fervid eloquence, succeeded in winning crowds of converts to ifith. Ploced, as he was, in tk, neighbourho -l of the 73 TI-LE EPICUREAN. CHAPTER XVI. THE MIRROR LIBRARY. To speak of peace to a heart throbbing, as mine did, at that moment, was like talking of some distant harbour to the mariner sinking at sea. In vain did I look around for some sign of Alethe;-in vain make an effort even to utitter her name. Consciousness of my own deceit, as well as a fear of awakening in the mind of Melanius any suspicion that might tend to frustrate my only hope, threw a fetter over my spirit, and checked my toilgue. In humble silence, therefore, I followed; while the cheerful old man, with slow, b,ti firm step, ascended the rock, by the samle ladders which I had mounted on the preceding nig-ht. During the time when the Deciiit Pers,ec(utioni was raing} many Christian>, as he told me, of the - ighibourliood, had taken refuge under his protection, in th,es grottos; and the small chapel upon the summit, whet e Ii h(l fotund his flock at prayer, was, in those awful times of suiteriiig, tiheir usual place of retreat, where, by drawin,,g iup) these ladders, they were enabled to secure themselves f'rom pursuit. The view, from the top of the rock, extending on eithei side, embraced the two extremes of fertility and desolation; nor could the Epicurean and the Anclioiet, who now stood gazing from that height, be at any li..s to iiidulge their respective tastes, between the living luxutriance of the world on one side, and the dead, putlseless repose of the desert on the otheli. Wheni a e turned to the river, what a picture -f animati o n p resented itself! Neati us to the south, were the graceful colonnades of Aintinoe, its proud, populouis streets, and triuimphal monumnenits. On the opIposite shore, rich plains, all teeming w ith cultivation to the water's edgy, seemed to offer up, as firom verdant altars, their fquits to tbh, sun; while, beneath us, the Nile, o n ore of tho-e sweet nights When Isis, the pure star of lovers, lights Her bridal crescent o'er the holv streamW,,he wan.derin,g y,outhls and maidens watch her beam, And number o'er the nights she hath to run, Ere shbe again es,. ace her bridegroom sun. Throuali all these scenes of endearment the two elder per beions stood bv;- thhir chrln counteenanc es touched with a share af that bli, ut ir tos e perfect lightf the y oung l ov ers we re pasking. The us far, all was ham ppiness;-but the sad lesson oaf mortality ans yet to come. In tdle last picture of the series, one of thee filures %as missing. It was that of the younck mabklezl, Xetho h ihadyd isappeared from among them. On t he bink of a Idark lake stood the three who remained; while e boat, just ( le Ittrt ing " fior the City of the Dead, told too plainly the end of their diream of happiness. This memorial of a sorrow of t)tler times-eof a sorrow,' anc ient as dea th itself-wras not wantitr to deepen the melancholy of m m i d. or to add to f e th e eight of the many bodigs that pressed uipon it. After a night, as it seemed, of anxious and unsleeping 'oigh.t, I rose f rom my bed, and returned to the garden. I found the Chlistian h-seat ed u the le t he s had o oe of one of his trees, a t a sna,ll table, on which there lay a volume un c firsed, whili ah I)eaetitfil ante lope was sleeping at hi s feet. Struck by the moe ntr,mast wnhiclh hie presented to those haughty pries ts, whom I id esel seen surrou nded by the pomp and gorgeousness of temples, " Is th is, nt then," ttouoht I, " the faith befor h i e wt p ici now trpmoles-its temple the ldeser t, its treasury a book, and its High Priest the solitary dweller o f the roeod? He ham l i)ro t)ailed for me a simpl e but hospitable repast, of which fruits fip)rf e his own11 atr daen, the white bread of Olvra, and the jfice of tik ho,ey-ca in e, formed t he mos t costly luxuries. His of:her to me,has- even more cord ial a nd fatherly than before; oit tsi- abdreace of Alethe, and, still more, the ominous reserve, t i t h wshich he not only, himself, refrained from all naepstio n of her otame, but eluded the few inquiries, by wh ich I so aozlit to leatd to it, seemed to confirm all the fpprehensions I had f bilr ina parti pc em from her. She had acq,,l tiitted him, it was evident, with the whole history of our flilght. m y reputation as a philosopher-my desire to bte,me a Christia n-all was alreTadv known to the zealous anchoree, and the sslabjt'ct of mv conversi on w as th e verv first on which he entered. Oh, prid e of philosophy, how weot thou then RlmledSs, and wi th what sh aime did I stand in the preseicle of that -,{ trabele ntl,, not daring to let mv eves en cou nte r hi- ae, w-, itl wholeheeitatid,g trust in the sincerity of mv intention le, i, telcoinel me to a participation of his holy ho p e, and ipntprinted the Kissa of Chavrit y om ny infidel brow. Embae-wra s e d as I copull not alult feel by the humiliating coatscioiisness of h )pocrisy, I w as eiven still more perplexed by my alhost totail i g'n(rance of the real tenets of the faith to which I professed nmy self' a convert. Abashed and confused, and with a heart sick at its okv n deceit, I listened to the animated and eloqwh ent d grsatulations of the Christian, as th ough thesy we rec word. ib a ream, ditiout any link or meaning; nor could disguise, but by tht4 mo)ckery of a reverent bow, at every pause, the total want )f self-possession, and even of speech, under which I laboured. A ft,w minutes in,re of' such trial, and I must have avowed my impost,ire. Bu,t the holy man perceived my embarrassmeait; —and, w}t'thr r mistaking it for atwe, or knowing it to be ignorance, reliec,,,(] me fron my pe,'plexity by, at once, changing the theme. ltav-rg gentlv awakened his antelope from its sleep, " You h,ave doubtless," he said, " heard of my brother-anchoret, Paul, who, from his cave in the marble mountains, near the Red Sea, send.s hourly the blessed'sacrifice of thanksg'ivinDg' to hea,ven. Of his walks, they tell me, a lion is the companion; but, for me," he added, with a playful and significanltsmile, "wtho try my powers of taming but on the gentler' animals, this feeble child of' the desert is a far fitter playmate." Thlen, -taking his staff, and putting the time-wornl volume which he had been perusing into a large goat-skinl poulch, that hung by his side, " I will now," said he, " conduct thee liver m11 rocky kingdom, that thou mayest see in what dre al aad bzarren places that' sweet fruit of the 6piit' Peace, may be gathered." - the glorious stream, Tlhat late b)etween the!raniks was seen to ghlde With shrines and iarble cities, on each side, Glittering, like jewels strung alol.g a chainHad now senit forth its wa,ters, a d o'er plain Antd valley, like a giant from. his be,d Rising with outstretch'd limbs, superbly spread. From this scene, on one side of the nmourntain, fire had bult t, turn round our eyes to the other, and it itwas as if Nature her self had become suddenly extinct;-, ia wide waste of sands, bleak and interminable, wearying out the nun with its sameness of desolation;-black, burnt-up rocks, that stood as barriers, at which life stopped;-,-whiile the only signs of animation, past or present, were the foot-Tprints, here and there, of an antelope or ostrich, or the bones of dead camels, as they lay whitening at a distance, mnarking out the track of the caravans over the waste. After listening, while he contrasted, in a few eloquent words, the two regions of liii and death on whose confines we stood, I a dain descended with miy guide to the garden that we had left. From tht'nc, tulrnlinig into a path along the mo~l,tain-side, he led me to another row of,gottos, facing the desert, which had been once, he said, the al,(:d) of these brethren in Christ, who had fled withl himn to this solitude from th e crow ded world-but which death had, withl in a few short mollths, rendered tenantless. A clross of red stonie, and a few faded trees, were the only traces these solitaries had left behind. A silence of some minutes succeeded, while we descended to the edge of the canal; and I saw opposite, among the rocks, that solitary calve, which had so chilled me with its aspect on the preceding night. Beside the bank we found one of those rustic boats, which the E yvptians construct of planks of white thorn, bound rude(lv to,-the( r with bands of papyrus. Placing ourselves in this b[oat, an.d rather impelling than raowing it across, we made our ara t]rougih the ft)ul and shallow flood, and landed direc-tly iunelf with the fancy that I was still living in her presence, the ac tual sight of her once more made me feel for what a long age we had been separated. She was clothed all in white, and, as shw stoodl in the last remains of the sunshine, appeare (l to my too prophetic fancy like a partina spirit, whos e las t f o otsteps o n earth that pure glorw ~mcircled. With a delight only to be imagined, I saw them descend the rocks, anld, placing themselves ill the bout, proceed directly towa nls my cave. To disg uise fi'om Melanius the mnutual delight Keith which wve again met was impossible,-~nor did Alethe eveni attempt to make a secret of her joy. Though blushing at her own lhappiness, as little could her frank nature conceal it, as the clear waters of Ethiopia can hide their gold. Evenr look, e ery word, bespoke a fulness of affection, to which, doubtful as I was of our tenure of happiness, I knew not how to respond. I w^as not lonlg, howelier, left ignorant of the brigfht f~ate that awaited me; but, as we wandered or rested among the rocks, learned every thing that had been arranged since our parting. She had made Ache Hermit, I found, acquainted with all that hd passed bet;s~on us; had told him. without reserve, every inc'ident of out voyage-the avowals, the demonstrations of atffectioni on one side, and the deep sentiment that gratitude had aw ikened on the other. Too wise to regard w affections so natural with severitv-knowing that rhey wi ere of heaven, and but made evil by man-the good Hermit had heard of our attachment with pleasitre; and, fully satisfied as to the honour aud purity of my views, by the fidelity with which I had delivered my trust into his hands, saw, in my Wifection Or the young orphan, but a providential resource against that friendless solitude in which his death must soon leave her. As, listening eagerly, I coullecte~d these particulars fr'om their discourse, I could hardly trust my ears. It seemed a happiness too great to be true, to be real; nor can words convey any idea of the joy, the shame, the wonder with which I lis - tene~d, while the holy man himself declared that he awaited but the moment, when he should find me worthy of becoming ~ member the Christian Churchl, to give me also the hand of Alethe in that sacred union, which alone sanctifies3 love, andi makes the faith, which it pledges, holy. It was Lut yesterday, he added, that his young charge, herself, after a prepa.nion of prayer and repentance, such as even her pure spirit tequired, had been admitted, by the sacred ordinance of bapl, into the bosom of the faith;-and the white garment she a, and the ring of gold on her finger, " were symbols," minutes, to the holy eloqtuenace of~ our teacher;-all, adl wsv happiness of the most heart-felt kind~, and such'l as e'ven the doubts, the cold linlgeringt doub~ts, Illat still hulas, like a mist, around my heart, could neither c loud nor chill. As soon as the mooniliglit nights returned, we used to veiture into the desert; and those sands, which ihad lately looked so desolate, in my eyes, now assumed even a cheerful and smiling aspect. To tite light, inn{;celit heart of Alelhe, every thing was a source of enljoyment. Foar her, even the desert had its jewels and flowers; and, sometimes. her delight was to search among the sands for those beautifies p~ebbles of' jasper that abound in them;-sometimes her lyes would spa rkle with pleasure on finding, perhaps, a stuiited marigold, or one of those bitter, scarlet flowers, that lend their diy mockery of ornament to the desert. II} all these pursuits and pleasuire/ the good Hermit took a share-mingling occasionally with t hem the reflections of a benevolent c iety, that lent its own cheerfill hcte to all the woracs o f creationt a nd saw the con, soling truth, " God is Love," written legibly every where Such was, for a few weeks, nay blissful life. Oh, mornings of hope! oh, h nights of hatppiess! wit h what melancholy pleasure do I retrace your flight, and how reluctan tly pass to the sad events that followsed. During th is time, i n c o mplia nce with the wishes an f Hio elanius, who seemed unwilling lhat I should becomlle wholly estrangfed from thle world, I used occasionally to pay a visit to the neighbouring city, Anltinee, wthich, being the capital of the Thebald, is the cenltre of all the lulxury of Upper Egypt. But here, so changed alas my every feeling by thall zl-absorbing passion wrhich- nowa possessed mne, that I samllteredl alongo, wholly unlinterested by either the scenes or the people that surrounded me, and, sighing for that rocky solitude wvhere my Alethe breathed, felt this to be the wvildernless, and that tile world. Even the thoughts of my own native Athens, that at every step were called up>, by the light Grecianl arch-itecture of this impemial city, did not awaken one single regret ill my heart — one wishl to exchange even an hour of my desert for- the be st luxuries and henours that auwaited me in the Gardlen. I saxe the arches of triumph;-I wralked under theC sup~erb portico, which encircles the whole city with its marble shade;~I stood in the Circus of the Sun, by whose rose-coloured pillars the mysterious movements of the Nile are measured;-on all these p~roud monuments of glory and art, as well ats on the gay multitude that enlivened them, I looked with an unheeding eye. If they awakened in me any thought, it was the moulrnful idea, that, one day, like Theb~es and Hellopolls, this pageant would pass away, leaving nothing behind but a few mouldering ruins-like sea-shells found where the ocean has been-oto tell that the great tide of Life was once there! But, though indifferent i. as to all that had formerly st tracted me, there were subjects, once alien to my heart, on which it was now most tremblingly alive; and some rumours like triumphl with which the courageotis Confe ssors, who aioowed their fiuth, we e led away to the flames;-never could I hathe conceived such an assemblage of horrors! Though I gazed bult for a fev minutes, in those minutes 1 felt (nd fin(i'd en)ough for years. Already did the form of Alethe appear to flit before me through that tumnult;-I beardl theim shem oit icr name;-her shrick fell on my ear; and tle I *ery thought so pailsied me with terror, that I stood fixed and statue-like Oll the spot. Pecollectinz, however, the fearful preciousness of ever mtoment, and that-perhaps, at this very instant-some emis s arpiies of llood might be on their way to the Grottos, I rushed tihdly Tiut of the r F or o-m, and made my way to the q uay. Th(? streets k tere now crow ded; but I ran headlopn g thi roug h the mdultitulde, a nt app re adyunderthe portico lwadi ng doon to thei'ier-nhr,'1y saw the boat that was to be ar me to Al"the —wihon a Cetnteir ion stood ster n l y i n my path, t and I was se nrto,u ae d am yd a re re ste d ay syol di e r s! It w a s i n e la i n that I implored t, theat I strggled w h them as for life, assur i~lg them tha:t I was a strang,er-thr lI as an Athenian —tha! I uwas-n.ot a Christian. Thc pro ip~itation of my flight was snlfiqcie~lt evidence? against me,,nd nnrelentingly, and by foc1c, they boIrc mc {awnav to the, g arters of their Chief. It wasR enough to d,'ive mne at once to madness! Tw houlrs, two fri'htfifi houxrs, wras I keprt wtaitingo the arrival of the? Tribulne of their L~egion —my brain burninlg with a thou 4and fears andlc imaglina.iions. W hich ev ery passinlg minute mlade b~ut more ]likely to bet realized. All I could collect, too, from the convsers~atio;ns of l:hose around me, bult added to the agonizing app~rehensionls wxith w'hich I w~as racked. Troops, it. was saidl, hadc beenz sent in all direc(tions throughl the neighh)ourhoodl, to b~ringr in the rel~ellious Christianls, and make thema b)ow h)elft1e thle G;ods of the( Emp~ire. W~ith horror, tooq I heard of ()rcns —Orcus, th( ttigh I'riest of MemIphis-afi one.-f thle p~rinc~ilml inlstimr~to,s off this sangulinryal edict, and aws here p~resenlt ins Anltin~0e, n'firnatingt and'd cirectin1g its excecultion. Inl this state of tortulre I re^matined till thle artrival of the Tribune. Absorbedl in my owXsn thloulghls, I hadl not perc eived his entrane;-till, hearing a vtoice, in1 a tmlle of fi'iedl~dy su/, prise, excla~imr, "Alcip~hron!" I lookiell up,.and( ill thisi legion. ary Chie f recognisewd a yo(un~g Romant of 1(rank, w ho had1( h1eld a military commandl, the year b1efiwe, at Atl, ins, mtd w1xas onc of the most disting~uisheli visitors of thc Garden. I t w^as no time, however, fi)r coulrtesies:Ihe was proceedingr with all cordliality to greet me, bu1t, hav ing heard hlim ordler my- instalnt release, I couldl wvait fo~r no more. Ac know^^ledg~ingf his kin& ness bu~t by a grasp of the hanld, r flewv off8, like one frantti% througth the streets, and, in a fewv minultes was on thec river. My sole hope had beenl to reach thc grrottos befo~re any of the detached p~arties shoulld arrive, and, byv a tim~ely fighlt across the desert, rescue, at least, Alethe from their fury. Tim ill-fated ds?]ay that had occulrred rendered Otis hope almost desz?,Lte; but the tranquillity I foulnd evrey w'heres as I pr A\larm~.d, t';olld: stilL' i'norant of the w^hole extent of the danger, I l.lilr;'i,d }''i,'ic t!) the r~avine,;and, goeingr at- once to tho grotto of' 5I, lniuS. d*'tailed to him every particular of the intelliglence T haa f1e mlintened tho me Uite a com posure, wvhich I nmisto:?lk, atlas! for confidlence in his owzsn secul rity; and, r..amin5ti thle!.our for our evenlingr walk, retiredl inlt~ his grotto. At the ks and on the dl,'sert. S) I triht was the mooili-niore like the dayliglht i:;d,.d (1 (1 l }:.''r c iniesthat v'e C C;u!1l lllyi see tie f t:'}clks ~,t' thl,wji,! antelopes in thef ~a:d; a,,t1 it'wsas not w\itltl,,lt. a sli::ll tr". n}}!e of feerfed upon every word! But the time flew fastathat dreadful morrow was apiproaching. Already I saw her writhinig in the hands of the torturer-the flames, the racks, the wheels, were before my eyes! Half frantic with the fear that her resolution was fixed, I flung myself from the litter in an agony of weeping, and supplicated her, by the love she bore me, by the happine~ that awaited us, bsy her own merciifll God, who was too good to require such a sacrifice-by all that the most passionsaft anxiety could dictate, I implored that she would avert fiom us the doom tsat was coming, and-hbut for once-comply with the vain ceremony demandfed of her. Shrinking from me, as I spokc-but with a look more of sorrow than reproach-" What, thiu, too t" site said, mournfillly-" thou, inito whose inmost spirit I had fotdly hoped the same light had ecitered as into my own! No, isever be thou leheapued with them who, wuld tempt m e to)'make 8hip v'-.~k ogf mty faithl!' Thou, w+ho covuldst alon~e b'.nd nw to Lt.,.lll, t~l'ecl,.u:, 1, tO1-''t.ln,m~, to Anltinese. From Molm I nsw icar ed at rsndt hf r r I c omld not U'rtit tor detaa is-u tflte eris of all tiiat hmad happtc te Gne in trat dheadf l i.terval. M,?lalniuls was3. l)no,nm'-Ahqletle still alive, but inl prisonl! " T tse -te io hro" hasd be et time to say-s" thake e to her i.stantly, aned let me die ly her sidt e" —wheil, nature again fidlingl; tm,:{el' su ql shot'Iks, I relap~sed inlto insensibility. In this tstpat I coutinued aeo h ne ar at y hotte, amot, oI weou hvering, foein thc Tiibtun e hy f s sicle. he horrbrs, he saeid, of the Fowlom its f oram a Cli tInnt (lay, oser, —ist what the mornow middht brint, he shudd ere d to cntempllte. His nalt ure, it owas ltl ain revolited fci-om thle i.~hulman duties in whlich he wsas engraged. Touheld bys the ago.',ic's lie sawv me suffer, he, in som 1e degree, relieved( thlem, by rni~ulising thlat I shculd, at nlirtffldl, })e con:veysed to thfe pr'imera, arM-l, if p~ossible, througl^h hris illfluence gainl acce~ss to Atlethe. She migrht yet, hle addedl, le saved, couhtl I succeede in p ersuladingo her to comply with thle terms (f the cedict;, andt m l'ke sacrifice to the Godls. —" Ottelrwise," saidl he, "'there is J10 h:pe; —the v-indictive Oreus, wrho hlas resistedl evea thi~i siiort respite of mlercy, w^ill, to-morrow^, inlexorlably dlemla:l~d hi.; prey." Hle thenl relalted to~ me<, at may ownV rsequest —-though every w ordl wag ton'turle-all thef harrowsingc derails of' the proceedlin~g b~efore thle Tribuna~l. "I have seen courlage," saidl he, "in its ob1~lest fi, rms, ina the fieldl; but the cahln inltrepidity with whlic'i thlmt ag'c h]1.ermlait on~lulkredl torments —wrhich it wvas hardlyv le. s t~wmetut to) witness-s-sulrpassed all that I could have COI; ceived(( of h mlna fortit~ldfe." My poo; Al'.the, too —in describ~ingf to me her conduclt, the bra~ve m:.m xve-}-)t likse a childl. Overwhelmed, he said, at first by h~er:tpr:;honlsionls fi)' my safety, she had givenl way to a Cull burst cf' wo-t.,d~v wseakness. But nlo sooner was she 9rought bet,t-e t}1'? Tribunl,ta and lihe declaration o!f her faith was lr -* >:nded of her, thaln a sp~irit almost superulatural seemed I ~.,.hate h1er wvhole for'm. ~' She raised her eyes," saidl he, cahlynN, b~ut with fi'rvour, to heaven, while a blulsh was the only sigll ot- mo rtal feelingr on her featulres:-and the clear, swseet. and untremldlilqg voice, wvith whlich she pronlounced hers own dooem, inl thle word q,' I am a Chlristian!' senlt a thrill of admiration anld pity throughout the multifade. Her youth, her loveliness, affected all hearts, an~d a cry of' Save the young maidenl!' was heard( in all directions." Thle implacable Orlcus, howsever, w ould not hear of mercy. R~esenting, as it appeared, wsith all his deadliest rancour, not ,uly herl owII escape from his toils, but the aidl with which 8 — T. life, use not, I entreat thee, thy power; but let me die, as He I serve, hath commanded-die for the Truth. Remember the holy lessons we heard together on those nights, those thappy nights, when both the present and future smiled upon n-when even the gift of eternal life came nmore welcome to my soul, fi omn the glad conviction that thou wert to be a sharer in its blessings;-shall I forfeit now that divine privilege? shall I deny the true God, wham we then learned to love? i' No, my oVII betrothed," she continued-pointing to the twvo rings on her fingerr-"behold these pledges-they are btoth sacred I should have been as true to thee as I am now to heaven,-nor in that life to which I am hastening shall our hlve be forgotten. Should the baptism of fire, through which I shall pass tomorrow, make me worthy to be heard before the throne of Grace, I will intercede for thy soul-I will pray tat it may yet share with nmine that'inheritance, immortal and undefil d,' which Mercy offers, and that thou-and my dear mother-and I " She here dropped her voice; the momentary animation, with which devotion and aflection had inspired her, vanished; -and there cane a darkness over all her features, a livid darkness-like the approach of death —that made me shudder through' every limb. Seizing my hand convulsively, and looking at me with a fearful eagerness, as if anxious to hear some consoling assurance from my own lips-" Believe me," she continued, "not all the torments they are preparilng for me-isot even this deep, burning pain in my brow, to which they will hliardly fin,l an equal-could be half so dreadful to me as the tihoii,ht that I leave thee, without." Here her voice amain failed; her head sunk upon my arm, and-merciful God, let me fiorget what I then felt-I saw that m she was dying!'Whether I uttered any cry, I know not;-but the Tribune came rushing into the chamber, and, looking on the maiden. said, with a face fill of hlorror, "It is but too true!" He then told me in a low voice, what he had just learned from the guardian of the prison, that the band round the young Christian's brow was-oh horrible!-a compound of the most d ead ly poison-the hellish invention of Orcus, to satiate his vengeance, and make the fate of his poor victim secure. My first movement was to untie that fatal wreathbut it would not come away-it would not come awav! Roused by the pain, she again looked in my face; but, un-t able to speak, took hastily from her bosom the small silver cross whichl she had brought with her from my cave. Hat in,s pressed it to her owvn lips, she held it anxiously to mine, and, seeing me kiss the holy symbol with fervour, looked happy, and smiled. The agony of death seemed to have passed away;-there came suddenly over her features a heavenly light, some share of which I felt descending into my own soul, and, in a few minutes more, she expired in my arms. " ALc IPHRON- an Epicurean po rilosopher, c onvertled A) Christianity, A.D. 257, by a yo ung Etgyptian naiden, fho suffered martyrdom in that year. Jmm( di tt-'ly upon her death, he betook himself to the desert, atd lived a life, it is said, of much holiness and penitence. During the persecution under Diolesian, his suffering_s for the ftiith were most exemplary; and being at length, at an advanced age, coldemned to hard labour, for reftsisng to comply with an Imp)erial edict, he died at the Br;ass Mines of Palestine, A.D. 297. " As Alciphroi- held the opinions maintained since by Arius. his memory has not been s,pa,red by Athlnasian writers, w%ho, among other charges, accuse him of having been addicted to the superstitions of F,gyl)t. For this calumny, however, there appears to be no better foundation than a,, circumstance, recorded by one of his ibrother )onks, that there was foimnd after his death, a small metal mirror, like those used in ti} ceremonies of Isis, suspended around his neck." REUBEN AND ROSE. A TALE OF Tt-z darkness that hung upon WVillumberg's walls Had long been remember'd with awe and dismay; For years not a sunbeam had play'd in its halls, And it seemn'd as shut out from the regions of day. Thoagh the valleys were brightened by many a beam, Yet none could the woods of that castle illume; And the lightning, which flash'd on the neighbouriiig stream, Flaew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom! Oh! when shall this horrible darklness disperse!" Said Williimnberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave; It can nie,er dispel," said the wizard of verse, "Till tihe bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave!" All, all but the soul of the mail ias in light, There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and })lakI: Two days did she wander, and all the long hist, In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank. Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell, . And heard but the breathlings of night in the ai; Long, ]ong did sh e g aze on the watety svwell, And saw but the foam of the white billow there. And often as midnight its veil w,,ouht undraw. As she -look'd at the light of the moon in the stream She thought'twas his helmet of silver she saw, As the curl of the surge glitter'(d hig,hI in the beam. And who was the bright star of chivalry then? Who could be but Reuben, the flow'r of the age? F)r ReuLben was first in the combat of men, Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page. F )r WVillumberg's daug hter his young heart had beat, For Rose, wsho was bright as the spirit of dawn, When withl wmnd dro)pping diamonds, and silvery feet, It walks o'er tihe flow'rs of the mountain and lawn. Must Rose, then, from Reuben, so fatally sever? Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave, That darkness should cover that castle for ever, Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave! To the wizard she flew, saying, " Tell me, oh, tell! Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes?" "Yes, yes-when a spirit shall toll the great bell Of the mould'ring abbey, your Reuben shall rise!" Twice, thrice hlie repeated " Your Reuben shall rise!" And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain; And wip'd, while she listen'd, the tears from her eyes, And hop'd she might vet see her hero again. And now the third night was begeimming the sky; Poor Rose, on the cold, dewy margent reclin'd, There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye, When-hark!-'twas th,bell that came deep in the winod Sh e startled, and-saw, through the glimmeriong shoade, A form o'er the waters in majesty glide; She knew'twas her love, thouigh his cheek was decay d, And his helmet of silver was washed by the tide. Was this what the Seer ofthie Cave had foretol(d? Dim, dim throuigh the phantom the mnooni shot a gle3am 'Twas Re ubeni, [)tit, ah! hie swas deathly al,(t ('kld, And fleeted atway like the spell of a dream! Twice, tmihice dise he r ise, banid t m a s oftehi she thiolight I From the bank to embrace i him, blit vztirn her eale. arc^ai! Then, I)lunging, benieath, at a billow she caught " Anid sun,k to, r,op(,,se on its bosomn fo)r evert Wthat hero could sm ile at th e terrors of death, R When he felt that lie died for the sire of his Rr,se; I I Il so TIIE MIRROR LIBRARY. Here ends the Alanuscript; but, on the o?itei- c(,ver is found, in the handwriting of a match later period, the following Notice, ext?-acted, as it appears, ft-o?n so)ne Egyptian martyrology: To the OIer h-c ffew, and tl-.ere. I)Iurigin,- beneath, In the depth of the billo%vs soon found his repose. How strangely the order of destiny falls' Not!on,- in the,N,atei-s the warrior lay, When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls, And the castle of Willuriiberg bas'd in the -ray! A FATIIEt{'i~S LEGACY T1O HIS DAUGHTERS. BY DR. GREGORY. MY DFAR GIRLS Yoe had ttle rnisfortune to be deprived ofl' your mother, at a time of life when you were insensible of your loss, and could receive lit!le bei'efit, either fromn her instruction, or her example. Before this comes to your hands, you will likewise have lost yotir lather. I have h al many melancholy reflections on the forlorn and helpless situation you must be in, if it should please GodI to remove me fiom yot before you arrive at that period of life, when you will be able to think and act for yourselves. I know nlankh-indl too well. I know their falsehood, their dissipation, their coldness to all the duties of friendship and huinanity. i i owf the little attention paidl to helpless infancy. You will meet with few friends disinterested enough to do you a at) 0 1i', W'h y,-I are incal;abile of making them any return, by contributing to their interest or their pleasure, oi to t he atic:o:i, o thir va nity. I have been suL)poited under thte gloom naturally arising, from these reflections, by a reliance on the goodness of that Providence whi'ci has hither to i) served you, and given me the most pleasing prospect of the goodness of your dispositions; and by th,e secret lope, tlat your mother's virtues will entail a blessing on her children. The anxiety I hea) for youf r h a))ppiness has made me resolve to throw together my sentiments, relating to your future conduct in life. If I live for scene years, you will receive them with much greater advantage, suited to your different geniuses and disl)posiiiuns. If I die sooner, you must receive them in this very imperfect manner; the last proof of my affection. You will all re!nemb-r our flither's fondness, when perhaps every other circumstance relating to him is forgotteni. This remeinbhanc, I ho)e, will induce you to give a serious attention to the ad(lvices I am now going to leave with you. I can request this witi the greater confidence, as my sentiments oil the most interesting points that regard life and manners, were entirelyv coirespondent to your mother's, whose judgment and taste I trusted much more than my own. You must exp)ect that the advice which I shall give you will be very imnperfect, as there are many nameless delicacies in female mnanneis, of whilih none but a woman can judge. You will hasve one a lvntal'e by attending to what I am going to leave with Nyou; you will hear, at least for once in your lives, the genuiine sentitnmnts of a ns.a, who has no interest in flattering or deceiving you. I shall throw my reflections togetiher without any studied order, anl slaIll only, to avoid confusion, range them under a few general heads. You will soe, i n a little treatise of mine, just published, in what an honorable point of view I have considered your sex; riot as d,.iestic drudlIes, or the slaves of our pleasure, but as our companions and equals; as designed to soften and polish our manners: idl as Thompson finely says, To raise the virtues, animate the bliss, And sweeten all the toils of human life. I shall not repeat what I have there said on this subject, and shall only observe, that from the view I have given of your natural ciharacter and place in society, there arises a certain propriety of conduct peculiar to your sex. It is this peculiar propriety of fenmale manners of which I intend to give you my sentiments, without touching on those general rules of conduct by which men and women are equally bound. While I explain to you that system of conduct which I think will tend most to your honor and happiness, I shall, at the same time, endeavor to point out those virtaues and accomplishmnents which i ender you most respectable and most amiable in the eyes of mv own sex. pleasure and riot, as men too often do, when under the pressure of misfortt nes. You must -bear your sorrows in silence, unknown and unpitied. You must often put on a face of serenity and cheerfulness, when your hearts are torn with anguish, or sinking in de spair. Then your only resource is in'he consolations of religion. It is chiefly owing to thes e that you bear domestic misfortunes better than we do. But you are sometimes in very different circum stances, that equally require the restraints of religion. The natural vivacity, and perhaps the natural vanity of your sex, are very apt to lead you into a dissipated state of life, that deceives you, under the appearance of innocent pleasure; but which in reality wastes your spirits, impairs your health, weakens all the su perior faculties of your minds, and often sullies your reputations. Religion, by checking this dissipation and rage for pleasure, enables you to draw more hap|piness, even from those very sources of amusement, which when too frequently applied to, are often pro!ductive of satiety and disgust. Religion is rather a matter of sentiment than rea soning. The important and interesting articles of i faith are sufficiently plain. Fix your attention on these, and do not meddle with controversy. If you RELIGION. THOUGH the duti es of religi oon, strictly speaking, dre equally bindine on both sexes, yet certain differences in their natural character and education, render some vices in your sex odious. The natural hardness of our hearts, and strength of our passions, infialned by tiled uncontrolled license we are too often indull,-ed wvitlh in our youth, are apt to render our mananers inore dissolute, and make us less susceptible of the finer feelings of the heart. Your superior delicacy, your inodesty, and the usual severity of your education, pre,;erve you, in a great measure, from any temptation to those vices to which we are most suujected. The natural softness and sensibility of your dispositions particularly fit you for the practice of those duties where the heart is chiefly concerned. And this along with the natural warmth of your ini- aginations, renders you peculiarly susceptible of the i feelings of devotion. There ire luany circumstances in your situation that peculiarly require the supports of religion to enable you to act in them with spirit and propriety. Your whole life is often a life of suffering. You can- not plunge into business, or dissipate yourselves inI, A FATIHER'S,i; t VCY TO HIS DAUGHTERS. get into that, you plunge into a chaos, from which you will never be able to extricate yourselves. It spoils the temper, and, I suspect, has no good effect upon the heart. Avoid all books, and all conversation, that tend to shake your faith on those great points of religion which should serve to regulate your conduct, and on which your hopes of future and eternal happiness depend. Never indulge yourselves in ridicule on religious subjects; nor give countenance to it in others, by seeming diverted with what they say. This, to people of good breeding, will,be a sufficient check. I wish you to go no farther than the scriptures for your religious opinions. Embrace those you find clearly revealed. Never perplex yourselves about such as you do not understand, but treat them with silent and. becoming reverence. I would advise you to read only such religious books as are addressed to the heart, such as inspire pious and devout affections, such as are proper to direct you in your conduct, and not such as tend to entangle you in the endless maze of opinions and systems. Be punctual in the stated performance of your private devotions, morning and evening. If you have any sensibility or imagination, this will establish such an intercourse between you and the Supreme Being, as will be of infinite consequence to you in life. It will communicate an habitual cheerfulness to your tempers; give a firmness and steadiness to your virtue, and enable you to go through all the vicissitudes of human life with propriety and dignity. I wish you to be regular in your attendance on public worship, and in receiving the communion. Allow nothing to interrupt your public or private devotions, except the performance of some active duty in life, to which they should always give place. In your behavior at public worship observe an exemplary atten- tion and gravity. That extreme strictness which I recommend to you in these duties, will be considered by many of your acquaintance as a superstitious attachment to forms; but in the advice I give you on this and other subjects, I have an eye to the spirit and manners of the age. There is a levity and dissipation in the present mnanners, a coldness and listlessness in whatever relates to religion, which can not fail to infect you, unless you purposely cultivate in your minds at contrary bias, and make the devotional taste habitual. Avoid all grimace and ostentation in your religious duties. They are the usual cloaks of hypocrisy; at least they show a weak and vain mind. Do not make religion a subject of common conversation in mixed companies. \When it is introduced, rather seem to decline it. At the same time, never suffer any person to insult you by any foolish ribaldry on your religious opinions, but show the same resentment you would naturally do on being offered any other personal insult. But the surest way to avoid this, is by a modest reserve on the subject, and by using no freedom with others about their religious sentiments. Cultivate an enlarged charity for all mankind, however they may differ from you in their religious opinions. That difference may probably arise from causes in which you had no share, and from which you can derive no tnertt. Show your regard-'., religion by a distinguishing respect to all its minis, of whatever persuasion, who do not by their lives dishonor their professions; but never allow them the direction of your consciences, lest they taint you with the narrow spirit of their party. Tlle best effect of your religion w,ill be a diffusive llhumainity to all in distress. Set apart a certain pro- W portion of your income as sacred to charitable pur poses. But in this, ais well as in (hie practice of every o ther duty, carefully a void ostentation. Vaniity is always defeating her own purposes. Fame is o're of the natural reidards of vi rtue. Do rnot l )ursue hler, and she will follow you. Do not con f ine your charity to aivi n y money. You inay have many opportunities of shoving a tetnder and compassionate spicit, where your chuob ney i s not wavted. Th ere is a balse andi unnatural refinement it, sensibility, which a iakes s ome people shu n the sight of every object in distress. Never indiil,,,e this. especially where your filiei;ds or ac(luaintnl-t es ire co)ncerned. Let the days (,f their ilxisforttur es, hvlien lhe world fotrgets or avoids tletJ. I,e'tlhe seasonI for y)-o to exercise your lhuma,nity sid f'l-iettdsllip). Tile si-l!t of human misery softens tie l1e;i-t, alii( makes it better; it checks the pride of heaIth find In-os)eri,y, and the distress it occasions is amply comil)etnsuted b)y ll.e consciousness of doino( your duty,.:td }>v the secret endearments which lsatlrcht';ItSlle:.d to all otiu sympathetic sorrows. Women are greatly deceived,lieni they tliin'l- they recommend themselves to oii' sex b)y their indifterence to religion. Even those iiieia who alre tllemselves unbelievers, dislike infidelity in you. Every Milan who knows human nature connects a r-elig,ious taste in your sex with softness and senisib)ility of heart; at least, we always consider the wan%,t of it as a proof of that hard and masculine spirit, whichi of all youl faults we dislike the most. Besides, mhen considei your religion as one of their principal securities for that female virtue in which they are mo-icst interested, If a gentleman pretends an' attachment to any of you, and endeavors to shake your religious principles, te assured he is either a fool, or has designs on you which he dares not openly avow. You will probably wonder at my havin, educated you in a church different front my own. The reason was plainly this: I looked on the differences between our churches to be of no real imnportance, and that to preference of one to the other was a mere matter (of taste. Your mother was educated in the church of England, and had -,n attachment to it, and I lhad a prejudice in favor of everything, she liked. It rievef was her desire that you should Ibe bl)aptizt,d by a cler gyman of the church of England, or be educated ill that church. On the contrary, the delicacy of F,er regard to the smallest circumstances that could aiffect me in the eye of the world, made her anxiously i!,Sis) it might be otherwvise. But I could not yield to hct in that kind of generosity. \When I lost her, I be came still more determined to educate you in tlh;t clhurchl, as I feel a secret pleasure in doin(g everytlting, that appears to me to express my affection and ve neration for her memory. I draw but a veryv t,Ii~it aind imperfect picture of what your mnother wtas, while I endeavor to point out what you should be. Ohr. of the chief beauties in a fenma le character ds that modest reserve, that retiring delicacy, %which avoids the public eye, and is disconcerted even at the gaze of admiration. I do not wish you to be insensible to applause. If you wvere, you must become, if not worse, at east less amiiiabl)e women. Buiit you may be dazzled by that admiirationi, which yet rejoices your heart. When a gill,cases to bltuslh, she ]!as lost the mjost powerfidl charn -t.b.eautv. Theft extreme sensibility 82 NOTIF,. The reader will remember, that su(-Ii observations as respect eq'ually both sexes, are all along as much as possi ble avoided. CONDUCT AND BEHAVIOPV. A FATItERP'S I.JECACY 0 which i t indicates, u)ay be a wveakness and iiicuni tbranc( in our sex,,is I liave too oteti felt, but in yours it is pecrilarly enigaging. Pedants w}ho think theni selves philosophers, ask why a woman should blush wo when she is conscious of no crime? It is a sufficient answer, nhat nature iis made you to blush when you are guilty of 1)o fault, rnd hras forced us to love you because you do so. Bloshintg is so far friom being necessarily an atterinlant on guilt, that it is the usual comnparion of indnocendTe. Th'lis modesty, whlilch I think so essential in your sex, will naturally dispose you to be rather silent i wf coralr)any, especially in a large one. People of sense arid discerunmient will never riistake such silence for dulness. One may take a share in conversation without uttering a svllable. The ext)ression in the couintenance shows it, and this never escapes an observing eye. I st'.o,u'kl be glatd that you had an easy dignity in your behavior at public places, but not that confident I ease, tiat irnabashed countenance, which seems to set the coznpany at defiance. 1It while a gentleman is speazi,g to you, one of superior rank addresses you, do not let your eager attention and visible preference betray the flutter of your heart. Let your pride on I this occasion preserve you from that meanness into whic'h your vanity would sink you. Consider that you expose yourselves to the ridicule of the company, and a!front one gentleman only to swell the triumph of another, who, perhaps, thinks he does you honor in speaking to you. Converse with men even of the first rank, with that dignified modesty, which may prevent the approach of the moost distant familiarity, and consequently l)revent them from feeling themselves your superiors. WVit is tile most dangerous talent you can possess. It must be guarded with great discretion and goodnature, otherwise it will create you many enemies. It is perf'ectly consistent with softness and delicacy, yet they are seldom found united. Wit is so flattering to vanity, that those who possess it become intoxicated, and lose all self-coinmand. twllb o y or is a differ ent quality. It will make your compre ny much solicited; but be c a utious h ow you ay l ind g ke it is often a sreat enemy to deltcatucy, and a stil — rcater one to dig.,nity of character-. it may sometimes g ain you applause, but will never procure you respect. Be even cautious in displaying your good sense. It will be thought you assume a superiority over the rest of' the comipatny. But if you happen to have any learining, keep it a profound sect-et, especially 1troin the m-eni, who generally look with a jealous and malignant eye on a woman of great parts and a cultivated understanding. A man of real genius and cand or is far superior to this meaniness. But such a one will seldom falil in your way; and if by accident he should, do riot be reasn b patiuarlg ende of tpe reptton of tf ri foral.Whteeeirr, i and kepor w youare own dexrcto, especially whenrl~hpen tourivlteefc ofwakng hmmr epc aex are concerned. You re generally accusedIt being p~~~~~~~ariualaditdtthsvcIthnun justl~~~~~~~~~y. e r ula ulyo twe hi n terests i~:tt, ~~~~~~~~rer.syoritrssorf-eunl clash, and as you f e e l i~ngsaeqikrta us your tc~nl~~ttions to are morefreun.Frti yorlh itn sniaes, espeialy when tb. vey appne and riall rO zIS DAUGHTERS. S/ you imn oiir regards. WDe look on this as the strongest proof of' dignity ind true greatness of mrind. Slhowv a compassionate sympathy to unfortunate woCner, e sp eciall y to those who are rendered so by the villany of men. Indulge a secret pleasure, I may say pride, in be ing the friends and refuge of the un happy, but without the vanity of s howing i t. Consider every species of indelicacy in conve rsa - tioni, as shameful in itself, and as highly disgusting to us. All doumble entendre is of this sort. The disso luteoless of men's education allo ws t hem to be divert es with a kind of wit, which yet they have delicacy eatougili to be shiocked at, when it comes from your itoutlhs, or even whe n you hear it without pain and contempt. Virgin purity is of that delicate nature, that i t can not hea r certain things without contao tination. It is always in your power t o avoi d these. No mIan but a brute or a tfol will insult a woman with conversation which hae sees gives hier ain; nor will hle dare do it if she resent the injury with a becoming spir it. There i s a dignity in conscious virtue which is abl t ae to a we the ost shameless a nd ab andoned of men. You will be reproached, perhaps, wit h prudery. By tprudery is usually meant an affectation of delicacy. Now I d o not wish you t o a ffect delicacy-I wish you to possess it. At any ra te, it is better to run the risk of being thought ridiculous than disgusti ng. The men will complain of your re serve. They will assure you that a franker behavior would make you more amiable. But trust me, they are not sincere when they tell you so. I acknowledge, that on some occasions it might render you more agreeable as companiotns, but it wou ld render you les s ami able as women-an important disti nction which many of youl sex are not aware of. After all, I wish you to have great ease and openness in your conversation. I only point out some considerations which ought to regulate your behavior in that respect. Have a sacred regard to truth. Lying is a mean and despicable vice. I have known some women of excellent parts, who were so much addicted to it that they could not be trusted in the relation of any story, especially if it contained anything of the marvellous, or if they themselves were the heroines of the tale. This weakness did not proceed fiom a bad heart, but was merely the effect of vanity, or an unbridled imagination. I do not mean to censure that lively embellishment of a humorous story, which is only intended to promote innocent mirth. There is a certain gentleness of spirit and mianniers extremely engaging in your sex; not that indiscriminate attention, that unmeaning simper, which smiles on all alike. This arises, either from an affectation of softness, or from perfect insipidity. There is a species of refinement in luxury just beginning to prevail among the gentlemen of this country, to which our ladies are yet as great strangers as any women upon earth; ] hope for the honor of the sex they may ever continue so; I mean the luxury ot eating. It is a despicable, selfish vice in men, but in your. sex it is beyond expression indelicate find disgustrag. Every one who remembers a few years back, is sensible of a very striking change in the attention and respect formerly paid by the gentlemen to the ladies. Their drawing-rooms are deserted, and after dinner and supper the gentlemen are impatient till they retire. How they came to lose this respects which nature and politeness so well entitle them to, I shall no here particularly inquire. The revolutions of manners in any country depend on causes fiery various and complicated. I shall only observe, that the behavior of the ladies in the last age was very rseserv-ed ansd stately. It wvoutld now ire reckonedl ridiculloutsl~ stiff anld formal. \Vhaltever it Xwas, it had cet:aintl the effect of making them more respectedl I i i I I I ii I i I i I I I i i I iI i i I A FATHER'S LEGACY TO HIS )DAUGITERS. A fine woman, like -tl,er fine things in nature, has others, which are neither useftul nior ornamental, such 'tier proper point of viewv, from which she may be seen as play of difilrent kilds. to most advantage. To fix this point requires great I 1 would particularly recommend to you those exjudgmtent, and an intimate knowledge of the human ercises that obl)lige you to be much abroad in the open heart. By the present mode of female manners, the I air, such as walking, and riling on horseback. This ladies seem to expect that they shall regain their as- will give vigor to your coiistitutiens, and a bloom to cendency over us by the fullest display of their per- your complexions. ]f you accustoni yourselves to sonal charms, by being always in our eye at public go abroad aluways in chlairs and carriages, you will places, by conversing with us with the same unre- soon become so enervlted as to be unable to go out ol served freedom as we do with one another; in short, doors without theni. T'lhey,ire like most articles ot by resembling us as nearly as they pIossibly can. But luxury, useftil and agreeab(le w%hen judiciously used, a ittle time and experience will show the folly of this but when miade habituil thley become both insipid and expectation and conduct. pernicious. The power of a fine woman over the hearts of men, An attention to your health is a duty you owe to even of the finest parts, is even beyond what she con- i yourselves and to your fiieids. Bad health seldom ceives. They are sensib)le of the pleasing illusion, ifails to lhave an influence on thie S,)iiits and temiper. but they can not, nordothey wish to dissolve it. But The finest getil iscs tl!e,tost delicate minds have if she is determined to dispel the chiarin, it certainly very firequeutly a coriicspoltdceit delicacy of bodily is in her power; she nmay soon reduce the angel to a constitutions, which tl(hey are too aplt to neglect. Theii very ordinary girl. luxury lies in reaading and( late hours, equal ernemnies T'here is a native di,gnity, an ingenuous modesty, to to health and beauty. be expected in your sex, which is your natural pro- But though good health be one of the greatest tectionr finom the faniiliarities of the men, and which I blessings in lift, never ni,ake a boast of it, but enjoy it you should feel p:evious to the reflection that it is in grateful sile-nce. \Ve so naturally associate the your interest to keep yourselves sacred fromn all per- idea of female softnless and delicacy with a corresonal freedoms. The marny inaimeless cljiaris and en- spondent delicacy of constitution, that when a woman dearinents of beauty should be reserved to bless the speaks of her great streigth, her extraordinary appearms of the happy man to whom you give your heart, tite, her ability to )bear (excessive fatigue, we recoil at but who, if hlie has the least delicacy, wvill despise the description in a way she is little aware of. them, if he knows they have been prostituted to fifty The intention of your being taught needlework, men before him. The sentiment, that a womnatn may knitting, and such like, is not on account of the inallow all innocent freedonms, provided her virtue is trinsic value of all you can do with your hands, which secure, is both grossly indelicate and dangerous, and is trifling, but to enable you to judge more perfectly has proved fatal to many of yotur sex. of that kind of work, and to direct the execution ot Let me now recommend to your attention that ele- it in others. Another principal end is to enable you ance, which is not so much a quality of itself, as the to fill up, in a tolerably agreeabl)le way, some of the tigh polish of every other. It is what diffuses an in- many solitary hours you must necessarily pass a? effable grace over every look, every motion, every sen- home. It is a great article in the happiness of life, tence you utter. It is partly a personal quality, in to have your pleasures as independent of others as which respect it is the gift of nature; but I speak of possible. By continually gadding about in search ol it principally as a quality of the mind. In a word, it amusement, you lose the respect of all your acquaintis the perfection of taste in litfe and manniers-every ances, whom you oppress with those visits, which 'rtue and every excellence, in their most graceful by a more discreet mnanagement might have been iid amiable forms. courted. You may think, perhaps, I want to throw every The domestic economy of a family is entirely a fpark of nature out of your composition, and to m,ke woman's province, and furnishes a variety of subjects you entirely artificial. Far from it. I wish you to for the exertion both of good sense and good taste. possess the most perfect simplicity of heart and man- If you ever come to have the charge of a family, it ners. I think you may possess dignity without p)ride, ou-ht to enoage much of your time and attention; affability without meanness, and simtple elegance withl- nor can you be excused from this by any extent of out affectation. Milton had my idea, when he says fortune, though with a narrow one the ruin that tol. of Eve, lows the neglect of it may be more immediate. "Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye, I aim at the greatest loss what to advise you in regard In every gesture dignity and love." to books. There is no impropriety in your reading history, or cultivating any art or science to which genius or accident leads you. The whole volume of Nature lies open to your eye, and furnishes an infinite variety of entertainment. If I was sure that Nature had given you such strong principles of taste and sen timent as would remain with you, and influence your AMUSEMENTS. future conduct, with the utmost pleasure would I en deavor to direct your reading in such a way as might EvElr period of life has amusements which are form that taste to the utotost perfection of truth and natural and proper to it. You may indulge the va- elegance. "But when I reflect how easy it is to riety of your tastes in these, while you keep within warm a girl's imagination, and how difficult deeply the bounds of that propriety which is suitable to your and permanently to affect her heart; how readily she sex. enters into every refinement of sentiment, and how Some amusements are conducive to health, as va- easily she can sacrifice them tovanity or convenience;" rious kinds of exercise; some are connected with I think I may very probably do you an injury by arqualities really useful, as different kinds of w*omen's tificially creating a taste, which, if Nature never gave work, and all the domestic concerns of a family; some it you, would only serve to embarrass your future are elegant accomplishmnents, as dress, dancing, mu- conduct. I do not watit to,a7/,c you;inythirtg; I kic, anid drawing. Such books as improve your un- want to know splat Nature ]has nmde yin, aud to perdlersta~nding, enlarge your knowledgle, and cultivate feet you on her ian1. I1 (o inot wish you to have seno.ti;r taste, may n)e coiiside redl in a higher point of timnents that might perplex you: { wislt y&tu to have "oicw thtan mere amusements. There:ire a variety oft sentiments that may uiittrtliiy and Steatlily g~,,d S,i A FATHER'S LEGACY TO HIIS DAUGHTERS- jou, and such as your hearts so thoroughly approve, that you would not forego them for any consideration FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, ARIAGE this world could offer. THE luxury and dissipation that prevail in genteel Dress is an important article in female life. The life, as they corrupt the heart in many respects, st love of dress is natural to you, and therefore it is they render it incapable of warm, sincere, and stead:, proper and reasonable. Good sense will regulate your friendship. A happy choice of tiiends will be of ths expense in it, anti good taste will direct you to dress utmost consequence to you, as they may assist yore in such a way as to conceal any blemishes, and set off by their advice and good offices. But the immediate your beauties, if you have any, to the greatest ad- gratification which friendship affords to a warm, open, vantage. But much delicacy and judgment are re- and ingenuous heart, is of itself a sufficient motive quired in the application of this rule. A fine woman to court it. showvs her charms to most advantage, when she seemis In the choice of your friends, have principal regard most to conceal them. The finest bosom in nature to goodness of heart and fidelity. If they possess is not so fine as what imagination forms. The most taste and genius, that will still make them more perfect elegance of dress appears always the most agreeable and useful companions. You have particeasy, and the least studied. ular reason to place confidence in those who have Do not confine your attention to dress to public shown affection for you in your early days, when you appearances. Accustom yourself to an habitual neat- were incapable of making them any return. This is ness, so that in the most careless undress, in your un- an obligation for which you can not be too grateful; guarded hours, you may have no reason to be ashamed when you read this, you will naturally think of your of your appearance. You will not easily believe how mother's friend, to whom you owe so much. much we consider your dress as expressive of your If you have the good fortune to tneet with any characters. Vanity, levity, slovenliness, folly, appear who deserve the namne of friends, unlbosom yourselves through it. An elegant simplicity is an equal proof to them with the most unsuspicious confidence. It of taste and delicacy. is one of the world's ma'ximis, never to trust any per In dancing, the principal points you are to attend son with a secret, the discovery of which could give to, are ease and grace. I would have you dance with you any pain; but it is the maxim of a little mind and spirit; but never allow yourself to be so far transport- a cold heart, unless where it is the effect of frequent ed wsith inirth, as to forget the delicacy of your sex. disappointmenets and bad usage. An open temper, it Maniy.a girl, dancing in the gayety and innocence of restrained by tolerable prudence, will make you on the her heirt, is thought to discover a spirit she little whole much happier than a reserved susplicious one, d.reamsi oel. although you may sometimes suffer by it. Coldness I kn-)w 1no entertainment that gives such l)leasure and distrust are but the too ceritailn consequences ol to aiiy,)elson of sentiment or humor, as the thleatre. age and experience; but they lre uijl)leasatit feelintgs9 But I alln sorry to say that there are fewv English com- and need not be anticipated before their time. ed(ies a l-:dy can see, wvithout a shock to delicacy. But however open you may be in t:Ilkilig of your You qvil not readily suspect the comments gentlemen own affairs, never disclose the secrets of one friec(d lo make on your behavior on such occasions. Mlen are another. These are sacred deposites, whiclh do not olienl best acquainted with the most worthless of your belong to you, nor have you any righlt to niake use of se (, arid from them too readily form their judgment them. of the rest. A virtuous girl often hears very indeli- There is another case in which I suspect it is proper cate th'ings with a countenance nowise embarrassed, to be secret, not so much from motives of prudeli, e beciuse in truth she does not understand them. Yet as delicacy. I mean love matters. Though a woii;,n this is, most ungenerously, ascribed to that command has no reason to be ashamed of an attaclment to a of!a:Stires C'and that ready presence of mnind, which man of mierit, yet nature, whose authority is sul)eri,)r vo? fre tti'tou1ht to possess in a degree far beyond us; to philosophy, has annexed a sense of shime to it. It b}r, stlil more maligna n it o bser vers, it is ascribed to is even long before a vworian of delicicy idares av,ow 1;3 oenucl effrontery. to her own heart that slle loves; and wlven all the .~,aetillaes a irl laughs with all the simplicity of subterfuges of ingenuity to conceal it from hers-elf ulsls.cting, inliocence, for no other reason but being fil, she feels a violence done both to her pride and to i'it' tft,t withi other people's lauglliiin; she is then her lnodesty. This, I should imagine, must always tbe'iiel to knovw more than she should (lo. If she be the case where she is not sure of a return to her do,s lt11l)len to understand an improper thing, she attachment. 5sutit's a very compelicated distress; she feels her In such a situation, to lay the heart open (o any i():ies'v hiurt ill the most sensible manner, and at thile person whatever, does not appear to me consiste-tt s'i':, ti'oe is a.lha:ned of appearing conscious of the with the perfection of female delicacy. But perals illjt]iy.'Fruie olily way to avoid these iticot-ivenrielce, I am in the wrong. At the salme time 1 ilust ieil is liever to no to a play that is particularly offensive to you, that, in point of prutience, it concerns y'toi to 3e'icace. Iriagedy subjects you to no such distress. attend well to the consequences of such a discovery. Its soilowVs will soften and ennoble your hearts. These secrets, however important in yoder owii esti [ need say little about galing, the ladies in this mation, may appear very trifling to youi friend, who country beiiig as yet almost strangers to it. It is a possibly will not enter into your feelings, but may rtiinous an-id incurable vice; and as it leads to all the rather consider them as a subject of pleasantry. For selfishi and turbulent passons, is peculiarly odious in this reason, love secrets are of all others the worst your sex. I have no obijection to your playing a little kept. But the consequences to you imay be very seat any kind of.same. as a variety in your amusements, rious, as no man of spirit and delicacy ever valued a provided tha~it wvhat you can possibly lose is such a heart much hackneyed in the ways of love. trifle as can neither interest nor hurt you. If, therefore, you must have a friend to pear out In this, a vell a, in all inportant points of conduct, your heart to, be sure of her honor and secresv. Let lhow a deteririiied resolution and steadiness. This is hler not be a married woman, especially if she live not in the It a,* in~cOnsistent with that softness and gen- happily with her husband. There are certain' untleuless so aon:,ahle in your sex. On the contralry it guarde(l moments, in which such a woman, thzough 'ives a';tspirit to; iailtl and sweet dilsposition, sith- the best and worthiest of her sex, iuay let hints escape, out whic!-3 i is:ipt to degcae:'aie into i:-si(;5lity. It o whichl, at oilier times, or to any oticr person, than hef makes y') i-stt[lbl..':;o oriiI1'ei- 3 liusI!i.iiid, slie would be incalpable of; nor will a busbou ili our!s.'b' i this case feel himself under the same obli 85 A FATHER'S TI,EGACY TrO ITIS D)AUGHTERS. I)icion of beiing your lover, who, perlhaps, never thought of you i. tlihat view, and giviig, yourselves those airs so comimion amongti silly women on such oc casions. There is a kind of unmeaning gallantry nmuch prac tised by some men, which, if you have any discern nmenit, you will find really harn-iless. Men of this sort will attend you to public places, and be useful to you by a number of little observances, which those of a superior class do not so well understand, or have not leisure to regard, or perhaps are too proud to submit to. Look on the complirments of such men is words of course, which they repl)eat to every agreeable wo man of their acquaintance. There is a tfamiliairity a they are al)t to assume, wllichi a proper dignitv in your behavior will be easily (able to check. l There is a diflerent species of men whloni you Iii.y like as agreeable companions, men of ortli, t,ste, and genius, whose conversation in some resp(tee mynv be superior to what you generally meet with amtong your own sex. It will be foolish ini) you to Ide(prive yourselves of a useful and agreeable acquaiiitaii( e, merely because idle people say he is your lover. Sach a man mnay like your company wMithout liavigti any de sign on your person. People whose sentimnents, and particularly wl ose tastes correspond, naturally like to associate together, although neither of then have the most dist;nt view of any further connexion. But as this similarity of minds often gives rise to a more tender itt:.cliiiient than firiendship, it will be prudent to keep a watclhful eye over yourselves, lest your hearts biecome too far engaged before you are aware of it. At the same time, I do not think that your sex, at least in this part of the world, have much of that sensibility which dis poses to such attachments. What is coimmionly call ed love among you is gratitude, and a partiality to the man who prefers you to the rest of your sex; and such a man you often marry, with little of either per sonal esteem or affection. Indeed, without an un usual share of natural sensibility, and very peculiar good fortune, a wotiman in this country has vety little probability of marrying for love. It is a maxim laid down among you, and a very prudent one it is, that love is not to begin on your part, but is to be entirely the consequence of our at tachment to you. Now supposing a wvoniatn to have. sense and taste, she will not find many men to whom she can possibly be supposed to bear any considerablo share of esteem. Among these few it is a very great chance if any of them distinguishes her particularly. Love, at least with us, is exceedingly capricious, and will not always fix where reason says it should. But supposing one of them should become particularly attached to her, it is still extremely improbable that he should be the man in the world her heart most ap proved of. As, therefore, Nature has not given you that unlimited range in your choice which we may enjoy, she has wisely and benevolently assigned to you a greater flexibility of taste on this subject. Some agreeable qualities recommend a gentleman to your common good liking and friendship. In the course of his acquaintance he contracts an attachment to you. When you perceive it, it excites your gratitude; this gratitude rises into a preference, and this preference perhaps at last advances to some degree of attachment, especially if it meets with crosses and difficulties, for these, and a state of suspense, are very great excitements to attachment, and are the food of love in both sexes. 1f attachnment was e not excited in your sex im) this manner, there is not one of a million of yoti that could ever marry witl any dethee of love. A mn~tn of taste andl delicalcy marries a woman be canso~i hi'cOE iloes herore thaun ally other. A woma~ gation of secresy and honor, as if you had p)It your confidence originally in himself, especially on a subject which the world is apt to treat so lightly. If all other circumstances are equal, there are obvious advantages in your mnaking fi-iends of one another. The ties o f blood, a nd your being so nuch united in one common interest, torm an additional bond of union to y our friendship. If y our brothers should have tile good fortune to have hearts suiscel)tible to fri endship, to possess truth, honor, s ense, and delicacy of sentiment, t hey are the fittest and m ost unexception ab le c o nfidants. By placing, confidence in them, you will receive every advantage wliich you could hope for from thie friendship of iiet, vithout any of the inconveniences that attend such colnlexions with our sex. Beware of making confidants of youri servants. Dignity, not properly understood, very readily degenierates into pride, which enters into no friendship)s, because it can not bear an equal, and is so fond of flattery as to grasp at it even trom servants and dependants. T.he most intimate confidants, therefore, of proud people, are valets de chalmbre and waiting-women. Show the utmost humanity to your servants; make their situation as comfortable to them-i as p)ossible; but if you make themn your confidants you spoil them and debase yourselves. Never allow any person, under the pretended sanction of friendship, to be so familiar as to lose i proper respect for you. Never allowi, them to tease you oil any subject thait is disagreeable, or where you have once taken your resolution. Alally will tell you that this reserve is inconsistent with the freedom which friendship allows. Btut a certain respect is as necessatry in friendship as in love. Without it you may be liked as a child, but you will never Se beloved as an equal. The temper and dispositions of the heart in your sex imiale you enter more readily and warmly into friendships than men. Your natural propensity to it is so strong, that you often run into intimacies which you soon have sufficient cause to repent of, and this makes your friendships so very fluctuating. Another great obstacle to the sincerity as well as the steadiness of your friendships, is the great clashings of your interests in the pursuits of love, ambition, or vanity. For these reasons, it should appear at first view more eligible for you to contract vour friendships with the men. Among other obvious advantagies of an easy intercourse between the two sexes, it occasions an emulation and exertion in each to excel and be agreeable; hence their respective excellencies are mutually communicated and blended. As their interests in no degree interfere, there can be no foundation for jealousy or suspicion of rivalship. The friendship of a man for a woman is always blended with a tenderness w'hich he never feels for one of his own sex, even where love is in no degree concernled. Besid3es, we are conscious of a natural title you have to our protection and good offices, and therefore *we feel an additional obligation of honor to serve you, and to observe an inviola~ble secrecy whenever you confide in us. But apply these observations with great caution. thousands of women of the best hearts and the finest parts have been ruined by men who approached them under the specious name of friendship. But supposing a man to have the most uudoubted honor, yet his friend'ship to a wom,an is so near akin to love, that if she be very agreeable in her person she will probably rely soon find a lover where she only wished to ~neet a friend. Let me hlere, however, warn you| a~gainst that wveakiness so commlon among vain wvomen,l the imagination thaft every man who takes p~articulalr notice of you is a lover. Nothling, can esxpose you more to ridicule than the taksing up a marl 011 the suls- i ii I tib A FATHER'S ILEGACY TO HIS DAUGHTERS. of equal taste and delicacy marries him because she esteems him, and because he gives her that preference. But if a man unfortunately becomes attached to a woman whose heart is secretly pre-engiged, his attachment. instead of obtaiining a suitable return, is particularly offensive, and if he persists to tease her, he makes himself equally the object of her scorn and aversion. The effects of love among men are diversified by their different tempers. An artful man may counterfdt every one of them so as easily to impose on a young girl of an open, generous, and feeling heart, if she is not extremely on her guard. The finest parts in such a girl may not always prove sufficient for her security. The dark and crooked pathis of cunning, are unsearchable and inconceivable to an honorable I and elevated mind. The following, I apprehend, are the most genuine effects of an honorable passion among the men, and the most difficult to counterfeit. A man of delicacy otten betrays his passion by his too great anxiety to conceal it, especially if he has little hopes of success. True love, in all its stages, seeks concealment, and never expects success. It renders a mnan not only respectful, but timiid to the highest degree in his behavior to tlhe woman he loves. To conceal the a-we he stands inr of her, hle may sometimes affect pleasantry, but it sits awkwardly on him, and he quickly relapses into seriousness, if not into dulness. He magnifies all her real perfections in his imagination, and is either blind to her failings, or converts them n into beauties. Like a person conscious or' guilt, he is jealous that every eye observes him; and to avoid this, lie shunis all the little observances of common gallantry. His heart and his character will be improved in every respect by his attachment. His manners will become miore gentle, and his conversation more agreeable; but diffidence and embarrassment will always make him appear to disadvantage in the company of his mistress. If the fascination continue long, it will totally depress his spirit, and extinguish every active, vigorous, aud manly principle of his mind. You will find this subject beautifully and pathetically paint ted in'I'hornsohi's Sl)ring. WVhen you observe in a gentleman's behavior i the inarks which I have described above, reflect seriou-sly wlha,t you are to do. If his attachment is agreeable to you, I leave you to do as nature, good sense, and delicacy, shall direct you. If you love himd, let mile advise you never to discover to him the full extent of your love-no, not although you mtarry him. Tihat sufficiently shows your preference, which a eis all he is entitled to knov. If h e h as delicacy, he will askle br no stronger proof of your affection, for your salke; * " has sense, he will not ask for his own. This is an unpleasant truth, but it is my duty to let yol knowr it; violent love can not subsist, at least can not be expressed for tiny timde together,I on both sides; otherwise the certain consequence, howvever concealed, is satiety and disgust. Nature, in this ease, has laid the reserve on you. If you see evident proofs of a gentleman's attachment and you are determined to shut your heart against hlim, as you ever hope to be used with genero)sity by the person who shall engage your own heart, treat him honorably and humanely. D~o not let him linger in miserable suspense, but be anxious to let him know yoar sentiments with regard to him. Howsever people's hearts may deceive them, there is s~ fr:eely a person that can love for any time, without at least so~le distant hope of success. If you really wishl to undeceive a loser, you may *10 it ill a variety of ways. Tahore is a1 c ertain species of easy fillmiliar ily inl your b~e~lavlior, w\hicll may satisfy' }tim, if he has any discernmet leflt e, that he has nothing to hope for. But perhaps your particular temper may not admit of this. You illay easily show that you want to avoid his comiipaniy; but if he is a man whose friendship you wi sh to preserve, you ma y no t choose this method,. because then you lose h im in every capacity. You may get a cmovedon friend to explain mat ters tq him, or tall in wi th many other devices, if you are serious ly anxious to put h im out of s uspense. But if you are resolved against every such method, at least d o not shun opportunities of letting him explain himeself. Ifyou do thisyou t is ou act barbarously and unjustly. It' he brings you to an explanation, give him a polite, but resolute and decisive answer. In whatever way you convey your sentiments to him, if he is ea man o f spirit and delicacy, he will give you no furthe r trouble, nor apply to your friends for their intercession. This last is a method of courtship which every man of spirit will disdain. He will never whine nor sue for your pity. That w o ul d mortify him almost as much as yo ur scorn. In short, you miay possibly break such a heart, but you can not bend it. Great prid e always accompanie s delicacy, however concealed unde r the appearance of the ut most gen - tleness and iodety and and is the passion of all others the most difficult to conquer. There is a case where a woman may coquet justifiably to the utmost verge which her conscience will allow. It is wiere a gentleman purposely declines to make his addresses, till such time as he thinks himself perfectly s ure of her consen t. This at bottom is int ended to force a woman to g ive up the u ndo ubte d privilege of he r sex, the privilege of her refusing; it is intended to force her to explain herself, in effect, before the gentleman deigns to do it, and by this means to oblige her to vio la t e the modcsty and eeli cacy of her sex, and to invert the clearest order of nature. All th is sacrifice is proposed to be marde meerely to gratify a most despicable vanity in a man who would degrade the very woman whoun he wishes to maake his wife. It is of great imp ortanc e to distinguish whether a gentleman w ho has the appearance of bein g your lover de lays to speak explicitly, from the motive I have mentioned, or from a diffidence inseparable from true attachment. In the one case, you can scarcely use him too ill; in the other, you ought to use him with great kindness; and the greatest kindness you can show him, if you are determined not to listen to his addresses, is to let him know it as soon as possible. I know the many excuses with which women en deavor to justify themselves to the world, and to their owvn consciences, when they act otherwise. Some times they plead ignorance, or at least uncertainty of the gentleman's real sentimets. That may often be the case. Sometimes they plead decorums of. their sex, which enjoin an equal behavior to all men, and forbid them to consider any man as a lover, till he has directly told them so. Perhaps few women carry Itheir ideas of female delicacy and decorum so far as I elf. But I must say you are not entitled to plead the obligation of these virtues, in opposition to the superior ones of gratitude, justice, and humanity. The man is entitled to all these, who prefers you to the rest of your sex, and perhaps whose greatest weakness im ~'his very preference. The truth of the mnatter is, -anity and the love of admiration are so prevailing passions among you, that you may be considered to make a very gretat sacrifice when you give up a lover, till every art of coquetry fails to keep him, or till he forces you to an explanation. You can be fond of the love when you are indifferent to, or even despise the lover. Bsut the deepest and most artful coquetry is em|ployedl by women of superior taste ancd sense, to ent gag~e (and fix the heart of a man whom the world land they themselves esteem, although they are de-. I i i 87 A FATHFER'S ILEGACY TO ITIS DAUGHTERS. imi n sfortune, but cain not ble your fault. In such a sit nation, you would be equally unjust to yourself and your lover, if you gave him your hand when your heart revolted against him. Put miserable will be your fate if vou allow an attachment to steal on you before you are sure of a return, or, what is infinitely worse, where are waniting those qualities u-hichl alone can insure happiness in a married state. I knowv nothing that renders a woman more despi Icable, than her thin-kilg it essential to happiness to be n arried. Beside the gi-oss indelicacy of the sen timeat, it is a false one, as thousands of women have experienced. But if it was true, the belief that it is so, and the consequent impatience to be niarried, is the most effectual way to prevent it. YI ou 1111st not think froiom this, that I do not wish you to nmatrry. On the contrary, I am of opinion, that you miay attaili a superior decree of hatppiness in fi a married state to what you can p)ossibly fitid in any other. I knowv the forlorn and unprotected situation of an old maid, the chagrin and peevisl,ness which iare apt to infect their telmp)ers, and the great difficulty of ilakite~ a, transition with dignity and eoleirfulnes from the p)eriod of youth, beauty, adiuiratioii, and re spect, into the calni-, silent, unnoticed retreat of de clining i years. I see some unmarried women of active, vigorous w minds, anrid a great vivacity of spirits, degriading them i selves, sometimes by enterilig into a dbssispated course of life unsuitable to their years, and exposing them selves to the ridicule of girls cwho itiglit have been their grand-children, somnetimes by oll)ressing their macquaintances by itmpertinent intrulsioi into their pri vate affairs, and sometilmes by being the propagators of scanda(ll and delaia-ttion, All this is ovwing to an exuberant activity of spirit, whichl, if it had found employment at home, would have rendered them re spectable and useful members of society. I see other wortien in the same situationt, gentle, modest, blessed with sense, taste, delicacy. and every omilder feninitie virtue of the heart, but of weak spir its, baishful, arnd timid; I see such womneni sinking into obscurity and insignificance, and gradually losing every elegantit accoiil)lislitJeut, fti)r this evident rea son, that they are not utited to a p)artner whlo has sense, and worth, and taste to ki-owv their value-one vwho is able to draw tortli their concealed qualities, and show them to advantage whvlo cat. give thast sup p)ort to their feeble spirits which they sla.,! s,o ltiich Tin need of, and who, by his afil'ectil,j and tndciness miight make such a woman hali)y ill exertiiig every talent, and acconiplishing herself ill every elegant art that could contribute to his amiusemiient. In short, l am of opinion, that a tiarr-ied slate, if entered into from proper motives of esteeni and aiiec tionri, will be the happiest for yourselves, anid make you most respectable in the eyes of the world, and the most useful neitibers of society. But I Iliust confess I am not enough of a patriot to wish you to marry for the good of the public. I wish you to marry for no other reason but to make y'ourselves happier. When I am so larticular inl my advies about your conduct, I own my heart beats with the fond hope of making you worthy the attachrtmetit of men who will deserve you, and be sensible of your merit. But Heaven forbid you should eve r relinquish the ease and independence of a single lifte, to become the slaves of a Iool or a tyrant's cap~rice. As these have been always my sentititents, I shall do you but justice when 1 leave yon inX such indet pendent circuistances as may laiy you lutdcr 110 temphe tation to do froin necessity wMat yboa weo!id niver do v i firom choice. This will likewise save i troll I'ont that cruel mortificatioti to;t wotzi iti of al)firt -llte sltspi cion that a gentleman thinks le does yell an honor or a favor when he asks you for his wiOe. If I live till termined never to m arr y hia. But hi s conversation amuses them s a nd'. is attacn;b ent is the i he st ge a t ification to their vanity; nay, they can somiietimes be gratified with the u tter ruint of his fortune, ftame, and happiness. God forbid I should ever think so of all of your sex. I knots many of them have principles, hav e g enero sity an d init y of soul, tha t elevate them above the wothless vanity I have been speak ing of. Such a woman, I am persuaded, may alevays con vert a lover, if she call not give her affections, into a warln and steady friend, provided he is a man of sense, resolution, and candor. If she explains herself' to him with a generous openness and freedom, he must feel the stroke as a man; but he will likewise bear it as a man; what he suffers he will suffer in silence. Every sentiment of esteem will remain: but love, thouglh it requires very little food, and is easily surfeited with too much, yet it requires some. He will viewv her in the light of a married woman; and thoughtl passion subsides, yet a man of a candid and generous heart always retains i tenderness for a womrn ihe has once loved, and who has used him well, beyond what he feels for any other of her sex. If he has not confided his own secret to anybody, he has an undoubted title to ask yoU not to divulge it. If a woman chooses to trust any of her companions] with her own unfortunate attachmnernts, she may, as it is her owvn affair alone; but if she has any generosity or gratitude, she will not betray a secret wlhi(:h does not belong to her. AMale coquetry is much more inexcusable than female, as well as snore pernicious; but it is rare in this country. Very few men will give themselves the trouble to,ain or retain any woman's affections, unless they have views on her either of an honorable or dishonorable kind. Mlen employed in the pursuits of business, ambitions or pleasure, will not give theiuselves the trouble to engage a woman's affections merely from the vanity of conquest, and of triumiiphing over the heart of an innocent and defenceless girl. Besides, people never value much what is entirely in their power. X man of parts, sentiment, and address, if he lays aside all regard to truth and humanity, may engage the hearts of fifty women at the same time, and may likewise conduct his coquetry with so much art, as to put it out of the power of any of them to specily a single expression that could be said to be directly expressive of love. This ambiguity of behavior, this art of keeping one in suspense, is the great secret of coquetry in both sexes. It is the more cruel in us, because wve can carry it what length we please, and continue it as long as we please, without your being so mnuchl as at liberty to comiiplatin or expostulate; whereas ale can break Our chain, and force you to explain, whenever we become impatient of our situation. I have insisted the more particularly on this subject of courtship, because it may most readily haprpen to you at that early period of life when you can have little experience or knowledge of the world, when your passions are wvarin, and your judgments not arrived at such full maturity as to be able to correct them. I wish you to possess such high principles of honor and generosity as will render you incapable of deceiving, and at the same time to possess that acute discernment which may secure you against being deceived. A woman, in this country, may easily prevent the first impressions ot love, and every native of prudence and delicacy- should make tier guard againlst themn, till such time as she hats received the most conviucing proof of the attachment of a man of such mnerit as wvill justify' a reciprocal regard.~ Your hearts, mt~eed, mnay be shut inflexibly and permanently againlst ~it the m~erit a man can possess. That may be your 88 A FATHER'S I,EGACY TO TItS DAUGHTERS. you arrive;it thl't age vhlen you shall be ctapable to judge for you-selves, and do not strangely alter my sentimi-ilts, I shall act toward you in a very differ ent manlner fron what mos t parents do. My opinion has always been, that when that period arrives tile parental atuthiority ceases. I hope I shiall always treat you with that affection and easy confidence which may dispose you to look on me as your fi'iend. In that capacity alone I shall think myself entitled to give you my opinion; in the doinr of vlwhich I should think myself highly criminal if I did not to the utmost of my power endeavor to divest myself of all personal vanity, and all preju dices in favor of my particular taste. If you did not choose to followv my advice, I should not onil that ac count cease to love you as my children. Though my right to your obedience was expired, yet I should think nothing could release me from the ties of nature and humanity. You may perhaps imagine that the reserved beha vior which I recommnend to you, and your appearing seldom ait public places, must cut off all opportunities of your beiii, acquainted with gentlemen; I am very for fromn iliteniding this. I advise you to no reserve hl)t what vwill render you more respected and beloved by our sex. I do not think public p)lces suited to make people acquainted together. Th-ey can only be distinguished there by their looks and external bela vior. But it is in private companies alone where you can expect easy and agreeable conversation, which I shoult, never wish you to decline. If you do not allow gentlenten to become acquainted with you, you canh never expect to marry with attachment on either sile. Love is very seldomn produced at first sight, at least it must have, in that case, a very unjustifiable fouindation. True love is founded on esteem, in a correspondence of taste and sentiments, and steals on the lieirt ilmperceptibly. There is one advice I shall leave you, to,-,hich I beg your particular attention; before your affections becomne in the least engaged to any man, examine your tempers, your tastes, and your hearts, very severely, and settle it in your own minds, what are the requisites to your happiness in a married state,; and as it is almost impossible that you should get everything you wvish, come to a steady determination what you are to consider as essential, and what may be sacrificed. It' you have hearts disposed by nature for love and friendship, and possess those feelings which enable you to enter into all the refinements and delicacies of these attachments, consider well, for Heaven's sake, and as you value youtr future happiness, before you give themn any indulgence. If you have the misfortune (for a very great misfortune it commiionly is to your sex) to have such a temper and such sentiments deeply rooted in you, if you have spirit and resolution to resist the solicitations of vanity, the persecution of friends (for you will have lost the only friend that would never persecute you), and can support the prospect of the many inconveniences attending the state of an old maid, which I formerly pointed out, then you may indulge yourselves in that kind of sentimental reading and conversation, which is most corresp'ondent to your feelings. But if you find, on a strict self-examination, that mlarria,ge is absolutely essential to your happiness, keep the secret inviolable in your own bosoms, for the reason I formerly mentioned; but shun as you would the most fital poison, all that species of reading and conversation which warmns the iluagina tion, which engages audl sif'tei:s tile heart, atud raises the taste above the 1ev 1 o' cL,inimon li;i'. If viU do o0iierwvise, cons;der tie ter-i;~le cooilii-t of imassiou0q this ma. jraftciward ruise il yo;lr brte;iss. If this refi;~e;nsent Slice t tkes dc('p root ill TONIt minds, and you do not obey its adicta,;es. bset i licacy from vulgar and mercenary views, you may never be able to eradicate it entirely, and then it will imbitter all your married days. Instead of meeting wirn sense, delicacy, tenderness, a lover, a friend, an ceqval coBmpanion, in a husband, you ma y be ti red with in sipidity and dulness; shocked with ind elica cy, or mnortified by indifference. You will find none to compassionate, or even understand your suffelings; for your husbands may not use you cruelly, and may give you as much money for your clothes, personal expense, and domestic necessaries, is is suitable to their fortunes. The world therefore would look on you as unreasanable women, who did not deserve to be happy, if you were not so. To avoid these corn plicated evils, if vou are determined a,t all events to marry, I would advise you to mnake all your reading and amusements of such a kind, as do not affect the heart nor the imagination, except in the way of' wit or humor.' I have no view by theve advices to lead your tastes; I only want to persuade you of the necessity of know ing your own minds. which, though seemingly very easy, is what your sex seldom attain on many impor tant occasions in life, but particularly on this of which I am speaking. There is not a quality I more anx iously wish you to possess, than that collected, deci sive spirit which rests on itself, which enables you t,o see where your true happiness lies, and to lursue it with the most determined resolution. In matters of business, follow the advice of those who know tl}etn better than yourselves, and in whose integrity you can confide; but in matters of taste, that depend on your own feelings, consult no one friend whatever, but con sult your own hearts. If a gentleman makes his address to you, or gives you reason to beliesve lie will do so, before you allow your affections to be engaged, endeavor in the most prudent and secret manner, to procure from your friends every necessary piece of information concern ing him; such as his character for sense, his morals, his temper, fortune, and fami),; whether it is dis tinguished for parts and worth, qr for folly, knavery, and loathsome hereditary di~,?ases. WVIhen your friends inform you of these, th,-,, have fulfilled their duty. If they go further, they Cave Dot tlht defer ence for you which a becomitnp 1;gnity on your part would effectually command. Whatever your views are in trt',.ying, take every possible precaution to prevent ti, is:ng disappointed. If fortune, and the pleasures it bli,gs are your aim, it is not sufficient that the settlements o, a jointure and children's provision be ample, and p,) erly secured; it is necessary that you should enjoy e,e fortune du ring your own life. The principal se~cu-ity you can have for this will depend on your man i;,g a good natured, generous man, who despises H,'oney, and who will let you live where you can best enjoy that pleasure, that pomp and parade of life, fol which you married him. From what I have said you wvill easily' see tant 1 could never pretend to advise whom you scapula marry; but I can with great confidence advise wh~omi you should not marry. Avoid a companion that may entail any hereditary disease on your posterity, particularly (that nmost dreadful of all human calamities) madness. It is the height of imnprudenlce to run into such a danger, ag in my opinion highly criminal. Do not marry a fool; he is the most intractable o~ all animals; he is led by his passions.,nd cain'ices, and~ is incaFpblel o)f ]learaing t!he voice 031 r.~:-,~,:~. It ^ I:l~y il'obally too hur~tt your~ valliiy, Act,!;;.vc';~'-l';~l~,'~s [bfr hitioin vo~ tav r1l ealsol to blnls;l~ l:t~ ~cl.l,~l~ everyV t itte tl~.t~y olmne t!~cir limps i) co,~p;t}; v. Ilivtl. le wo:()s c~rcltt~sta:~ce thact *attenlds a tbol. ix xi~s t bits:a,:t it:;~] I iI I i i I I i 89 A FATHER'S LEGACY TO HIS DALUGHTERS. ousy of his wile being thought to govern him. This renders it impossible to lead him, and he is continually doing absurd and disagreeable things, for no other reason but to show he dares do them. A rake is al-,ways a suspicious h-iusband, because he has only known the most worthless of your sex. He likewise entails the worst diseases onl his wife and children, if' hle has the misfortune to have any. If you have a sense of religion yourselves,.do not think of husbands vwho have none. If they have tolerable understandings, they will be glad that you have religion, for their ovwn sakes, and for the sakle of their famuilies; but it will sink you in their esteem. If they are weak mnen, they will be continually teasing and shocking you about your principles. If you hae, children, you will suffer the most bitter distress, in l seeing all your endeavors to form their minds to virtue and piety, all your endeavors to secure their present and eternal happiness, frustrated, and turned into ridicule. As I look on your choice of a husband to be of the greatest consequence to your happiness, I hope you will make it with the utmiost circumspection. Do not give way to a sudden sally of passion, and dignify it with the name of love. Genuine love is not founded in caprice; it is founded in nature, on honorable views, on virtue, on similarity of tastes and sympathy of souls. If you have these sentiments, you will never marry a ny one when you are not i n that situation in point of fortune, v whicl h i s necessary to o y fthe happiness of either of vou. \Vhiat that competency may be, (-an only be determined by your own tastes. It would be ungenierous in you to take advantage of a lover's attachment to plunge himn into distress; if lie h.as any honor, no personal gratification will ever tempt him to enter into any connexion which will render you unhappy. If you have as much between you as to satisfy all your reasonable demai~inds, it is sufficient. I shall conclude with endeavoring to remove a difficulty which must naturally occur to any woman of reflection on the subject of tnarriage. \Vhat isq to become of all these refinements of delicacy, that diguity of manners, which checked all fanmiliarities, and suspended desire in respectful andl awful adm(iir;ftion I In answer to this I shall only observe, that if motives of interest or vanity have had any share in your reso lution to marry, none of these chimerical notions wil' give you any pain, nay, they will very quickly appeal as ridiculous in your own eyes as they probably a; ways did in the eyes of your husbands. They have been sentiments whIlich floated in your imaniginlaltions, but have never reached your hearts. But if these sentiments have been truly geouine, and if you have ha,l the singular happy fate to ipttlach those who un derstand then, you have no reason to be afrtaid. Marriage, indeed, w ill at once disl el the enchant ! mevt raised b y e xternal beautv; but the virtues and I gyr aces that first wa r nied the w atd iht reserve and delicacy which always left the lover with somsoe thing further to wish, and often made hihn dowubtful of your sensibility or attachment, may and ouallt e ve r t o re main. The ttiinult of passion will necessarily subside; but it will be succeeded by an endearme nt that affects the heart in a mor e equals, more senIsible, and tender manner. Bu t I must chliec myself, and not indulge in descriptions t ha t d may nisle. ylou, leind that too sensibly awake the remiiem-brance otf my happier days, which, perhaps, it were better for nme to forget for ever. -- I have thus given you my opinion on some of the most ic mportant articles of your future life, chiefly c alculated for that peri od when you are just entering the world. I have endeavored to avoid some pecu liarities of opinion, which, from their contradiction to the general practice of the world I Knight reasonably have suspected were not so well founded. But is writin, to you, I am afraid my heart has been too warmly interested to allow me to keep this resolution This may have produced some embarrassment, and some seeming contradictions. What I have written has been the amusement of some solitary hours, and has served to divert some melancholy reflections. 1 am conscious I undertook a task to which I was very unequal; but I have discharged a part of my duty You will at least be pleased with it, as the last mark of your father's love and attention. TRIALS AND TEMPTATIONS OF WOMAN. to be stung by grief, when they seemn only fitted for gayety and joy? Women are naturally buoyant and lig,ht-lheartedthe eye beaming with brightness, and the cheek usually wearing a smile; but this must bring equally a sense of pain, for the heart most easily pleased is soonest saddened. If they were more indifferent to pleasure there would be a greater callousness to pain. It is this very sensitiveness of their nature which makes pain so much more easily felt, as the brightest mirror is the soonest sullied. In every station she can occupy, is a woman exposed to trial and to trouble; and the more she is bound to others, the more is she exposed to sorrow in her own person. The happiest and most endearing of all the terms which can be applied to woman, is iundoubtedly that t of mother. But who can tell a mothler's trials-a r iother's troubles, sorrows, or atfflictions? Take a mother in lier hliappiest iilOIti,cts; see her encircled I)y her cllildren, wvith;vhuoin she is )platying.'' One s hlIe kisses upon its cheek, and claslis another to hel bosom; one she sets upon her kitee, and finds a seat IF it be true, that the sight of a great man manfully strugglung against trouble is enough to makle the gods shed tears, that of a virtuous woman bearing sorrow with patience and fortitude might well brine, angels from heaven to cheer and comfort her. Almost synnymyious with suffering is the name of voman; tor though the troubles which man and woman have to bear, may, if considered in the abstract, be much the same in amount, yet if reference be made to wvoIIan's sensibility, whether of mind or body, the suffering must fall much heavier upon her than upon nman. She is so formed as not to be firm enough So withstand, or yet flexible enough to bend to the slast of affi'ction. Man has indeed vast trials and troubles; but then he has b oth ai a a mind and a body constitutionally fitted to grapple with them; whereas a woman has to bear the same amount of affliction with a temperament the very reverse. So fair-, so fragile, as women are, are they to ibe exlpos-e tazainst the jarrinv win(s which affliction lets lotos;,, and wllicil sl)recad desolation and sorrowv wvheresoever- tiley sweep)? Are the set..silil.,ie~ and tlhe teeli,::s whRich so adorn the female heart i I i I I I l I 90 TRIALS AND FETPf'FlA'rIONS OF \VOMAN. upon her foot for another." Tilere is, then, to her, woy uniinigled withl sorrow, and pleasure tree from pain. She has forgotten tile anguish she suffered in giving these children birth; shIe thinks not of the many sleepless nights she passed while she wEis watch itmg and guarding the helplessness of infancy. The gay smile and the happy look she wears attest the pleasure she feels; but they also tell how deep would be the suffer:-ng if aught of evil were to hal)pen to her offspring. And, ere lotIg, it may be the sore stroke comes, and one of her children is laid upon a bed of sickness. And a very sore trial is this to a mother; her fond pictures of the future are blasted Un an instant, and she has to attend upon the child, pallid and p)ained by sickness, with whom she was so fondly playing but a short period before. Who but a mother can know a mnother's feelings, when called upon to discharge a duty like this? Ilow much anxiety, how much watchfulness is displayed; h-ow eagerly she notes the irregular and feverish breathings of her child! Anrd often does it hapl)pen that sickness not only comes to one child, but that it runs through the whole group. Before many days the mother will detect the hectic spot brightening on another fair cheek-too surely presaging the increase of her troubles, her anxieties, and her pains. But she relaxes nothing of her solicitude or care. With her amount of hardships appears to increase her power to overcome them; and, amid this disease and these trials, she maintains her usual calmness and serenity of mind. A brief time passes away, and the darkened windows of tiat house proclaim that one of its inmnates is a corpse. It is the brightest and the fairest that death hath laid low. Of the two that sickened, one is fast returning to heal th an d joy-the other lies cold and dead. While there remained life, hope still lingered; but when the on e went out the other fled. And now has a mother to moiurn over al departed childsthis trial of trials, how s hall a woman's heart bear up against so much as th is? Oh! the mo ther will stand at the side of her pale child, and will fix a deep and penetratin, look upon those calin and placid features, which, ere mortality begins to settle them, look more .ike marble than death; and she will impress a burning kiss upon its cheek, too cold, alas! to be warmed by this fondest token. She may not speak; but her ears-these, which form' the most Dowerful of oratory-tlhese'tell how the heart is wauug with anguish, how riven with grief. And not only does an affliction like tiffs bring with it poignancy of grief and deepness of sorrow-how severe a trial is it also of temper! The hardest of all things is to bear affliction with a right mind; and many a secret thought is likely to arise in a mother's mind when standing by the side of a dead child, suggesting the idea that God lhas desalt hardly and harshly in inflicting so severe a blow; and a murmur may arise that the even-handed justice of God has not been showvn in hier case, and that the dispensations of Lis p~rovidence are not always righit. It is a hard task, anal therefore a very severe triall, to bear affliction with p)atience and resignation; for the heart of a mnother so bereaved feels that a severer, and as she thinks, a more unjust stroke, has been dealt upon her than upon others. She will call to mind the youth, the innocence of her departed child; and all these will seem to her so many reasons why death should have been kept away. But she will not think how nanaly mothers have been simnilarly bereaved, and how many scal tirle tears they have shed over children deathl h:~s tilus stricken-fo~r ariel to all but a resigned an4 par;lielt telnper is selfish. Under these trials, t~tpretbre, th~e }s>.ert shouldt benld with pa~tienlce to thle ~,,ii of' (Stu. And though thle eye maxi still weep), and the heart be sorrower((, y e t i n the inidst of all, by recogoisitge int; th e liction the hand of a fther, the lips hemsay breathle forth w ith perfect sincerity, fo The Lord ga ve, a nd the Lord math taken away: blessed be the ndmne of the L ord." But all the duties of a mother are so many trials, to watch and train her children, t o g ua rd the way wartaless of youth p, to teach, to adnish, to instruct, to advise -all are attended with hardships, a nd, there fore,,nll are trials. She will find s o nma y th ing s to try her ownV temper —she %will have to maintain so strict a guard over hers elf, les t h er own conduct dis proving those things she teaches, that which she pla nts w it one iand shbe iny be plucking up with haing th the other. And ai severer trial thian a ll these fre quenitly assails a mother-for those are labors she de lights in, and the pl easure she fee ls in performi ng them compensates for the difficulty of the tasks. But whven a mother see s th at a ll these in structions have been thrown away, and that a child is en te ring a path which conducts to ruitd, then will her t ri al be bmost severe and p o igna nt, and, in th e bitterness of er ie e o w i ra her grief, she wo wish rather t o nlirve seen a soIr coffined and buried, had he been virtuous, than that he should live to dishonor God, dis grace his parents, and rnin himself. And it will add considerably to her grief when she calls to mind ho w imper fect a t best eanrly of her i nstructions omust have been; she will think that more tihght still have tbeen done-th o uigh there was very much-to try to weain him from his att achment to [ ) ad companions, and to base an d un worthy pursuits. Ad t te ee i f s ndr to the deep grie f whic h is ever to befelt by the recklessness and immorality of a child, will be added the painful titouhts irising from the d knowl edgeta th he on t ad ostat thou she taught and instr cd to the best of' her erevr, yet that if she had tlhoutht more deeply she might have followed a better method, a nd that the ill success may be partly chargeable upon hers el f. And this is, perhaps, one of' the sorest trials a mother can have bef all her; for she charges herself, in all probability undeservedly, with having, through negligence or improper management, suffer-ed evil habits to obtain the ascendency in the mind of her child; so that over and ab ove the p ai n which she teels on account o f him who manifests a pr oneness to evil, there will be added the pain derived from the thought that much of thiprib is pr oneness is chargeable upon herself. And the nobler the mind, the more will this feeling rise, for it is the invariable character istic of great minds to think hbumrbly of themi-iselves. These, then, are all so many causes of trial to a mother, and they are so numerous and imanifest, that the history of a mother might be told in these few words: I She is born to trouble." Nor ate the temptations to which a mother is ex posed much less numerous than her trials. Sur rounded by those who are entirely depet(dant upon Iher, is she not tenanted to manifest a degree of pride and arrogance, to treat her children as if" with life they had derived everything else tromn her, so that her will was law, and no opinion tenable which she did not entertain? And this is a temptation by which many, very many, mothers are overcome, so tha~t their childlren seem at home to be complete ciphers, and only enjoy life when out of their mlother's presence. How mluch, too, is a mother temp~ted to a frequent display of anger! So many vexaltions andl crosses are continually pressing upon her, that she, must frequently be temspted to displa) n1n('!t,~ri('f th-eb se,Pesoet o1';tll trl~.l A. it i- vaizl it tell -ltcr thnt tirae w,'l s.,Ft.;.;, lie,'.~: li.t a'~: ~1 I. t S;,rrOw is uI!;,,va;i!ing, be,!)t,.'iti:,~t,'ic ~1... }, ad:.l c~::iy i:lu,'i~t, lit?e liv-I I !)2 TRIALS AND TE'MIPTATIONS OF WOMAN. breast and though the eye beams with brightness and Ile cheek Illay wear a smile, yet the heart is dis qu;ete-d and troubled-grief, like a canker-wornm, is eating at the core, though the bud be still beautiful. In all the duties of women, great trials are inflicted upon them-principally trials of tlte mind-those of temnper, of resolution, and of kindness; and all these hlave to be encountered singly and silently-there is no applause to follow success-no mighty crowds sur round them to stimulate to exertion, and to urge on to victory; but in the secret depths of their own hearts the struggle is carried on; there is it that the strife takes place, and human eyes see nothing of the conflict, nor is anything divulged of the difficulty ot the war. ,low many trials are also inflicted by the unamiable dispositions, which, more or less, have a lodgtment in every heart! What a fierce struggle with nature is it when anyv strive to conquer a disposition which they knoir to be wrong, but which has been so engrafted in them as to have growvn with their gr owth atnd strengthened with their strength!" Suppose the dispositioli which it is wished to conquer be passion-.what numberless battles wi; sharve to be fought before victory is obtained!'j'o such a disposition, at the mere utterance of a wvo1(, the heart takes fire, and, in an instant, the b)row is wrapped in darkness, as in a thunder-cloud, and the eye flashes forth its lightning, and truly difficult is it to so lhave the heart under control under circumnsta(nces,f sunlden irritation, that the feelings shall be stublued andl kept under. Suppose pride or vanity to be the charliictXeristic feature of the disposition; but, sensiil)e of tlh impropriety, an attempt is made to subdue it: what a revolution will have to be effected ere the proud miind( can be brought to humility, or the vain to thiink others as good or better than themselves! In these and in similar instances the trials are very difficult to be overcome, not only because the strug- gle is acquiring a mastery over nature-whvich of itself is sufficiently a trial-but also because, while the stru,ggl,e is carried on, there will not be breathed, to cheer the combatant, a word of enconragement, of ,upport, or of commendation. Tlo woman, as to man, come sicknes s and death, and these both have their trials. WVhat a dem.tard. upon p)atience and resignation is made wh e n th e body ts pained by sickness and enfeebled by disease! \What a trial. wvheni the prospect of dissolution is present to the view-when pain is severing the silken cords which bind soul to body, and the world is receding quickly from the view! It Imlay have been a female's part to have tended the sick-bed of a relative, and to have cheered and comforted when the death-struggle came on; and in these she may have displayed the noblest and the best feelings which adorn human nature. But when she herself coies to the point of deathl, far different may be the feelings which agitate her breast. It is one thing to see sickness and (deathtl, but quite another to have to meet them. It is of all thingss the most solemnn and awful to die. A trial is then made of every principle which has been held by the mind —the world then begins to be regarded in its true light —actionls are brought to their proper standard, and only those wvho have prepared for death can meet their last enemy with comnplacency; for, leas the production of the me, al proveth the work of the alchymist, so is death time test of our lives, the essay which showeth the standard of all our actions." And this is a trial all have to submnit to. In life it happlen~s that many aflfiictionls dlescend upon] one individul U1, w-^hereals othlers sca(rc ely kinows what trouble isb~ut doeathl is the aplpoinated lo)t of all. It cotnes in a thou.sand~ formns andt a thousanld different ways, bult it surely comnes. And only those who have lived in prepanaration for death (lice Sito it;t lale) of ini mortality. It is' the buoyancy of wc:l:;n's naliiiie arm; g})' yet hareter keenllress to tl,e triha ls hby Sict!s is esl compassed. Possessing a lii) i a!uiI ly itl."i::at'uie and lively, and a dlisposition which tikes hcr Xconel h - trate all her energi-,es upon every ob)ject wlhlcil el gaupes her pattention, she thereby brithogs alnd hbt slo-i much trouble A disdrositiol r o,hlictl is (sotistei iy, imag~'inling,s sutffrs troubles which p ierhal.S h:.,v110 existence, for the )riodhtest clot( so on aissiiumes ic}.tl blaclkniess of nlight, and imagined trouble is olteni f'.r h arder to bear thlln r ea l, tand by every e)eitgy bevie, roused, disab)pta ointments are sure to hi ue very sfie quently to be en c ountered, and fitoiin the s(.atises commonly arise to poticai many evntd sseve tte airtos a The temptations to whid(h o Den aire exflg ose,,l n,e almo st as p n utmes rous as th ei tri ls, e aecaly dtil g the seas on of youthe, Thhien tle vart is rno:eiet lt,ht d the cheek w ea rs its liirest text. us'aoi)f to,C hoI nes whvich the world t)bys to beb r;t-, the sy s e n e(t] to Vat i, - ityaandnd tew opte(-l to pr)tIasfits isricl} lco( siore tlfew temt teries and mhoeirage. THence tlemwy clare io(.he ced to ea list themselves in the cohv Iot )m onsliy ) (;f thIose at woid think pleasur e the great est good, anal ios b)hym st,it tlhe tnoblest occulpation. Ae nd if i avon fn tieldi to tlsis first teimptation, othe rs q;iecl.ly sise sio) atou te i.de Shae wil l se e theat iofischll wot licl-i slae r;l o, apccuss tomiied to consider highl tand nob)le is Ce r:l.ted of loo zreat worth by the Niorld's votaries. ruth ~,iaht have been regarded -,s a holy thiog, antd to s ita any thini, false wita s like profanation to the lilt s; but in the world she will firnd that flia tteries take the Ila-ce of truth, and in order to stand well with otlhers, arid to have admirers around her, a young woman,-ii Lilly soon exchange her love of truth for the sake of uttering things she does not feel-hollowi, fltteries atld empty praise. The female sex are exposed to mnany tenipta,tior,s. from their having but few objects of interest to eniage their attention. From the period of le avia7 school to that of ma-rriagie, the life of a fecnmtle is gnerally little more than a b lank. Sh e leaves school w itl, ex panded faculties, high hopes, beating expec,ations, and ardor of application, but not a suitable ol)ject ulp,ont which to expend them —and thus she wi a.stes lofty thoughts, and brilliant purposes, lnd surprisintg t,owi, — ers, on the dull earth or the deaf' air; she seemes lfe some glorious temple, beautiful in architectur-e, costly in ornaments, rich in splendor, a:ind radiant Vital light, but wanting a shline upon which to b)u,rn inensec, (iand a God to adore. At first faincy becomes busy, peop)ling the aiire with images, building up imnaiginary structures, an,, de picting events in wllAich themselves act tlie part of a heroine; but, by degrees, this feeling cools down, or becomes overwrought, and then followvs a st-ite- (of inactivity which at last ends in compl)le c~,,.'i. Then are various rem-edies tried to restore th~e lost spirits, and the temptations with Enrich they u'ill lee assailed with wvill be those which lead thlenl to seek pleasure, perhap~s, in these most unesatisfilctory ones — inl the constantly spending the evenings at parties, in the ball-loom, or at the theatre. It is commonly said that women have but few temp tations in common with the other sex. It mnay be true that they havte not many from the great world without; but they have many, very many, fi'ont the little world within. Every thought which suggests the following the expedient in place of the right is a powerful temptation; every suggestion to the pride of display, or to the passion for flattery or applause, is al temlptation- every secret 1ongings after unp~ossess ed good —every desire to shine pre-einilent ill beauty all are so many temnptatio~ns wvhichl scatter roses buefi~rt i! the feet, b~ut bring ruin in their train. i i I i i i O,-l 94 TRIALS AND TE'P'FMPTATIONS OF WOMAN. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_____ Surrounde(l by trials and environed by lenll)tations, God, should I not have strared this fdtirest flower? woman staids trials the hardest to bear, and temnpta- Should I have let the blast of death sweep over it, and tioris the most difficutilt to overcome; and to meet bring down the young, the beautiful, the innocent, to tliese shle is endowed with a weak and delicate frame, the cold grave? Could I have dimmned the lustre and with a mind in which fortitude appears to hold of those eyes, which, blue as the midnight heavens, but a small place. And yet the disasters which al- were, like those heavens, the habitation of love? most breatlk dovwn the spirit of man are borne patient- Could I have faded the color of that fair cheek, than ly. energetic:lly, and nobly, by the softer sex, as which the rose's teints were scarcely more beautiful? tliougl trou)le had a magical power over the female Could I have destroyed all that beauty, withered all heart, on the miere toticii of which, woman rose from that fairness, and brought so soon the dread curse weakness and dependance, to be a guide, a comforter, which condemns dust to return to its kindred dust?" an(l a suplort. It is thus a mother might be supposed to complain It was once a matter of debate, whether women when she sees the child of her love lying cold and ought to be educated, and, proud of his owvn learn- still. She will probably think that much of injustice in-, man )bonunded off, by a broad line of demnarca- hats been done alike to herself and to her child in tion, female intellect from his own. But if he wants thus destroying the fondest hopes of the one, and the to know how trouble is to be entidured or temptation life of the other. But if we may suppose the Alresisted, let hinit cast aside his speculations of science, mighty as desiring to vindicate the justness of his own let him shut ill) his books on the strength of human actions, it would be thus, we may imagine, lihe reply intellect, nil( thIe greatness of ltthumanr understanding, would be made: "In your sorrow, oh! fond mother, let him banisht from his sight his wild and visionary you accuse me of injustice and partiality, dealing theories, in which there exist as much fiction as truth, affliction in undue measure to one, and granting hapand let hiin go to wonail —woman whom, in his pride piness beyond a common share to another. But to and his intoleranrce he hardly thought worth edu- all created things which live upon your globe have I bating, and there he will find that what intellect has thus dealt. Do not the evidences which are to be failed to accoip)lish, lhas been achieved by the moral gathered fiomn every beast, every bird, and every inaffections alone. sect, attest that all has been done which could give to Hlvi-ng pointed out some of the trials and tempta- the things which I have created the greatest possible tions to which woman is liable while endeavoring to amount of enjoyment? Where the life is brief, is it discharge the obligations which society imposes on not bright? and to those creatures which die when her, we will now proceed to show the consolation the sun goes down, has not theit life been a day of that religion aflords in affliction. sunshine? And why with the human family should If wve takle life as it is, divested of all hope of the it be supposed that I deal more hardly than with the future, a more aloomy picture could scarcely be ima- insect of a day? Have I not endowed the human gined. \Ve come into a world, which, at every step race with vast powers and surprising faculties, far bewe turn, presents sorrow and disappointment. Each yond those I have given to the rest of earth's tenants, makes for himself an idea of happiness, and all set givitg to them an immortal soul, and destining them forth onil the pursuit of the fancied goo(l; but all find to dwell in that high kingdom where my own throne that their hapl)iness existed in imagination only, and is set, when their present life is ended? All that I that the pursuit thereof was like that of a boy chasing have done for human-kind, the love I have manifested a butterflv, which is no sooner gras)ed than the bright for them, bearing with their ingratitude, and with the hues come off in the hand: w*Nile, on the other hand, contempt manifested toward my commandments, there arises to the mind a lone train of troubl)les wvhich ought to have been sufficient to have brought all ourselves must encounter, and the still nmore length- hearts to be centred on myself. I sent into the world ened ones whichl would befall those we love best. prophets and wise men, gifted with supernatural powMisfortune, and pain, and death, haunt our footsteps, ers, anid endued with a prescience belonging only to and hiardlv will,ne difficulty be overcome, ere an- miyself, and even went so far as to assume humanity other, as tIoill t,, ashes of the former, will arise, like iyivself, that the bright heritage forfeited by apostacy a cloud ill the uwes, to diiu the brightness of the day. might be regained. And, for all that has been done, At every turn we tane, at every point wve reach, we for all that has been borne, I ask no hard service. fined that troibl and perplexity aire assailing us. It is Love and obedience are all that is demanded;-love only when religion is taken into account, that the to myself, which, while it is my due, is the highest justness of G(od's dealings with the human family be- honor bestowved upon humanity, and obedience to coii,s apparent. Tihe god of the savage is a god of my laws, the infringement of which is sure to bring wrath and revernge, deligliting in slaughter, and revel- misery to the transgressor. linig in l)ood. The god of the skeptic is a being "But so degraded is the human heart, that even who, iter having once given laws, allows all to go on with the best, earth still holds them in restraint. without i;Jteriierence or control. But the God of the Some links are binding down the heart-some deai Christian is a God of love-a God who, while con- friend has the affections, and the heart is weaned from cerned iil ordering the movement of systems, has a myself. But as I know the frailty of humanity, I thounhlt for the lowliest and the meanest of the crea- deal with it as gently as I can. Removing the ties tures lie has formed. It is this great truth which re- and breaking the links which bind to earth, I thus ligion iiicrilcates, and is a truth in which, as creatures seek to bring the heart back to myself. If affliction subjected to sorrow, and pain, and death, we have the be sent, it is to show tile perishabletiess of everygreatest possible interest; for without this truth being thing earthly; if sickness, to bring back the heart to fully understood, affliction will never be regarded un- look for support where alone it is to be found. der a proper point of view, or be borne with a right "You arraign me unjustly in accusing me of spirit. harshly dealing with you. It is true, death has over There is a mother bending in tearful agony over taken your child in the bright dawn of love: but that the lifeless form of her only child. The bitterness child was to you an idol, occupying every thought. of grief is present to her in its most poignant form; and causing you to forget God. You put the gift in and as she presses her lips to the pale, cold cheek of the place of the Giver, and set youi affections upon her beloved clhild, she feels that the lilow has been I that so entirely as to exclude from your thoughts obunjustly dealt, and that the bud slorilld have been left 11 ligations yet ruore binding. Blut now that your child to become a flower ere it was smitten by the blast. is no nore, you will, when time has softened down It wvill be tlns that she reasons: "' if I had Steco!your grief, attend once more to the duties of religion. TRIALS AND TEMPTATIONS OF WOMAN. Recognising a Father's hand in the clhastisemnent, you w;11 learn to set your Iflections on brighter objects and on more endearing things. "A motlher's love-it is a holy feeling,. I, who gave that love, lknowv best its depth and fervency. But eden that feeling may be abused. It may descend to idolatry, and then the thoughts are turned comil)letelyv from their God. "But if, to turn the mother's heart to religious du ties, I have )pelnitted that her child should lhal' tinder tlie power of the destroyelr, have I hliereinii dealt uii justly? Ami I not the God of life? C;a1 1, therefore, be pleased wvithl death? Ini taking the youo)g from the world, I but remiove tlihin to a halpl)ier land. The bright bud lwhich childhlood weVeirs, is not always cer taim of bloomning as bi ri-tly; and in all cases are they taken firom the ecii to come. Life is not always hapl)iuess, i.or eirlv deaith a curse. If your child haid lived, t leml)t;i,tits ivould have aIssaiiled it, which it wvould not have overcome: troubles and sorrows would have cr, wded ul)on it, and life would have presented little of enjoylieit, andI very iiiuch of suf leruig. WVill o tleLI airtaign l mny disl)ensatious, de r llrit,g thaen utjuist anld hlirsli, when th:e stroke vwhlich seei-ne l to destroy, his save(i you both?-saved you in tlhat youlr eart wvill return to thiunk of God; and saved your cilil, by reinovi,ng it before the world had tlrowiii round it its attr.l;tetiois, whlichl would have en grossed its soul, an,d broutght its ruin." It is urilier tis view tllhat the Bible presents the dealings of God. (} nd under no other creed than Chlris- T tiaut'ty is theie to bie gathered any-tling of comnfort or h0sOila3tion. It is only the thought that God's pur poses are al; ays for the best, licl-li can cheer under suffering, cotiitort under trouble, and deprive death of its stiig. Sortow is deprived of iuuch of its bitter ness by iegardig thile affliction as sent by a Being whose vttribites ate those of benevolence and love. The doctrine of a particular Providence is a doc trine fi.iuaLht with the greatest consolation to mankind, who ire born to sorrow. Not only is it that nothing can lihl)l)en but uhiat God permits-nothing can hap pen bit wh-it he enjoins. The notion of God should not be, that hlie hlas lit up thle sun, and given the wvinds powei to roan through the world; but rather that his glanice is in every becam, and his breath in every breeze. The idea should not be entertained, that after hlaving given life to mnen, God concerns himself no more with his creatures; but rather that through his special interference is it that breathl follows breath, and pulse succeeds poulse; so that in every trouble and in every joy-in every hope which rises to chleer, and in every doubt w vhicl darkens, the hand of God dmay be disc erned, produ c o ing out of a thousand seewi ng ills, and a thousand apparent discrepancies, not only a general, but an individual good. And how mnuchl of consolation is there to a heart when deeply sitrickenl with sorrow, to be able to feel that all afflictions are set for a wise purpose, and that there is a brio~ht kingdom hereafter, where pain shall have no entrance! It would go far to dry a mother's tears, which the death of her chilly has caused to flows, if she could be thus p~ersualded to regard the dealings of God. It would be to take half the bitterness fromn sorrow, if she could be made to feel that in allowing death to lake her child, God has been dealing both kindly and gently, in that he has removed it fromn the world when thle heart was innocent, and pain and sorrow scarcely knlown. \Vhen thle mind is impressed with religion, there is always a calmness and serenity, prosperity does not elate, nor adv-ersityt depress; and the reason of this is, that both arte considered as comning fr-om Godsthle one as wsell as the other counted as ministering to good. No doubt afcflictionsl presented in the taking: away by death of those helh tile dearest, and those ihle iiiost loved, though not tihe only ones 1.ethin i }l~ilianitvy are the hardest to be borne. rTIe tearis wliic)) fat' from mourners' eyes, whether it be a lreiit over a child, a wife over a husband, a child ovter a lclaent, or a sister over a brother or a sister —these speak of afflic tions the bitterest and nost trying; for other losses may again be made up, but when (teath bereaves us of those we love, who shall bring back thle depsarted? tears can not do it-grief has no poller-players avail not. i We sh'll goo to them, but they will pc)t return to us," is the conviction folrc ed u)on every mind which has thougrhit upon G(od. And liow sweet isf the thought that the dead will aogain be seenr- tlit ihose long Imourned for on earth will be Inet again in a bright er land! Thi s fee ling is of itself stsffi iient to dry th e e ye and cheer the heart. B rief may i)e the separationsa journey would almost have p,,,I-ed them for as long a lapse o f tinme, and then th ose e -dearing ties of friendship and love, which bound but for a moment a nd then were severed, shall be reunited in that land where nothin g dies. That such will be the case, Religion assures us; while Ituope raises her ra dian t finger and poin ts upw a rd to the ski es. But nt onl y i n thes e cases is the p owe r of re ligio n felt-in others less severe its influence is apparent. Is it th e l o s s of p rop erty which is grieving t he heart? has worldly substance c rumble d atvay, leaving but scanty means of subsiste n ce, in place of the hitherto co mparatively lar ge resou rces and ample revenue? The voice of religion is heard-s If e a rt hly r iche s make to themselves wing s and fly away, are there not yet riches more enduring stored in heaven? Earth ly riches are fleeting and transient; heavenly, firm, and abiding. Earthly poss ession s can but e)e enjoyed for a fem years; heavenly are eternal." sAnid does it not, t hen, tak e mu ch from t he ha rdness of pove rty to think that abundance may soon again be the portionsand abundance which never grows less, and knows no change? In whatever form trouble mna,iy come-in whatever shape or under whatever aspect religion still brings a comfort and a support; there is not a sorrow which it can not cheer, nor a doubt which it can not remove, nor a difficulty which it can not prepare for; it bids us,cast all our care upon God, for lie careth for us." And not only is religion a guide through life-it is also that which teaches us how death may be best prepared for. The calmest and happiest death-beds are those which have religion to cheer.'Ve do not ,Ilwaiys expect that nothing of weakness wvill be dis played even by those whose liv..s have been most ex emplary, and whose hearts have been firmly fixed upon God. The breaking up of this earthly house the tearing down the curious fastenings, that the soul may quit its tenement-.this of itself is almost suffi cienit to bring dismay and fear. And the liberated spirit, where shall it find a home? It must travel, ai lonely and a wvidowed thing, through the vastness of immrensity; the place of its future abode'eye hath not seen," and of all the souls which have quitted hu man bodies, not one has returned to tell of tihe lafnd in which it dwvells. And that body, too, which is so "sfearfully and wonderfully made," and which has5 been guarded with so much care, is to be taken down, joint kiom joint vend limb from limb, to become a play thingr for thle winds and a sport for the elements, and to mingle with its kindred dust and ashes. No marvel is it, with such thoughts as these, tha. the mind should display something of weakness. I. m ight even be considered marvellouls if no weaklnes, were exhibited, considering how te~arful a thing death is, and wvhat a valst change it will effct. But to those who have made relig~ion] the guide of life, death is not fearful. Trie spirit, it is true, must quit its habitat':on; but the knowledl:e jolt it re~turr I I I 9i TRIAI,S AND TFrMPTATION. COF WO(MiAN. to the God who g;lve it, destroys the pain which the this testimony left, as if to mark him oiff friom a. thought of its sepacratilon would otherwise give. And others: "And ill the tinle of his distress did he tres tile body, this liust return to the grave; but the pass against the Lord: this is that kind Ahlaz." Ma. thought of the great glories wlilchl await it hereafter, ny were the evil actions of this king, but through none hile than compensate for the dishonor attending dis- is he marled out for obloquy and shanme; the ban is solution. And so it comes to pass, that vlwhile weep- fixed upon him for having in distrecss trespassed against inLc friends stand around, vainly striving to iide their his God. So generally true is it, than wlhen suffering griet; the dying person contemp)lates the death which and trouble conic the heart turns to God, that it ceris so fast approaching, with calmness and conimplacen- tainly seems to show a degree of desperation and cy, and after having bid all those who are gathered hardihood to sint) in the time of (.istress. round the bedside an affectionate farewell, and en- Those who are imnl)ressed with a fira sense of retreated them to mitigate their sorrow, yields the last ligion are seldom ruffled by the events of time. Such breathl with the bright hope of a glorious immortality. are mostly contented; for whatever their stations, If thus religion were made the guide of life, weve they look round the globe and see yet many vworse off should not be so cast down when sorrow came. Hay- than themselves-nmany who wander lhrough Ahe ing our thoughts fixed on a higher and better land, world desrtted and forlorn, witlh i,oone to sooth or outr words wonld be those of that honest Hibernian, cheer them under the severest affliction-.without a who, on I)eitlg told that the house in which he dwelt home, without a friend. They then look upl) to tie was on fire, replied, "WVhat care I for the house. I bright heavens above, and reflect tlat blt a few bri f am but a lodg,er W!" e should feel that we were but years and their habitation w%ill be in that glorious land. 'odgers on earthi thait our home was heaven; and WVhen friends forsake, they Iaive still the Iriglt flowlittle, therefore, should we be moved by those calam- ers and the green trees, upon whic(h they caln plalce ities vwhichl befall us, except so far as to make our af- their affections; and more than all, they still have fections become more firmly centred on our happy their God; so that in no case can they bIe downcast tiome. If we were fairly to regard earth and all be- or disheartened-that they have always sometlting to longing to it, we should not suffer all our affections cheer and something to enjoy. to be enigrossed by it; for an individual is but as a It was religion which supported the prol. agators ol speck or an atomi-a I)tobble in the ocean. And little Christianity in its earliest days, urging th(.m to brave as a single individnual is counted, less is the concern I danger, persecution, and death; it was religion which manifested when death shall have ended his worldly supported martyrs at the stake and the scaffold, when career. The morrowv after he shall have quitted this doomed to seal the charter of their faith with their lower world, the suIn Sill rise as brightly, the birds blood; it has been religion which has supported so will sine as swleetlv, and the flowers bloom as beauti- many under trials the most severe, and afflictions tile fully as ever.,Nature never puts on the garb of most bitter- it has been religion which hers cheered mournin,, nor ever drops a tear. \Why, then, should the poor in their destitution, the orplhan in his loneliwe maintitain such a vast attachment to this world, ness, the widow in her sorrow, the suffering in their which cares not for our presence while living, nor pain; and, more than all, it has been religion which mourns our loss when dead? a world, moreover, has taken the bitterness from death, mnaking it almost which cheats us at every turn, giving shadows for a blessing more than a curse, compelling tile tyrant to sut')stances, and phantomis for realities, and ivwhich perform the part of a friend rather than that of a degives so lon. a train- of troubles and pains. And yet, stroyer; so that not only with conI)placency but even kinowing all this, still the world has a vast influence with gladness, have many sunk to that sleepl) which over -us and though in every other instance we put shall last till the judgment-day, when they wvill arise off a present small good for a future great one, in this in glory, and ais they enter heaven declare with joy particular we I)reler the present and insignificant to that religion was happiness. the future and lorious, so that if it were not for the God has given religion to be our guide, and promafflicti e (dispensations of Providence, we should never ised his grace to be our support; and so enwoven is carry our thougllts beyond the present narrow limnits, religion with the best feelingrs of thle hun)an heart, and the future would be kept entirely from our view. that vice instinctively pays iespect to virtue, and conThese keep the mind from entirely resting on earth, fesses a superiority and excellence in real religion; so by the conitinual display of the tranisitoriness and un- much so, that the vicious man wotul(l become lthe virs:ttisfactoriness of its possession. WXere it not for tuous, if it were not thit hlabits of dissipation had so the hope of a glorious hereafter, we should be crea- bound him —habits which, like thle poisoited( ve(st of taires who were alwsIt grasping at the unsubstantial, Hercules, can only be pulled off by tearing the skin and pursuinig the visionary-mariners without a com- from the bone. pass-travellers without a guide-catching at shad- It is only by religion-for religion is virtue-that we ows, and attemptin, to track the course of meteors; can be happy either here or hereafter; for God has sc and as all our endeavors to procure the fancied good linked happiness with holiness, that, like twin sisters, would be utterly unavailing, we should meet with where the one is, the other strays not lar distant. By nothing but continual disappointment. The afflictive the power of religion we are enabled to overcome the dispensations of Providence. at the same time, lead evils of our nature, and to live in obedience to the the mind to see how hollow, at best, are the pleasures law of God; evil habits may be overcome, evil dispoearth has to bestow, and to draw the mind thence sitions cured, and a fitness for heaven be obtained, to heaven. But if affliction be not borne with a right even on this side of the grave. spirit, it works harm in place of good; if the heart The first, the brightest, and the best of all acquirebe not softened, it is sure to become hardened. Af- ments, is real religion; for by this is effected love to flictions never leave us entirely as they find us; and God, and peace and good-will to mankind Nothing when they do not reform, they make us callous. of malice or envy will be displayed or encoutaged-no The mind will never retain exactly the same position!outbreaks of temper tolelrated, loo filseness or dissineafter as before the discipline of Providence; and if ulation allowedl; but that charity which thinketh no we do not go forward we are certain to retrograde. ~ evil, and attempteth all good, will be enthroned in the But it seems to be counted of all things the most heart and exhibited iii the conduct of all who are ondesperate of wickedness to continue in a state of irre- deavoriog to become fllowers of" those who through ligion after afflictions have been sent; for of Ahlaz is!l faith and patielnce nrow inherit the proutises." ;)o LALLA ROO KfX. At the time of this agreement, but little of the work, as it stands at present, had yet been written. But the ready confidence in my success shown by others, made up for the deficiency of that re quisite feeling.within myself; while a strong desire not wholly to di sappoint this " auguring hope," became almos t a s ubstitute for inspiration. In the year 1815, therefore, having made some progress in my task, I wrote to re por t the state of the work to the Messrs. Longman, adding, th a t Il was now mos t willing and ready, shoul d the y desire it, to submit the mannuscr ipt f or their consideration. Their answer to this offer was as follows:-" We are cer tainly impatient fo r t he perusal of the Poem; but solely for our aratification. Your sentiments are alway s honourable r."* I continued to pursue my task for ano ther year, be - inav likewise occasionally occupied with the Irish Melodies, two or three numbers of which made their ap pearance during the period employed in writinase Lalla Rookh. At length, in the year 1816, I found my work sufficiently advanced to be placed in the hands of th e publishers. But the state of distress to which England was reduced in that dismal year, by the exhausting effects of the series of wars she had just then concluded, and the general embar rassme n t of all class - es, both agricultural a nd commercial, rendered it a juncture th e leas t favourable that could well be conceived for the first launch into print of so light and c ostly a venture a s Lalla Rookh. Feelinth conscious, therefore, that, under such circumstances, I s ho uld act but honestly in putting it in the power of the Messrs. Longman to reconsider the terms of their engagement with mne,-leaving them free to postpone, modify, or even, should such be their wish, relinquish it altogether, I wrote them a letter to that effect, and received the followi ng answer:-" We shall be most happy in the pleasure of seeing you in February. We agree with you, indeed, that the times are most inauspicious for'poetry and thousands;' but we believe that your poetry would do more than that of any other living poet at the present moment."t The length of time I employed in writing the few stories strung together. in Lalla Rookh will appear, to some persons, much more than was necessary for the production of such easy and " light o' love" fictions But, besides that I have been, at all times, a far more slow and pains-taking workman than would ever be guessed, I fear, from the result, I felt that, in this instance, I had taken upon myself a more than ordinary responsibility, from the immense stake risked by oth ers on my chance of success. For a long time, therefore, after the agreement had been concluded, though generally at work with a view to this task, I made but THzE Poem, or Romance, of LALLA ROOKH having now reached its twentieth edition, a short account of the origin and progress of a work which has been hitherto, at least, so very fortunate in its course. may not be deemned, perhaps, superfluous or misplaced. It was about the year 1812 that, impelled far more by the encouraging suggestions of friends than by any confident promnptings of my own ambition, I was induced to attempt a Poem upon some Oriental subject, and of those quarto dimensions which Scott's iate triumphs in that form had then rendered the regular poetical standard. A negotiation on the subject was opened with the Messrs. Longman in the same year, but, from some causes vwhich have now escaped ,ny recollection, led to no decisive result; nor was it till a year or two after, that any further steps were taken in the matter,-their house being the only one, it is right to add, with which, from first to last, I held any communication upon the subject. On this last occasion, an old friend of mine, Mr. Perry, kindly offered to lend me the aid of his advice and prese nTc e i n the int erview which I was about to hold with the Messrs. Lonnmote an, for the arran,te ment of our mutual terms; and what with the friendly zeal of ma negotiator on the one side, and the prompt and libteral spirit ith which h e w as met on the other, there has seldom occurred any transaction in which Trade and Poesy have shone out so advantageously in each other's eyes. The short discussion that then took place between the two parties, may be comprised in a very few sentences. " I am of opinion," said Mr. Peiry,-enforcing his view of the case by arguments which it is not for me to cite,-" that Mr. Moore ought to receive for his Poem the largest price that has been given, in our day, for such a work." "That was," answ,,ered the M\Iessrs. Longman, " three thousand guiineas." " Exactly so," replied Mir. Perry, " and no less a sum ought he to receive." It was then objected, and very reasonably, on the [)a,at of the firm, that they had never yet seen a single line of the Poem; and that a perusal of the work ought to) be allowed to them, before they embarked so large it slim in the purchase. But no;-the romantic view whlic h my friend Perry took of the matter was, that this price should be given as a tribute to reputation already acquired, without any condition for a previous perusal of the new work. This high tone, I must confess, not a little startled and alarmed me; but, to the honoar and glory of Romance,-as well on the publishers' side as the poet's,-this very generous view of the transaction'was, without any difficulty, acceded to, and the firm agreed, before we separated, that I was to receive three thousand guineas for mv Poerm. PREFACE. , November 9, 1816 * ApriJ 10, 1815 98 TH MIRRLBAY very little real progress in it; and I have still by me the beginnings of several stories, continued, some of them, to the length of three or four hundred lines, which, after in vain endeavourintig to mould them into shape, I thirw aside, like the tale of Carnbuscan, "left half-told." One of these stories, entitled The Peri's Daughter, was meant to relate the loves of a nymph of this aerial extraction with a youth of mortal race, the rightfuil prince of Ormuz, who had been, from his infancy, brought up in seclusion, on the banks of the river Amou, by an aged guardian named Mohassan. The story opens with the first meeting of these destined lovers, then in their childhood; the Peri having wafted her daughter to this holy retreat, in a bright I enchanted boat, whose first appearance is thus desc ribed: - Green, white,, al cri mson bow'd around, And gay tiars,, touch'd the gritd,As tulip-bells, wheln o'er their b)(is The nmusk-wind p)asses, benlhciir heads. Nay, sonme tihere were among the crowd Of Moslem heads that rotint her bow'd, So fill't witgh zeal. bv natry a draught Of Shiraz wine,,, l),-ot.nnlV qu.aff'd, 'I'hat, siikin.g low in re verec e then, They never rose till miiorni again. There are yet t wo more of these unfinished sketches on e of which extends to a much greater length than 1 was aware of; and, as far as I can judge from a hasty renewal of my acqutLio i t:nce with it, is not incapable o f beinan yet t urned to acc ount. In only one of these unfinis hed sketches, t he tale of .he Peri's Daughter, had I yet ventured to invoke that most home-felt of all my inspirations, which has lent to the story of The Fire-worshippers its main attraction and interest. That it was my intention, in the concealed Prince of Ormuz, to shadow out some impersonation-of this feeling, I take for granted from the prophetic words supposed to be addressed to him by his aged guardian: — Bright child of destiny! even now [ read the promise on that brow, That tyrants shall no more defile The glories of the Green-Sea Isle, But OftuItz. shall again be free, And hail her native Lord in thee! "It comes, it comes," young Orian cries, And panting to Moliohassan flies. Then down upon the flowery grass Reclines to see the vision pass; With partly joy and partly fear, To find its wondrous light so near, And hiding oft his dazzied eyes Among the flowers on which he lies. Within the boat a baby slept, Like a young pearl within its shell; While one, who seem',l of riper years, But not of earth, or earth-like spheres, Rer watch beside the slunmberer kept; Gracefully waving, in her hand, The feathers of some holy bird, With which, from timie to time, she stirr'd The fragrant air, and coolly fann'd The baby's brow, or brtush'd away The butterflies that, bright and blue As on the miountains of Malay, Around the sleeping infant flew. And now the fairy boat hath stopp'd Beside the bank-the *ymph has dropp'd Her golden anchor in the stream: In none of the other fragments do I frnd any trace of this sort of feeling, either in the subject or the personages of the intended story; and this was the reason, doubtless, though hardly known, at the time, to myself, that, finding my subjects so slow in kindling my own sympathies, 1 began to despair of their ever touching the hearts of others; and felt often inclined to say, Had this series of disheartening experiments been carried on much further, I must have thrown aside the work in despair. But at last, fortunately, as it proved, the thought occurred to me of founding a story on the fierce struggle so long maintained between the Ghebers,* or ancient Fire-worshippers of Persia, and their haughty Moslem masters. From that moment, a new and deep interest in my whole task took possession of mre. Trhe cause of tolerance was again my inspiring theme and the spirit that had spoken in the melodies of Ireland soon found itself at home in the East. Having thus laid open the secrets of the workshop to account for the time expended in wiriting this work, I must also, in justice to my own industry, notice the pains I took in long and laboriously reading for it. To form a store-house, as it were, of illutistration purely Oriental, and so familiarize myself with its various treasures, that, as quick as Fancy in her airy spiritings required the assistance of fact, the memory was ready, like another Ariel, at her "strong bidding," to furnish materials for the spell-work,-such was, for a long w hile, the sole object of my studies; and whatever time and trouble this preparatory process may have cost me, the effects resulting from it, as far as the humble merit of truthfulness is concerned, have been such as to repay me more than sufficiently for my paits. I have not forgotten how great was my pleasure, when told by the late Sir James Mackintosh that he was once asked by Colonel Wilks, the historian of British India, " whether it was true that Moore had never been in the East." " Never," answered Mackintosh. "Well, that shows me," reprlied Colonel Wilks, And~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ scrapsre of talisni tragedy of5 e tbe rte ihas A song is sung by the Peri in approaching, ol which the following forms a part: My child she is but half divine, Her father sleeps in the Caspian water; Sea-weeds t'vinne His funeral shrine, But he lives agaiui ill the Peri's daughter. Fain wouild I fly from niortal sight To my own sweet bowers ot' Peristan; But there the flowers are all too bright For the eyes of a baby born of man. On flowers of earth her feet must tread; So hither my light-wing'd bark hath brought her; Stranger, spread Thy leafiest bed, To rest the wandering Peri's daughter. In another of these inchoate fragments, a proud female saint, named Banou, plays a principal part; and her progress through the streets of Cufa, on the night of a great illuminated festival, I find thus described: It was a scene of mirth that drew A smile from ev'ii the Saint Baniou, As, through the hush'd, admiring throng, She went with stately steps along, And counted o'er, that all might see, The rubies of her rosary. But none might see the v-wrrldly smile That lurk'd beneath her veil, the while.Alla forbid! for who would wait Her blessing at the temple's gate,What holy man would ever run To k'.s the ground she knelt upon, Ifonce, by luckless chance, he knew She look'd and smiled as others do? Her hands were jo.i'd, and from each wrist, By threads of pearl and golden twist, Hung relics of the saints of yore, And scraps of talismanic lore,Charms for the old, the sick, the fi'ail, Some made for use, and all for sale. On either side the crowd withdrew, To let the Saint pass proudly through; While turban'd heads of every hue, * Voltaire, lii his tragedy of,, Les Gitebres," written with a simi atr under-ctirretit of inea,nitig, was accused of having trattsfrrtrie(i his Fire-worsthippers intio.(lnsenists: —, QiO el'tues figtiristes," ne sawv "pritendent qite es Gu bres solt ICes Jat.sienistes" I I THE MIRROR LTBRARY. 98 For, down the silvery tide afar, There came a boat, as swift and bright As shines in heav'n some pilgri[n-.tar, That leaves it. own high home, at night, To shoot to distant shrines of light. 11 Oh no, I have no voice or hand For stich a s,)ng iii such a land.'' LALf,.k ROOKIT. I that reading over D'Herbelot is as good as riding on the back of a camel." I need hardly subjoin to this lively speech, that although D'Herbelot's valuable work was, of course, one of my manuals, I took the whole range of all such Oriental reading as was accessible to me; and be came, for the time, indeed, far more conversant with all relating to that distant region, than I have ever been with the scenery, productions, or modes of life of any of those countries lying most within my re-ach. a WVe know that D'Anville, though never in'i lif( out of Paris, was able to correct a number of e. ors in a plan of the Troad taken by De Choiseul, on the spot and, for my own very different, as well as far inferior, purposes, the knowledge I had thus acquired of distant localities, seen only by me in daLy-dreams, was no less ready and useful. An ample reward for- all this painstaking has been found in such welcome tributes as I have just cited nor can I deny myself the gratification of citing a few more of the same description. From another distin guishlied authority on Eastern subjects, the late Sir John Malcolm, I had myself the pleasure of hearing a similar opinion publicly expressed;-that eminent person having remarked, in a speech spoken by him at a Literary Fund Dinner, that together with those qualities of the poet which he much too partially as signed to me, wvas combined also " the truth of the historian." Sir William Ouseley, another high authority, in giving his testimony to the same effect, thus notices an exception to the general accuracy for which he gives me credit:-" Dazzled by the beauties of this composition,* few readers can perceive, and none surely can regret, that the poet, in his magnificent catastrophe, has forgotten, or boldly and most happily violated, the precept of Zoroaster, above noticed, which held i..,ipious to consume any portion of a hu man body by fire, especially by that which glowed upon heir altars." Having long lost, I fear, most of my Eastern learning, I can only cite, in defence of my catastrophe, an old Oriental tradition, which relates that Nimrod, when Abraham refused, at his command, to worship the fire, ordered him to be thrown into the midst of the flanies.- A precedent so ancient for this sort of use of the worshipped element, appears, for all pfturposes at least of poetry, to be fully sufficient. In addition to these agreeable testimonies, I have also heard, and need hardly add, with some pride and pleasure, that parts of this wo rk have been rendered into Persian, and have found their way to Ispahan. To this fact, as I am ws-illing to think it, allusion is made in some lively verses, written many years since, by my friend Mr. Luttrell: I slhall now tax my readers' patience wit h b ut one more of these generous vouchers. Whatever of vanity there may be in citing such tributes, they show, at least, of what great value, even in poetry, is that pros|lei quality, industry; since, as the reader of the fore!g,oing p,ages is now fully apprized, it was in a slowv and laborious collection of small facts, that the first fouindations of this fanciful Romance were laid, I lhe friendly testimony I have just referred to, ap | pear(ed some years since in the form in which I now giive it, and, if I recollect right, in the Athenaeum: AI embrace this opportunity of bearing my indi viilutd testimony (if it be of any value) to the extraor(dinary accu racy of Mr. M oore, in his topographical, antiquarian, and characteristic details, whether of costulmie, manners, or less-changing monuments, both in his Lalla Rookh and in the Epicurean. It has been myv fortune to read his Lalla Rookh in Persia itself; anid I have perused the Epicurean, awhile all my recolIcoti,ns of Egypt and its still existing wonders are as Miecsh as when I quitted the banks of the Nile for Arahi't: I owe it, therefore, as a debt of gratitude (though ,tle payment is inost inadequate) fbr the great pleasure I haLve derived from his productions, to bear my humble testimony to their local fidelity. "J. S. B." Amoimg the incidents connected with this work, 1 must not oi-tiit to notice the splendid Divertissement, founded upon it, which was acted at the Chateau Royal of Berlin, (luring the visit of the Grand Duke Nicholas to that capital in the year 1822. wThe different stori es composing the work were represented in Tableaux Vivans and songs; and among the crowd of royal and noble personages engaged in the performances, I shall mention those only who represented the principal characters, and whom I find thus enumerated in the -aublished account of the Divertissement.* Conte Haack, (JMLar,cLaG d. 1 Cour.) S... 1L Le Grasnd Duc. S. H. L Ln Grand Deh.esse. S.. I. Le Prince CGwilla.umc, f frere du Roi. S..d. R. Le Duc de Cu,te,br lard. S. A1. R. La Plricesse L,o,ui Radzivill."' Besides these and other leading personages, there w,ere also brought into action, under the various de nominations of Seigneurs et Dames de Buctarie, Dames de Cachemire, Seigneurs et Dames dansans h la Fete des Roses, &c., nearly 150 persons. Of the manner and style in which the Tableaux of the different stories are described in the work from which I cite, the following account of the perform ance of Paradise and the Peri will afford some spe cimen: "La decoration representoit les portes brillantes du Paradis, entourees de nuages. Dans le premier ta bleau on voyoit la Peri, triste et desolde, coucliee stir le seuil des portes fermees, et l'Ange de lumiere qui lui addresse des consolations et des conseils. Le se cond represente le moment, ouf la Peri, dans l'espoir que ce don lui ouvrira l'entr6e du Paradis, recueille la derniere goutte de sang que vient de verser le jeune guerrier Indien...... "La Peri et l'Ange de lumi~re repondoient pleine ment a l'image et i l'ide6e qu'on est tente de se faire de ces deux individus, et l'impression qu'a faite gen6ralement la suite des tableaux de cet episode delicat et int6ressant est loin de s'effacer de notre souvenir." In this grand Fe6te, it appears, originated the trans * Laila Roif'kh, D;vt,rtissement m(lo de Chajits et de t)aises. ler tsin, 18. TI he work cg.,t'lits a series oif o. lhred ( n e,.' i','l, relt,e "'sen ting groupis, prcces.-'ions, &c., in dlifikr~elt-( Or enttrl;::*;stm'~;~ "1I'mi toldl, dlev r,,Moore, your lays are sung, (Con it be true, you lucky man?) By iunoo liht, in the Persian tongue, Along the streets of Ispahan." That some knowledge of the work may have really reached that region, appears not improbable from a passage in the Travels of Mr. Frazer, who says, that "beinz delayed for some time at a town on tile shores of the Caspian, he was lucky enough to be able to muse himself with a copy of Lalla Rookh, which a ?ersian had lent himt.." Of the description of Balbec, in "Paradise and the Perui" M r. C arn e, in his Letter s from the East, thus speaks:-" The description in Lalla Rookh of the plain an.[,l its ruins, is exquisitely faithful. The minaret is oil the declivity near at hand, and there wanted only tile muezzin's cry to break the silence." * The Fire- worshippers. t Traduint aittem HebrTi hanie fabulam quod Abraham in ignem mnissus sit quia ignem adorare IIoluit.-ST. HIERO.-. in Que,st. in, (,enesim. 99 " Fa(Iladin, Grand-Nasir, Aliri,,, Roi de Buchrie,. Roiikh,. - - Aurungzeb, le Gr-.ind Mogol. Abd.litih, Pre d'Aliris, La Reine, son e-pouse, THE MIRROR LIBRARY. lation of Lalla Rookh into German verse, by the Baron de la otte Fouque; and the circumstances which led him to undertake the task are described by himself, in a Dedicatory Poem to the Empress of Russia, which he has prefixed to his translation. As soon as the performance, he tells us, had ended, Lalla Rookh (the Empress herself) exclaimed with a sigh, " Is it, then, all over. are we now at the close of all that has given us so much delight! and lives there no poet whc will impart to others, and to future times, some notion of the happiness we have enjoyed this evening?" On lhearing this appeal, a Knight of Cachimere (who is no other than the poetical Baron himself) comes forward and promises to attempt to present to the world "the Poem itself in the measure of the original:"-whert:upon Lalla Rookh, it is added, approvingly smiled. LALLA ROOKH. TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. THIS EASTERN ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED, BY HIS VERY GRATEFUL AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, THOMAS MOORE. May 19, 1817. Seldom had the Eastern world seen a cavalcade so superb. From the gardens in the suburbs to the imperial palace, it was one unbroken line of splendour. The ga.lant appearance of the Rajahs and Mogul lords, distinguished by those insignia of the Emperor's favor,* the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in their turbans, and the small silver-rirpmed kettle drums at the bows of their saddles;-the costly armour of their cavaliers, who vied, on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder Khan,t in the brightness of their silver battle-axes, and the massiness of their maces of gold;-the glittering eof the gilt pine-applest on the tops of the palankeens;-the embroidered trappings of the elephants, bearing on their backs smnall turrets in the shape of little antique temples, within which the ladies of LALLA ROOKII lay as it were enshrined;-the rose-coloured veils of the Princess's own sumptuous litter,~ at the front of which a fair young female slave sat fanning her through the curtains, with feathers of the Argus pheasant's wing;l-aniid the lovely troop of Tartarian and Cashlneri an maids of honour, whom the young king had sent to accompany his bride, and who rode on each side of the litter, upon small Arabian horses; -all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, and pleased even the critical and fastidious FADLAI)F.EN, Great Nazir or Chamberlain of the Hlaram, who was borne in his palankeen immediately after the Princess, and considered himself not the least important personage of the pageant. Ix the eleventh year of the reig,n of Aurungzebe, Ab dalla, King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant fromn the Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favour of his soln, set out on a pilgrimage to the shrine of te rohe P rop het; and, passing into India througsh the del ight ful valley of Cashmere, rested for a s hort tirime at Delh i on his way. He was en tertained by Aurungzebe in a s tyl e of magn ific ent h ospital ity, worthy alike of the visiter and the ihost, and was afterwards esc orted w ith the same rplendoir to Surat, where he embarked fo r Arabia.* Du r ing the stay of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a marriage was a gr eed upon between the Prince, his son, and the you nges t daught er of the Emperor, LALLa ROOKII;f-a Princdes described by the poets of her time as more beau tiful than Leila,l Shirine,~ Dewildl,11 or any of those hero ines whose names and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Itindostan. It was intended that the nuptials should be celebrated at Cashmere; where the young King, as soon as the care s of empire would permit, was to meet, for the fir st t ime, hi s lov ely bride, and after a few months' repose in'that enchant ing valley, conduct her over the snowy hills into Bucharia. The day of LALLA ROOKII's departure from Delhi was as splendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The bazars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry; hun dreds of gilde d ba rges up on t he J umna float ed with thei r banners shi n ing in the wa ter; while through the streets groups of beautiful children went strewing the mo s t delicious flowers around, as in that P ersian festival called the Scattering of the Rose s;a till every part of t he city was as fragrant as if a caravan of mus k from K hoten had pa ss ed thr ough it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind father, who at parting hu ng a cornelian of Yemen ro und he r neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koraan, and having sent a considerable present to the Fakirs, who kept up the Per petual Lamp in her sister's tomb, meekly ascended the palankeen prep ared for her; and, while Aurungzebe st ood to take a las t look from his balcony, the procession moved sowly on the road to Lahore. These particulars of the visit of the King of Bucharia to Aurung gebe are found in Do,w's Ifiatory of Hindostan, vol. iii. p. 392. Tiliphek. X The mistress of Nefjnoun, upon whIlose story so many Romances in all the languages of the East are founded. ,For the oves of this celebrated beau,ty with Khosrou and with Fer h.d see D',Herbelot., Gibbon, Oriental Collections, &c. 1I'-The history of the loves of Dewild6 and Clizer, thle son of:he Em pe Alla, is written il an elegant poem, by tile noble Chuse.."-Fe | ^. *. ~l Reazee. *'i.'.: Q O,n e m ar k of honour or kc ig ltwhood bestowed by the Emperor isthe permissio to wear a small kettle drum at tie bo ws of their saddles walich at first "as iivented for tshe training of hawks, and to call them to the lIre, and is worn in the iel by all sports meni to tioht end."/'er's Travels, 'lThose on wh om the King ]as conferred the privilege must wear a n ornament of jewelas on the right side of the turban, surmoofucted by na ligh plume of the feathers of a kind of egret. This birdo is und only in Cashoere, a nd th e Feather s are carefiilly collected ff)r tie King, who best ows them o n his nobles." -E lph instone's Accolliut of oaitiul. t "Ki,dar Khan, the Kha-kan, or Ki,,g of Tureetan, beyond the Gfiin, (at the erndl of the eleventh efnhury,)whenever he appeared abroad was preceded by seven hundred Iorsemen with silver battle-axes, and was followed by an equa,l number bearing. acesof gold. He was a great patron of poetry, and it was he who used to preside at public,xereises of genius, with four basins of gohl aid silver by him,. to distribute among the poets who excelled."-Rzchards,on's Dissertation prefixed to his Dictionary t "The kubdeh, a large golden knob, gene!,il;y in the shape of a pill apple, on the top of the canopy over the litter or palanquin."-Scott' Notes on the Bahardlanush. ~ In the Poem of Zohair, in the Moallalat, there is tie followin, lively, description of "a comnpany o~f maidens seated tan camels. they are mounted in carriages core red with costly awnings ant with rose-coloured veils, the linings of which have the hue ef crimson Andem-wood. "When they ascend fromn tile bosom of the vale, th ey sit fi,r,ward on the saddle-cloth with, every mark of a wOutuous g,,yey. "Now, when they have reaed tile )ri, k of yow (l!m, fls, aing rivu let, they fix the poleI of their tents like the Arab with a se ttled mnasion." U See Bernl2et's description of the attenda~' on Rauchanara Begum in her progress to Ca.,Imere. I i I 100 LALLA'ROOKH. LALLA ROOKH. But these and many other diversions were repeated till they lost all their charm, and the nights and noon-days were beginning to move heavily, when, at length, it was recollected that, among the attendants sent by the bridegroom, was a young poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout the Valley for his manner of reciting the Stories of the East, on whom his Royal Master had conferred the privilege of being admitted to the pavilion of the Princess, that he might help to beguile the tediousiresg of the journey by some of his most agreeable reci.als. At the mention of a poet, FAILADEEN elevated his critical eyebrows, and, having refreshed his faculties with a dose of that delicious opium* which is distilled from the black poppy of the Thiebsis, gave orders for the minstrel to be forthwith introduced into the presence. The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from hIehind the screens of gauze in her Father's hall, and had conceived from that specimen no very favourable ideas of the Caste, expected but little in this new exhibition to interest her;-she felt inclined, however, to alter her opinion on the very first appearance of FERAIIORZ. HIe was a youth about LALLA ROOKJI'S own age, and graceful as that idol of women, Crishna,t-such as he appears to their young imaginations, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from his very eyes, and exalting the religion of his worshippers into love. His dress was simple, yet not without some marks of costliness; and the Ladies of the Princess were not long in discovering that the cloth. which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was of the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply.t Here and there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a flowered girdle of Kashiun, hung strings of fine pearl1, dis posed with an air of studied negligence: nor did tile exquisite embroidery of his sandals escape the observation of these fair critics; who, however they might give wa} to FADLADEEN upon the unimportant topics of religion ann d government, had the spirit of martyrs in every thing relating to such momentous m-atters as jewels and em broidery. For the purpose of' relieving the pauses of recitation by music, the young Cashmerian held in hIis hand a kitar,-such as, in old times, the Arab maids of the West used to listein to by moonlight in the gardens of the Alhambra,-and having premised, with much humility, that the story lie was about to relitte was founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet of Khiorassani,~ who, in the year of the Hegira 163, created such alarm through. out the Eastern Empire, made an' obeisance to the Princess, and thus began: — FaDLADEEN was a judge of eve ry thing,t-rom the pencouling of a Circassianos eyelids, to the d eepest uestrions of science and literature; from the mixture of a c onserve of rose-leaves, to the c ompos iti on of an epic poem: and such influence had his opinion upon the various tastes of arid tza athe day, hat all the cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. His political conduct and opinions were founded upon that line of Sadie" Should the Prince at noon-day say, It is night, declare that you behold the moon and stars;" and his zea l for religr idon, of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector,* was about as disinterested as that of the goldsmith who fell in love with the diamond eyes of the i dol of Jatherinaut-t During the first days of their journey, LALLA ROOKIT, whio had passed all her life within the shadow of the Royal Gardens of Dclhi,t found enough in the beauty of tile scenery through which they passed to interest her mind, and delight her imagination; and when at evening, o-r in the heat of the day, they turned off from the high road to those retired and romantic places which had been selected for her enicampiietits, —soiietlines on the banks of a small rivulet, as clear as the waters of the Lake of Pearl;~ sometimes under the sacred shiade of a Banyan tree, fr-om whic,h the viewv opened upon a glade covered with antelopes; and often in those hidden, embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the, West,l] as ,'places of melancholy, delight, and safety, where all the ecompaniy around was wild peacocks and turtle-doves;".,he felt a charmn in these scenes, so lovely and so new to her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every other amusemient. But LALLA RooKH was young, and thc young love variety; nor could the conversation of her L-1dics an.d tile Great Chamberlain, FADLADrE.N, (the onl y pesm,of course, admitted to her pavilion,) sufficiently c,,Iiveii those many vacant hours, which were devoted n, ither to the pill~ow nor the palaiukeen. Tilere was a ttll'sinslave who sun, sweetly to the Vina, and wvire, now and then, lulled the Princess to sleep with the anicie.nt ditties of her country, about tile loves of Wamak aitd Ezra,~: the fair-haired Zal and his mistress Rodahver;** not itorgetti.,g the combat of Rustami with the terrible Whlite Demon.It At other times she was amused by those rtculdancinig-girls of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Braininis of the Great Pagoda to attend her, much to tile horror of tile good Mussuhnian FADtL'ADEF.N, who cotrld see nothing graceful or agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the very tinkling of their golden ankletsItl was ,in abomination. _____ _______ cess, and thus began Tis hIiypocritica! Emperor would hive made a worthy associate of Icri o:y Leagues. "tie held th e loak of religion (says Dow) bewe is actions and the vulgar; and impiously thanked the Divinity sceswichewedto hi,'.k. When he was ra eig arid perse cuting his brothlirs an. he was build ma agficet Gue t elh. aar od fbr hi. assist aot iars;. Ic acted,,s l.high priest at thie consecration of tis t emple: made a practice oltaiteinding diine srvice tiere in the humble dress; o' a Fakeer. But when he li/~ed ona. lehd to t Ie Diviiity, he, itht!, othr, ignd wrrans tr te asassnaton f hs relations." -istr fHiii id p. 335. See alo h rios letter of A u run g ie ii ti e Oi ions, vol. i, p. 3-20. t "Tire inol at Jag,,ernathas t wo f ine diaruonds or eyes. No goldith-.rg Iso~ki'i supr tl eni ter the Pigoda, oie having tole one ofthrese eyes, b~n okd upat i.,igit w'ith the!o.", a vrner Ci 1eea dvescrptiun of these Rioyail Gardetf F w s iu Afi Aucoust of the pesta t by Liet. iv Franklin..sint Reat. vol. iv. Aft p. 4 17~. ~ "I th,, ne~ighhourbood is Notte Gill, or the Lake of Pear, which tiae plci it.ir i d tan Nasir Juing enpid i,u the vicinity oftim Lake fTo neor, amused himsel with alhng n;batclear and beau.tiful water, and gave it the Ttlah,'ctit' L ake of Pearls,'"which it still re rns"- Wilks,'s South~ ot In.dr. Sir Thomas R.,, Am~bassador from James I. to Jehanguire. "Tim romance X~~~~e,nawar, wtten n Pesa verse, which cotisthe l ovesWo.~ramk an,l za, two celebrated, lovers who lived tb eforco e th ie Ori eat a l d TDirs. '~u Throwin the Nof ird th~ere, isuc be;,uly iu h asg hihtecie the sla ves. o Rotiher sptting on ta b anath of the hi ari nd throwig into the S ll, erin orPer reamr p the aione o f the mof (wic yousr Hero who is eifnca mped on tlIe voice.- of sir n.,, C hisses. lR'ct. Rus i e the fruits of the ner. tha For ofe particular. f hi. victory over tl-.e Sepe~,1Dee or W',ite De-non, s,;e Orie-.tal C0 dectiets vol. "iip. 4-,. N ert!,e ciy otfSibirauz is an immens.e quadrangulaI.nuln, icoeortooftis combat, called the Kelaat-iDe - c er Slped, reck rft r v t o. the toie Giant, which Father Angelo, in tlrrhyids're Guphira e rsicm, p.ar to have been the most memorale moumentof an,tiqui,ty which I,. had seen in Persia..See -."T,e oeno the do, or dancing girls of the Pagoda, have ]it tle,.ohle~~~~l bell..!, f-eedto~, tPerfe,.tes ft hamnustrakhu,g of ci~ virte Li,,~i~) ih h,.ust elodIy of their vie. "'l'~' A~i~.ai c~rl~stn~,like t.,, Inda oe,thve little gohlen olslteeidoud t!',eir legs, nec-k, ad ebw,to the son,f which Li.,y d lei,fr,~ Khe Kig. T'im, Ara,bian Drincesss wear golIden rings IN that delightful Province of the Sun, The first of Persian lands he shines upon, Where all the loveliest children of his beam, Flow'rcts and fi'uits, blush over ev'ry stream,%' And, fairest of all streamis, the MURGA roves Among MEROu's-*' bright palaces and groves;Ther e on that trirone, to which the blind belief Of millions raised him, sat the Pro,phet-Chief, on their fingers, to wich little bells are suspended, as well as in the flowing t i, that their superior rank may be known, and they tlhemselves receive i passing the lioniage due to ti-em." —See Calmet's Dictionary,'trt. BeIls., * rAboui-Tigc, vte d e,la hl i rot bieaucoup de pavot ot Tihe Itdirai Apollo. "fe and thi three Rbas are described as youths of per,fect be,auty; and the p icseof Hin,dus,t/m were all, passionately in love with C hris, who n to this hour the d i vold ofi4 e Inditn women." -Si, W. Joes, on the a Goreece, taly, and India. sE i t: ee Tarner E bhasny fiur a description f this animal, "the most beautiful among the whole tribe of goats.'hI material for the shawls (wh~ich is carried to Csmr)is foundi next the skin., ~ F.r thle ea]lia Seto y ot this hIupriotor whose original name was Hake,r n be,, Haschcm, andc veil of stlver gauze (or, as others say gohlen) which hi aliays wore, see D'Her,blot. I sorasan signi ib tire es.' 1 t me ty of teirtianlnguProvince or Region of r- r W.ot le o e i S ir prIn es w IT "Trhe fruits of Mveru are fine,r than those, of any other place; and one can.m(t see. in:ny other city such pa~laces with gro,e-s. amd ttreanul andgarens" —bn t, ~ka'sGeogra.phy. **One of the volta si: s of Khor-assan. 101 TIIE VEILED PROPHET OF KHORASSAN.11 102 TLIE MIRROR LIBRARY. The Great MIOKANN.A. O'er his features hung The Veil, the Silver Veil, which he had flung In mercy there, to hide from mortal sig,ht His dazzling brow, till man could bear its ligist. For, far less luminous, his votaries said, Were ev'n the gleams, miraculously shed O'er MIOUSSA'S* cheek,t when down the Mouitit he trod, All glowing from the prese,ce of his God! Not s uch the pageant now, th ough not less proud, Yon warrior youth, advancingr fromn the crowd, With silver bow, with belt of broider'd crape, Arid fur-bounid bonniet of Bucharian shape,* So fiercely beautiful in forn and eye, Like war's wild planiet in a summinier sky; That youth to-day,-a proselyte, worth hordes Of cooler spirits and less practised swords, Is come to join, all bravery and belief, TI'le creed and standard of the heav'n-sent Chief. On either side, witllh ready hearts and ha.ids, His chosen guard of bold Believcrs stands; Young fire-eyed disputants, who deemi tlheir swords, On poiliits of faithl, ni)rc c!oquetit tihai words; And sutch their zeal, there's not a youth with bradnd Upliftcd there, but, at the Chiief's comisiand, Would make his own devoted heart its sheath, And bless the lips that doom'd so dfar a deathi! In hatred to the Caliph's huic of uight,t Their vesture, helihis and all, is snow)y white; Thieir weapons various-somnie equipp'd, for speed, With javelins of the light Kathaian reed;~ Or bows of buffalo horn anid sliining quivers Fill'd with the stemsll that bloom on IttAN'S rivers; O While some, for war's more terrible attacks, Wield the huge mniace aid pond'rous battle-axc; And as they wave aloft in morning's beam The milk-white plumage of their helms, they seem Like a chenar-tree grove** when winter throws O'er all its tufted lcads his feath'riilg snows. Though few his years,, the W est alreadv kllows Young Aziai's fan)e;-beyonid the Olympiaii snows, Ere manhood darkeni'd o'er his down.,lly cheek, O'erwhelm'd in fight, and captivc to the (G'reek,t He liniger'd there, till peace dissolved his chains. Oh, who could, ev'n in bondage, tre(ad the plains Of glorious Ga,EzcE, nor feel his spirit rise Kindling within him? who, with heart and eyes, Could walk where liberty had been, nor see The shininig footprints of her Deity, Nor feel those godlike breathi ngs in) the air, Which mutely told her spirit had been there? Not he, that youthful waririor,-no, too well For his soul's quiet work'd tlh' awrtk'niing spell; And no,', returning to his own dear land, Full of those dreams of good that, vainly grand, Hlaunt the voung heart,-proud views of human kind, Of men to Gods exalted and refined,False views, like that horizon's fair deceit, Where earth and heav'n but seemn, alas, to meet Soon as he heard an Arm Divine was raised To right the nations, and beheld, emblazed On the white flag, MOKANNA'S 110St unifurl'd, Those words of sunshine, " Freedom to the World," At once his faith, his sword, his soul obey'd Th' inspiring summons; every chosen blade That fought bencath that bantier's sacred text Seem'd doubly edged, for this world and the next; And ne'er did Faith with lher smiootlih banidage binid Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind In virtue's cause;-never was soul inspired With livelier trust iI what it most de:;ired, Than his, th' entlhusiast tlhere, whlo kneeling, pale With pious awe, befure that Silver Veil, Believes the forin, to which he bends his knee, Some pure, redeeming anigel, sent to free This fetter'd world from every bond and stain, And bring its primal glories back again! Between the tporl)hyry pillars, that uphlold The rich more-que-work of the roof of gold, Aloft the Iharemn's curtaisi'd galleries rise, Where through the silken netswork, glancing eyes From time to time, like sudden gleams that glow Through aututiln clouds, sii-le o' er the pomlp below.What impious ton,gue, y( blushlin l saints, would dare To li!ut that aught but Ileav'n i hath placed you there? Or that the loves of this lighlt world could bind, In their gross chaii, your Prophet's soalring mind? NTowrongfl thought!-cost.mission'd from above To people Eden's bowers witllh shapes of love, (Creatures so bright, that the same lips and eyes They wear on earth will serve iii Paradise,) There to reclirne arnong Heav'n's native maids, And crown t' Elect'ithl bliss that never fadesA Well liath the Prophlet-Chief his bidding done; And ev'ry beauteous race beneath the sun, From tihose who kneel at BRAH.MA's burning founts,tt To the fiesh inymphsI bounding o'er YEMEN's mounts; Fromi PERsIAx's e) es of full and fawn-like ray, To the siiiall, hlalf-thut gl-,ices of KATITAY;ti And GzFO.G,A'S bloom, and AzAis's darlker smiles, And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles; All, all are there;-each Land its flower hath given, T'o forms that fair young Nursery for Heav'i! Low as young AzIM knelt, that motley crowd Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and bow'd, With shouits of " ALLA!" echoinig long and loud; While higrh in air, above the Prophet's head, Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam spread, Waved like the winigs of the white birds that faii The flying throne of star-taught SOLIMAN.t Then thus he spoke: —" Stranger. though new the frane "Thy soul inhabits now, I've track'd its flame "For many an age,~ in ev'ry chance and change But why this pageant now? this arm'd array? What triumph crow ds the rich Divan to-dtay W/ith turban'd heads, of ev'ry hue and race, Bowing before that veil'd and awful face, Like tuslip beds,~~ of difPrent shape and dyes, *MoI~ses t Ses disciples assuroient qu'il se couvroit le visage pour ne pas loir cex qui l'approchoi"sit par l'eclat de on visage conme Mo'se. " D' Hrbc,o t. + Blak a the colour adopted by the Caliphs of tile House of Ablias in thieir art, a turba n nd standards.-" I1 faut remarquier ici touc,ant.les Iabits blancs des disciples de Hakem, que la couleur des habits des coifures et es etendarts des Khalifes Abassides tTtant la noire. ce clhef *le Rebelles ne pouvoit pas choisir une que lui f-.t plus opposee."-D'Herbelot. "Our dark jav,elins. exquisitely wrought of Khiathaian reeds, slen,der and slelicate."-Poem of lmru II Pichula, used an,ciently f'r arrows by the Persians. 1 The Persians call this plant Gaz. The celebrated shaft of lsfendiar, one of their ancient heroes ws ade of it. "Notting can be more beautiful than the appe:rance of this plant in floner duriy n the rains on thei banks of river. here it is usually interwoven with a lovely twini,,g asclepias."-Sir t. Jsnes, Botanical Observati ons o Sel ect Ivndian Plants. **The oriental plane. "The clhenar is a delightful tree * its bole is of a fine white n sooh bark; anl its foliage which grows in a tulft at the summit, is of n bright green."Jfor /er's Travels. ,tiThe burnling fountains of Brahma near Cldittogong eosteemed as !,~!r. —Turner. C. China. ~ The name of ttlip is said to be ofTurkish extraction, and given to t! Hflower on account of its resembling a turban. "-Beckmann' History of Inventions., * "The iniabitants of Bucharia w ear a round cloth bonnet, slhaped much after the Polish fashioi. having a large fur border. Tiey tie theit kaftaOds about tle middle with a girIle of a kind of silk crape several tim es r nd the body." —ccusnt of Ildlepende,t 7artary, in Pinkt'ttt~w's Collection. + n the war of t he Cal p M alhali against the Empress Irene, fo an account of which vide Gibbo,n, v,)l. x. T Tis wondertnul prone wTs caliled Tthe Star of the Genii. For a fill description or io o ee the Fragp ent. tran ald bIy Captain Frankln. from., a Persian M, NS. entitled "T he I.itory of Jerusalen~." t)rientaJ Collections, vol. i. p, ~35. —W'ben So,liman travelled, tile eaytern writers say, ine Ieh d a carpet of gre y silk on w h sich fi thr oe wa s p ilaed. b,ein,g of a prodigious length an,d brea,dthl an,1,atticlent ft r all his forces to stand, u pon t he mel pl;acig tthes e lvis righIt:.nl, and tl,,e spirits onl his left.; and thatit wthen all w er e in ordtr ~ he wind, at t,ii comumand, too~k lip the carpet. n~n tran.~p r t itit ~! the t ere up)on it, w here ver he pleased: tie a,rmry of lIirdrs ntths time,, flyi..-" ov.r tleir heads. nd firming a kinl ofcanol)~ to shn ade th e from thens ul. " $ale's Kora;n, vol. ii. p. 214. nolo. ~ The transmigration ofsouf a w-as one of is do( triines. —Vide D'][,/r bekt. I i 'I TUIE MIRROR LIBRARY. 102 Bending beneath thl invisible West-wiiid's si,,,,ha! What new-made mystery now, for Faith to sign, And blood to seal, as genuine and divine, What dazzling mimicry of God's own I)ower Hatli the bold'Prophet plann'd to grace this hour LALLA ROOKS. 103 " Of that existence, through whose varied range," As through a torch-race, where, from hand to hand "Trhe flying youths transmit their shining brand, "Fronm frame to frame the unextinguislih'd soul "Rapidly passes, till it reach the goal! But there was one, among the chosen maids, Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken shades, One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day Has been like death:-you saw her pale dismay, Ye wond'ring sisterhood, and heard the burst Of exclamation from her lips, when first She saw that youth, too well, too dearly known, Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne. " Nor think'tis only thile gross Spirits, %varm'd ' With duskier fire and for earth's medium iorm'd, "I'lTat runi his course:-Beings, the most divine, 'hus de g'n through dark mortality to sline. "c v as tile Essence that in ADAMNI dwelt, To which iall Heav'ni, except the Proud One, knelt:* Such the refiled Intelligence that glow'd In ilIouss,A'st rame,-and, thence descending, flow'd I'ihrougll inany a Prophet's breast;t it) ISSA~ shone, "And ill AIOIIAI.IEi) buirn'd; till, hast'iiing oil, "(As a bright river that, from fall to fall In many a maze descending, bright through all, Finds soime lair region where, each labyrinth past, "Ili one full lake of light it rests at last,) That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free "From lapse or shadow, cenitres all in me!" Alh ZELICA! there wa s a time, when bliss Shorne o'er thy heart from ev'ry look of his; Ofhen but to see hime, hear him, breathe the air In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest prayer When round him hung such a perpetual spell, Whate'er he did, none ever did so well. Too happy days! when, if he touch'd a flow'r Or genm of thine,'twas sacred from that hour; When thou didst study him till every tone And gesture and dear look became thy own,Thy voice like his, the changes of his faco In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, Like echo, sending back sweet music, fraught With twice the ae6rial sweetness it had brought! Yet now he comes,-brighter than even:Le E'er beam'd before,-but, ah! not bright for thee No-dread, unlook'd for, like a visitant From th' other world, he comes as if to haunt Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight, Long lost to all but mem'ry's aching sight:Sad dreams! as when the Spirit of our Youth Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth And innocence once ours, and leads us back, In mournful mockery, o'er the shining track Of our young life, and points out every ray Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way! Once happy pair!-Ii proud BOKHARA'S groves, Who had not heard of their first youthful loves? Born by that ancient flood,* which from its spraig In the dark Mountains swiftly wandering, Enrich'd by ev'ry pilgrim brook that shines With relics from BUCHARIA's ruby mines, And, lending to the CASPIAN half its strength, In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length;There, on the banks of that bright river born, The flow'rs, that hung above its wave at morn, Bless'd not the waters, as they murmur'd by, With holier scent and lustre, than the sigh And virgin-glance of first affection cast Upon their youth's smooth current, as it pass'd. But war disturb'd this vision,-far away From her fond eyes summon'd to join th' array Of PERSIA'S warriors on the hills of ThRACE, The youth exchanged his sylvan dwelling-place For the rude tent and war-field's deathful clash; His ZELICA'S sweet glances for the flash Of Grecian wild-fire, and Love's gentle chains For bleeding bondage on BYZANTIUM'S plains. Again, throughout th' assembly, at these words, Th-ousands of voices rung: the warriors' swords WVere pointed up to heaven; a sudden wind In tih' open banners play'd, and from behind 'rhlose Persian hangings, that but ill could screen T''he Haremn's loveliness, white hands were seen Waviing embroider'd scarfs, whose motion gave A perfume forth-like those the Houris wave WChen lcck'siing to their bow'rs th' immortal Brave. "But these," pursued the Chief, "are truths sublime, That el:ini a holier mood and calmer time "'Vian earth allows us now;-this sword must first ' The darkling prison-house of Mankind burst, "Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in "Iler wakening daylight on a world of sin. But then,-celestial warriors, then, when all "Earthl's sririles and thrones before our banner fall; When the glad Slave shall at these feet lay down His broken chain, tihe tyrant Lord his crown, 'I hlie Priest his book, the Conqueror his wreath, And from tie lips of Truth one mighty breath "Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze ' That vwhole dark pile of human mockeries;' I'hen shaIll the reign of mind commence on earth, 'iid starting fresh as from a second birth, ;Iann, i; the sunshine of the world's new spring, ".aliall walk transparent, like some holy thing! ''lihen, too, your Prophet from his angel brow i liail cist the Veil that hides its splendours now, And gladden'd Earth shall, through her wide expanse, Bask in the glories of this countenance! "For thee, young warrior, welcome!-thou hast yet S omie tasks to learn, some frailties to forget, Ere the white war-plumne over thy brow can wave;- M " But, once my own, minie all, till in the grave!" Month after month, in widowhood of soul Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll Their suns away-but, ah, how cold and dim Ev'n summer suns, when no t beheld with him! From time to time ill-omen'd rumours came, Like spirit-tongues, mutt'ring the sick man's name, Just ere he dies:-at length those sounds of dread Fell withering on her soul, i'Azlm is dead!" Ohi Grief, beyond all other griefs, when fate First leaves the young heart lone and desolate In the wide world, without that only tie For which it loved to live or fear'd to dieLorn as the hung-up lute, that ne'er hath spoken Since the sad day its m-aster-chord was boi. en! The pomp is at an end-the crowds are goneEach ear and heart still hauniited by the tone Of that deep voice, which thrill'd like ALLA's own Frlie Young all dazzled by the plumes and lances, 'T'he glitt'ring throne, and Harem's half-caught glances; The Old deep pond'ring on the promised reign )f peace and truth: and all the female train Ready to risk their eyes, could they but gaze . moment on that brow's miraculous blaze! *' And when we said unto the angels Worship Adam. they all Yhiped him exceptEblis. (Lucifer,) who refused."-The Koran, cha t,oses. + This is according to D'Herbelot's account of the doctrines of ~a(51:-" Sa doctrine e6toit, que Dieu avoit pris une forme et i ,umaine, depuis qu'il eut co)mmand aux Anges d'adorer Adam, le a.ier des honies. Qu'apr6s la Mort d'Adam, Dieu etoit apparu a figure ie plusieurs Prophetes. et autres grands hommesqu'il lioilis, jusqu'X ce qu'il plit celle dl'Abu Moslem, Prince de Khora cqnel profess it'errer d la g'enassukhiah s. MWt empsychos rapres la mort de ce Prilce, la Divinite e&toit passoe, et descendu gd ~,,? skllll(3.' Jesns. avolt _... Lssan e; et * The An:)o. which rises in the Be'l Tag, or Dark Mountains, and rue en unning nea. A ftrom east to wvest, splits ii 0 two branches; one of whi.i I b. falls into the Caspian Sea, and the other it to Aral Nabr, or the Lake ot Eagles. I I LALLA ROOKTT. 103 Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was such, Evln reason sunk,-blighted beneath its touch; And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit rose 104 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Above the:rst dead pressure of its woes, Though he.lth and bloom return'd, the delicate chain Of thought, once tangled, -ever clear'd again. Warm; lively, soft as in youth's happiest day, The mind was still all there, but turn'd astray;N wand'ring bark, upon whose pathway shone &11 stars of heaven, except the guiding one! Again she smiled, nay, much and brightly smiled, Bitt twas a lustre, striange, unreal, wild; And when she sung to her lute's touching strain, 'Twas like the notes, half-ecstasy, half pain, 'I'he bulbul* utters, ere her soul depart, WVhen, vanqu;sb'd by some minstrel's pow'rful art, She dies upon the lute whose sweetness broke htier heart To the dim charnel-house;-through all its steams Of damp and death, led nly by those gleams Which foul Corruption lights, as with design To show the gay and proud she too can shineAnn, passing oil through upright ranks of Dead, Which to the imiaiden, doubly crazed by dread, Seem'd, through the bluish death-light round theirm cast To move their lips in mutt'rings as she pass' d — There, in that awful place, when each had quaffed And pledged in silence such a fearful draught, Such-oh! the look and taste of that dread bowl Will haunt her till she dies-he bound her soul By a dark oath, in hell's own language framed, Never, while earth his mystic presence claim'd, While the blue arch of day hung o'er them both, Never, by that all-imprecating oath, In joy or sorrow from his side to sever.She swore, and the wide charnel echoed, " Never, never' Such was the mood in which that mission f)uild YouIIng ZELICA,-that mission, which around Th'lie Eastern world, in every re —ion blest With woman's smile, sought out its loveliest, TI'o grace that galaxy of lips and eyes Which the Veil'd Prophet destined for the skies:And such quick welcome as a spark receives D)ropp'd on a bed of Autumn's wither'd leaves, Did every tale of these enthusiasts find In the wild maiden's sorrow-blighted mind. All fire at once the madd'ning zeal she caught;Elect of Paradise! blest, rapturous thought! Predestined bride, in heaven's eternal dome, Of some brave youth-ha! durst they say "of some No-of the one, one only object traced In her heart's core too deep to be effaced; The one whose mem'ry, fresh as life, is twined N'With every broken link of her lost mind; Whose image lives, though Reason's self be wreck'd, Safe'mid the ruins of her intellect! From that dread hour, entirely, wildly giv'n To him and-she believed, lost maid!-to heav'n; Her brain, her heart, her passions all inflamed, How proud she stood, when in full Harem named The Priestess of the Faith!-how flash'd her eyes With light, alas, that was not of the skies, When round, in tranices, only less than hers, She saw the Harem kneel, her prostrate worshippers. Well might AMoKANNA think that form alone Had spells enough to make the world his own:Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit's play Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray, When fromn its stem the small bird wings away: Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smiled, The soul was lost; and blushes, swift and wild As are the momentary meteors sent Across th' uncalm, but beauteous firmnament. And then her look-oh! where's the heart so wise Could unbewilder'd meet those matchless eyes? Quick, restless, strang,e, but exquisite withal, Like those of angels, Just before their fall; Now shadow'd with the shames of earth-now oross'l By glimpses of the Heav'n her heart had lost; In ev'ry glance there broke, without control, The flashes of a bright, but troubled soul, Where sensibility still wildly play'd, Like lightning, round the ruins it had made. Alas, poor ZELICA! it needed all The fantasy, which held thy mind in thrall, To see in that gay Harem's glowing maids A sainted colony for Eden's shades; Or dream that he,-of whose unholy flame Thou wert too soon the victim,-shining came From Paradise, to people its purc sphere With souls like thine, which he hath ruin'd here! No-lhad not reason's light totally set, And left thee dark, thou hadst an amulet In the loved image, graven on thy heart, Whlich would have saved thee from the tempter's art, And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath, 'Thilat purity, whose fading is love's death!But lost, inflamed,-a restless zeal took place Of the mild virgin's still and feminine grace; First of the Prophet's favourites, proudly first Ili zeal and charms,-too well th' Impostor nursed Her soul's delirium, in whose active flame, Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame, Ile saw more potent sorceries to bind 'To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind, MAlore subtle chains than hell itself e'er twined. .No art was spared, no witch'ry;-all the skill His demons taught him was emnploy'd to fill Hier mind with gloom and ecstasy by turnsThat gloom, through which Phrensy but fiercer burns; That ecstasy, which from the depth of sadness ('lares like the maniac's moon, whose light is madness! O Reason! who shall say what spells renew, When least we look for it, thy broken clew! Through what small vistas o'er the darken'd brain Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again; And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win Unhoped-for entrance through some friend within, One clear idea, waken'd in the breas t By mem'ry's magic, lets in all the rest. Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with thee! But though light came, it came but partially Enough to show the maze, in which thy sense Wander'd about-but not to guide it thence; Enough to glimmer o'er th e yawnin g wave, But not to point th e harbour which nk ight save. Hours of delight and peace, long left behind, With that dear form came rushing o'er h,'- find; But oh! to think how deep her soul had gone In shame and falsehood since those moments shone; And, then, her oath-there madness lay again, And, shudd'ring, back she sunk into her chaip 'Twas from a brilliant banquet, where the sound Of poesy and music breathed around, Together picturing to her mind and ear The glories of that heav'n, her destined sphere, Where all was pure, where every stain that lay Upon the spirit's light should pass away, And, realizing more than youthful love E'er wish'd or dream'd, she should for ever rove Through fields of fragrance by her AziM's side, His own bless'd, purified, eternal bride!'Twas from a scene, a witching trance like this, lie hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, I ; I i I I i I I I I' I! I i 104 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. And such was now young ZFLTCA-O changed From her who, some years since, delighted ranged The almond groves that shade BOKIFARA'S tide,, All life and bliss, with Azi.,Ni by tier side So alterld was she now, this festal day, When,'mid the proud Divan's dazzling array, The vision of that Youth whom she had loved, Had wept as dead, before her breathed and iiiovc(i When —-bright, she thought, as if froi-n Edeii's tracli But halfway trodden, he had wander'd I)aclc Again to earth, glistening with Eden's li,,,fitHer beauteous Azi.m stione before her sight. t Ti,e ghtingale. LALLA ROOKfl. l(\5 Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee From light, whose every glimpse was agony! Yet, one relief this glance of former years Brought, mingled with its pain,-tears, floods of tears, Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills Let loose in spring-time from the snowy hills, Arid gushing warm, after a sleep of frost, Through valleys where their flow had long been lost. Upon his mystic s'oil's white glittering flow. Beside him,'st ea d of bead s a nd bo oks of pray r, Which the world fondly thought he mused on there, Stood Vases, fill'd with KilsiMEE'S* golden wine, And the red weepings of the SIIIRAZ vine; Of which his curtain'd lips full many a draugliht Took zealously, as if each drop they quaff'd, Like ZE.IZEM'S Spring of Holiness,t had pow'r To freshen the soul's virtues into flow'r! And still he drank and ponder'd-nor could see tih' approaching maid, so deep his revery; At length, with fiendish laugh, like that which broke From EBLIS at the Fall of Man, he spoke:" Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusemcnt given, " Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with heav'n; " God's images, forsooth! such gods as he " Whom INDIA serves, the monkey deity;t"Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay, "To whom if LuCiFE., as grandams say, "Refused, though at the forfeit of heaven's light. "To bend in worship, I,uci'Ert was right!~ "Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck " Of your foul race, and witlhouLt fear or check, "Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, "My deep-felt, long-nursed loathing of mal, i. area' "Soon at the head of myriads, blind and fierce "As hooded falcons, through the universe "I'll sweep) imy dark'ning, desolating way, "Weak man my instrument, curst mnan my prey! Sad and subdued, for the first time her frame Treinbled with horror, when the summons came (A summons proud and rare, which all but she, And she, till now, had heard with ecstasy) To meet MIOKANNA at his place of prayer, A garden oratory, cool and fair, By the stream's side, where still at close of day The Prophet of the Veil retired to pray; Sometimes alone -but, oft'nher far, with one, One chosen nymph to share his orison. Of late none found such favour in his sight As the young Priestess; and though, since that night When the death-caverns echoed every tone Of the dire oath that made her all his own, Th' Impostor, sture of his infatuate prize, Had, more than once, thrown off his soul's disguise, And utter'd such unheav'nly, monstrous things, As ev'n across the desp'rate wanderings Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, Threw startling shadows of dismay and doubt;Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, The thought, still haunting her, of that bright brow, WVlhose blaze, as yet froln mortal eye conceal'd, ,Vou(l soon, proud triumph! be to her reveal'd, Fo her alone;-and then the hope, most dear, .NMost wild of all, that her transgression here Was but a passage through earth's grosser fire, From which the spirit would at last aspire, Ev'n purer than before,-as perfumes rise Through fliame and smoke, most welcome to the skiesAnd that when AzIm's fond, divine embrace Should circle her in heav'n, no dark'ning trace Wctld on that bosom he once loved remain, But all be bright, be pure, be his again These were the wild'ring dreams, whose curst deceit Had chaiii'd her soul beneath the tempter's feet, Arnd made her think ev'n damning falsehood sweet. But now that Shape, which had appall'd her view, That Semblance-oh how terrible, if true! Which came across her phrensy's full career With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, severe, As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark, An isle of ice encounters some swift bark, And, startling all its wretches from their sleep, By one cold impulse hurls them to the deep;So came that shock not phrensy's self could bear, And waking up each long-lull'd image there, But check'd her headlong soul, to sink it in despair! " Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, "Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it breeds; " Who, bolder ev'll than NEMROD, thinlk to rise, "By nonsense heap'd on nonsense, to the skies; "Ye shall have miracl es, ay, sound ones too, "Seen, heard, attested, ev'ry thin g-but tr ue. "Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek "On e g rac e of meaning for the tiings they sp eak; Your mar ty rs, rea dy to shed out their blood, "For truths too heav'nly to be understood; "And yo ur St ate P riests, sol e v enders of the lore, "That works salvation; as, on ANA'S shore, "Where none but priests ar e privilege d to trad e "In that bes t mar ble of whi ch Gods a re mad e; I' "'I'hey shall have mysteries -ay, previous stuff; "For knaves to thrive by —nysteries enough; *An island in the Persian, Gulf, celebrated itr its white wine. t The miraculous well at Mecca; so called, says Sale,!ro, the m-, m uri ng ofit,is waters. : The god Hann,iaman.-" Apes are in m,any parts of Inlia highly v,,n erated, out of respect to the god Hannaman, a deity partaking ol'the form o~that race."'-Pennant's Ilindo3ostan. See a curious account. in Stephe.'s Persia, of a s olemn embassy from some part of the Indies to Goa, wvie: tile Portuguese were there, offerinlg vast treasures for the recovery it' a mon"k e ty's mot}~, *hih ihey le,] in great veneration, and wlfch lad been taken away u ponl the ct,quest of tile kingdoml o'' Jafanapt a n)li. ~ This resolution of Eihlis not to acknsowvledge tilt new creature, mmek was, according to MahIom.eta,n tradition, thuis adopted:."Te earth (which God had selected f,,r tote m tterils of his work) w,!s carried into Ara,bia to a place betw,teen Mecca an,d Tayef, where,.eing first kneaded by tie angels, it was afterwards thshio led hy God h imsel f into a human torm, and left to dry {or tile space of forty (da,ys, or, as others shy as many yers the angls-, in tile m ean tie, often vis.7ilig it, and rbis 0then on; of the anxgels,leares' to Go4's presence. afcrw ams the devil) among the rest.: but le, not eonten'd i l ooki n g at it, kicked it with his tfot till it riung, anrd know,,,in,g God designed that cre,ture to be his superior, took a secret resolution never to acknowl.edge hi as such."Sale. on tihe K,orant. 11 Akind of lantern formerly used by rolbers, called the Hanl of Glo ry, the tandie ter whic h was made of the fitt Ef a dea d naletactoc. '_his, bowever, wans rathler a western] tl.~an all eastern superstition. ~1 The material of whih inages of Gaudma (tle Bitn Deity) are .,de, is held sacred. " Bi troans may not purchase the marble in mas, but are s..f(ered and indee d encouraged], to buy figures of the Deity redy made."-Si$y e's Ava, vol. ii. p. 376 Wan and dejected, through the ev'ning dusk, She now went slowly to that small kiosk, Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, MIOKA.NNA waited her-too wrapp'd in dreams Of the fair-rip'ning future's rich success, To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, That sat upon his victim's downcast brow, Oi mark how slow her step, how alter'd now From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose light bound Caine like a spirit's o'er th' unechoing ground,Fromn that wild ZELICA, whose every glance Was thrilling fire, whose ev'ry thought a trance! Upon his couch the Veil'd MOKANNA lay, While lamps;.round-not such as lend the;r ray, Glimm'ring and cold, to those who nightly pray In holy Koo.,* or MEccA's dim arcades,But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely maids Look loveliest in, shed their luxurious glow * The cities of Com (or Koom) and Cashan are full of mosques_ nauoleuims, and seplicres ot'f the descenidants of All, the Saints ot'f ersia. Chard, u. LALLA ROOKU. 1 C-5 11 Ye wise, ye Icarn'd, wl-io grope your dull way on By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, Like superstitious thieves, who tliii-ik the light From dead men's marrow guides theii-i best at iiigh Ye shall have honours-wealth-yes, Sages, ye I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothingness Uiidazzled it can track yon starry spliere, But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here. How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along, In lying speech, and still more lying -otig, By these learii'd slaves, the meanest of the throng; Their wits bou-,ht up, their wisdom sl-irunk so small A sceptre's puny point can wield it all! a v106 THE~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ - MIR. "Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can weave, "Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, "While craftier feign belief, till they believe. "A Heav'n too ye must have, ye lords of dust, A splendid Paradise, pure souls, ye must: "That Prophet ill sustains his holy call, "Who finds not heav'ns to suiit the tastes of all; "Houris for loy-s, omniscience for sages, "And M ings aiid glories for all ranks and ages. "Vain tli:-gs!-as Ist or vanity inspires, 'Tie lieav n of ea( i is but what each desires, "And, souil or sense, whate'er the object be, ' Man would be iman to all eternity! So let hiim-EBLIS!-grant this crowning curse, But keep him whlat he is, no Hell were worse." "Hath some peculiar, practised power to please, "Some glance or step which, at the mirror tried, "First charms herself, then all the world beside; " There still wants one, to make the vict'ry sure, " One who in every look joins everv lure: " Through whom all beauty's beams concentred pass, " Dazzling and warm, as through love's burning glass; " Whose gentle lips persuade wi thout a w lgrd, " Whose words, ev'ii when unmeaning, are adored. " Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine, " Which our faith takes for granted are divine. " Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and light, " To crown the rich temptations of to-night; " Such the refined enchantress that must be "This hero's vanquisher,-and thou art she t" "Oh nmy lost soul!" exclaim'd the slihudd'ring maid, Whose ears had drunk like poison all hlie said:MOKA.NNA started-not abash'd, afraid,He knew no more of fear than one who dwells Beneath the tropics knows of icicles! But, in those distial words that reach'd his ear, Oh imiy lost soul!" there was a sound so drear, So like that voice, amonig the sinful dead, In whichi the legend o'er Hell's Gate is read, That, new as'twas fromn her, whom naught could dim Or sink till now, it startled even him. With he r hands clasp'd, her lips apart and pale, The maid had stood, gazing upon the Veil From which these words, like south winds through ni fence Of Kerzrah flow'rs, came fill'd with pestilence;* So boldly utter'd, too! as if all dread Of frowns from her, of virtuous fiowns, wvere fled, And the wretch felt assured that, once plunged in, Her womani's soul would know no pause ill si! At first, though mute she listen'dl, like a dream Seem'd all he said: nor could her mind, whose beam As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme. But when, at length, he utter'd, " Tlhou art she!" All flash'd at once, and shrieklig piteously, " Oh not for worlds!" she cried-" Great God! to whon " I once kn elt innocent, is thi s my doom? "Are all my dreams, my hopes of heav'nly bliss, "My purity, my pride, then come to this,"To live, the wanton of a fiend! to be "The pander of his guilt-oh infamy! "And sunk, myself, as low as hell can steep " In its hot flood, drag others down as deep! " Others —ha! yes —that youth who came to-day" Not him I loved-not hlim-oh! do but say, " But swear to me this moment'tis not he, " And I will serve, dark fiend, will worship even thee!" "Ha, my fair Priestess!"-thus, with ready wile, Th' Impostor tlurn'd to greet her-" thou, whose smile "'lath inspiration in its rosy beam iBeyond th' Enthusiast's hope or Proplhet's dream Light of the Faith! who twiu'st religioi's zeal "So close with love's, mene know not which they feel, Nor which to sigh for, in their trance of heart, "The heav'n thou preachest or the hleav'n thou art! What should I be without thee? without thee Howv dull were power, how joyless victory! Though borne by angels, if that smile of thine Bless'd not my banner,'twere but half divine. "But-why so mournful, child? those eyes that shone All life last night-what!-is their glory gone? "Cowe, comie —this morn's fatigue hath made them pale, "They want rekindling-suns themselves would fail Did not their comets bring, as I to thee, "From light's own fount supplies of brilliancy. Thou seest this cup-no juice of earth is here, But the pure w aters of that upper sphere, Whose rills o'er riuby beds and topaz flow, '"Catching the gem's bright colour as they go. Niightly my Genii come and fill these urns" Nay), dirik-iii ev'ry drop life's essence burns; 'Tw ill make that soul all fire, those eyes all light Come, colie, I want lthy loveliest smiiles to-night: 'Ii'ere is a youth-wwhy -tart?-thou saw'st him then; "Lo,Jk'd he liot i,o)ly? suich the godlike men "Thou'lt have to woo thee hi thle bow'rs abover; " Thlough hle, I fear, liath tlioughts too stern for love, Too ruiled ly thliat'cold teiiy of bliss The world c~!lIs virtute-we must conquer this; Nay, shriink not, prettv sage!'tis not for thee To scan tlie iiitazes of Hleav'n's mystery: The steel insist pass through fire, ere it can yia M Fit iiistrullerlts for mighlty hands to wield. "This very niglst I mean to try the art Of powverftl b(I;hy v(n, thlat -warrior's heart. "All that my Hai-iie boasts of bloom and wit, Of skill aid chiarils, niosst rare anid exquisite, Shall temipt the ioY,;-young MlIRZALA's blue eyes, "Whose sleepy lid like sniow on violets lies; "AROUYA'S checks, wari.n as a spring-day sun, And lips that, like the seal of SOLOMON, "Have magic in their pressure; ZEBA's lute, , And LiLI.4a'S dancing feet, that gleam and shoot Rapid and -white as sea-birds o'er the deep All shall combine their witching powers to steep ' My convert's spirit in that soft'ning trance, From which to hlieav'n is but the next advance;"That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast, aOn which Religion stanps her image best. ' But hear me, Priestess!- thioughi each nymph eLf these " Beware, young raving thing;-in time beware, "Nor utter what I cannot, must not bear, "Ev'n from thy lips. Go-try thy lute, thy voice, "The boy must feel their magic;-I rejoice " To see those fires, no matter wlheince they rise, "Once more illuming my fair Priestess' eyes; "And should the youth, whom soon tiose eyes shall warm, "Irdeed resemble thy dead lover's form, "So much the happier wilt thou find thy doom, "As one warm lover, full of life and bloom, "Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb. "Nay, nay, no fiowning, sweet! —those eyes were made "For love, not anger-I must be obey'd.-" "Obey'd!-'tis well-yes, I deserve it all"On me, on me Heav'n's vengeance cannot fall "Too heavily-btut Aztm, brave and true "And beautiful-must hle be ruini'd too? "Must he too, glorious as he is, be driven "A renegade like me fi'oin Love and Heaven? "Like me?-weak wretch, I wrong himn-not l'ike me "No —he's all truth and strenigt!h aid(,.'ity! "Fill up your madd'ning lhell-cup to the brimii, "Its witch'ry, fiends, will have no charm for him. "Let loose your glowing wantons from their bowits, "He loves, he loves, and can defy their powers "Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reign "Pure as when first we met, without a stain! "Though ruin id-lost-.iy tnern'ry, like a charm "Left by the dead, still k eeps his soul from iiarm "Oh! never let him know how detep the brow "He kiss'd at parting is dislhotiour'd (ow; "Ne'er tell him how debased, how suink is she, "Whom once he loved-oncce! —still loves dotingly. I "It is, con.o.l,y said ill Persia. that i! l ba.:....te in the ha. lsBoulthJ wind, wthicl ill Jum or';y palscs o~ cr dmt f lower. (tile Kopreh,) it wvill kill him."-7'hetnot THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 106 LALLA ROOKH. 107 "Thou laugh'st, tormentor,-what!-tlithou'lt brand my name? "Do, do-in vain —he'll not believe my shanie He thinks me true, that naught beneath God's sky Could tempt os change me, anid-so once thought I. But this is past-though worse than death my lot, "Than hell-'tis nothing while he knows it not. "Far off to some benigh;ted land ['ll fly, " Where sunsbeam iie'er shall enter till I die "Where noise will ask the lost one whence she came, "But I may fade and fall without a name. And thou-curst man or fiend,,:vhate'er thou art, "Who fouind'st this burning plague-spot in my heart, "And spread'st it-oh, so quick!-through soul and frame, "With more than demon's art, till I became "IA loathsome thing, all pestilence, all flame!'If when I'm gone'I " But turn and look- then wonder, if thou wilt, " That I should hate, should take revenge, by guilt, " Upon the hand, whose mischief or whose mirth " Sent me thus niiaimr'd and monstrous upon. earth; " And on that race who, though more vile they be " Than mowing apes, are demi-gods to me! " Here —judge if hell, with all its power to damn, " Can add one curse to the foul thing I am!" ON their arrival, next night, at the place of encamp ment, they were surprised and delighted to find'the groves all around illuminated; some artists of Yaintcheou* hav ing been sent onl previously for the purpose. On each side of the green alley which led to the Royal Pavilion, artificial sceneries of bamboo-workt were erected, repre senting arches, ininarets, and towers, from which hung thousands of silken lanterns, painted by the most delicate pencils of Canton. Nothing could be more beautiful than the leaves of the mango-trees and acacias, slining in the light of the bamboo scenery, which shed a lustre round as soft as that of the nights of Peristan. LALLA ROOKII, however, who was too much occupied by the sad story of ZELICA and her lover to give a thought to any thing else, except, perhaps, him who related it, hurried on through this scene of splendour to her pavilion, -greatly to the mortification of the poor artists of Yamtcheou,-aniid was followed with equal rapidity b)y the Great Cham,erlain, cursinig, as he went, that ancient Mandarin, whose parental anxiety in liglintig up the shores of the lake, where his beloved daughter had wandered and been lost, was the origin of these fantastic Chinese illumi. nations.t Without a mnoment's delay, young FERAMORz was introduced, and FADLADEEN, who couild never make up his mind as to the merits of a peet till lie knew the religious sect to which he belonged, was about to ask him whether he was a Shia or a Sooiii, when LALLA ROOKII impa tiently clapped her hands for silence, and the youth, being seated upon the musnud near her, )roceeded: Ild, ',Yes, my sworn bride, let others seek in bow'is "Their bridal place-the charnel vault was ours! "Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me "Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality; "Gay, flick'riniig death-lights shone while we were wed, "And, for our guests, a row of goodly Dead, "(Immortal spirits in their time, no doubt,) From reeking shrouds upon the rite Iook'd out! " That oath thou heard'st snore lips than thine repeat"That cup-thou shudd'rest, Lady-was it sweet? "That cLIp we pledged, the charnel's choicest wine, "Iatlh bound thliee-ay-body and soul all mine; " BouLnd thee by chains that, whether blest or curst, "No matter now, not hlell itself shall burst! Hence, woman, to the Haremni, and look gay, Look wild, look-any thing but sad; yet stay' One moment mnore-from what this night hath pass'd, ' I see thou kiiow'st me, know'st nme well at last. Ha! ha! and so, fond thing, thou thoughlit'st all true, "And that I love mankind?-I do, I do"As victims, love them; as the sea-dog dotes Uponl the small, sweet fry that round him floats; Or, as the Nile-bird loves the slime that gives 'That rank and venomous food on which she lives!-t PREPARE thy soul, young AZ2,!-thou hast braved The band s of GREECE, still riglhty though enslaved; least faced her phal anx, arte'd with all its fanie, Her Mlacedorniani pikes and globes of flame;; All this hast fronted, w i th firml heary t tinid bro w; But a more p erilous t rial waits the e now, Woman's bright eyes, a dazzling host of eyes |From evereery l d whebe woman smi les or sigh s; Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise His black or azur borbanner in their blaze; And each sweet mode of warfare, from t he flas h Th at lighte ns bo ldly t hroughs th e shadowy lash, To the sly, steal ing sple ndours, almost hid, Like swords half-sheathed, beneat h th e downcast l id Such, Azim, is the lovely, luminoLus host Now led against thee; and let conqu'rors boast The feast of Lanterns is celebreated at Yaontcheou pith lore mfag nlificenice than anywhere else: and tlse report goes, that the illu,mlination~! there are so splenidid. that al Emperor obee lot daring openly to leave hiis Court to go thithier. committed hi mslif w ith the Quee nl ind severae Princesses of his tillrally, into tlhe ha n ds of "a nmitian wlIo promised to transport tiem thither in a trie. lHe ia c de the m i n tln e nigi;t to asend magnificent tlron.es that were borne u p b y as wic in a mgoet arrived at Yamtcheou. lhe Esperor saw nt hiis leisuree all tce solemi ity being carried upon a cloud that hovervd over the oity anl desended bly degrees- and came back aga in with tie sa me speed,,d!quipage, no body at Court perceiving h}n absene. " — The l'rse.'Tt State of Ckina. p. 156. t See a description of the nuptials of Vizier Ale,, in the.qsiatic J.zD ,nual Register of 1804. "The vfigar a scribe it to an adem tl..t hnl~p' m-d iIl,he fa'4.. y,l a fttnious Mlw~lalarill. whiose ~J;ilglzttor, w. lklitig' alt c V,. llXg liponl the shoe of a lake, fell in an.d was drOwle d: itlis Rill;tied titely wit h his fam,ily, ranthi ther, and, tl,e I ~ett, r to ti l };er, i, ( i'-'. a gt comp:,n F o f l an t~ er ns i t oIe lig l,t e d. A li th e i. l a bi t l l s,i' e ~ h c p:, thnzne ed a f t e r him with torches. T'e year ens-uing t,cy rotale fires!po n the..)res tile sa le d ly; tliey con tinu ed th e erem on y e very Ise ar, e very o ne lighted his lanitewrn, and by degrees it conwnear, ^ rt ctmtonJ." —Prese7 . State of Cli~a. " And(l, snow thou se,est my soulps angelic hue, "'Tis time these features were uncurtain'd too;"This brow, whose light-oh rare celestial light! Hath been reserved to bless thy favour'd sight; These dazzling eyes, before whose shrouded might ;Thou'st seen immortal Man kneel down and quake "VWould that they were heaveii's lightnings for his sake! * vile iblum:;finr-tbird is seaid to run tihis risk for the purpose ofpicki.Ig the c odile's teetil.'Pe same circumstance is related of tile laIpwsing,, s; ft to *I:ich he was witness, by Paul Lucas. Voyage fait en 1'14. Th'le.ztXwient steory conicerninig thec TIrochtiluls, or humminig-bird, enter",g witl impunity i,!t. tie mouth of the crocodile, is firmly believed at Java.l lorro w a's (c hin ec]dira. t'Cilcumlzl e, sdimn ripts (Nili, viz.):lies es,t Ibis. Ea serpenttium popul!tur ova, gratissima,,que ex his escam nid.s suis refert.-Soinus. I LALLA ROOKII. 107 He raised his veil-the Maid turii'd slowly round, Look'd at him-slirick'd-and sunk upon the grow)d At this dread word, The Maid, whose spirit hi.-s rude taunts had stirr'd Through all its depths, and roused an anger there, That burst and lighten'd even through her despairShrtiDk back, as if a bliglit in,ere in the breath That spoke that word, and stagger'd pale as death. THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Their fields of fame; he who in virtue arms A young, warm spirit against beauty's charms, EVho feels her brightness, yet defies her thrall, Is the best, bravest conqu'ror of them all. In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays High as th' enamelI'd cupola, which tow'rs All rich with Arabesques of gold and flow'rs: And the mosaic floor beneath slilnes through The sprinkling of that fotuntaini's silv'ry dew, Like the wet, glist'niiig shells, of ev'ry dye, That on the margin of the Red Sea lie. Now, through the Harem chambers, moving lights AntI busy shapes proclaimr the toilet's rites;Fromn roonI to rootii the ready handmaids hie, Sonie skilI'd to wreathl the turban tastefully, ()r hlang the veil in niegligence of shlade, O'er the wiarii binsites of the youthful maid, Whlio, il betswe(ei the folds but oie eye shone, Lf.ike (4.,'s Queen, could vanquish with that one:* N hIile soiic brrng leave s of Henna, to imbue 'I'lie fingers' epds with a bright roseate hue,t So lri(rlit. that in the mirror's depth they seem Like tips of coral branches in the stream; And others iix the IKehol's jettv dye, I' give that long dark languish to the eye,+ W',hichl makes the miaids, whom kings are proud to cull From fuir Circassia's vales, so beautiful. All is ii mnotioi' rings, and plumes, and pearls, Are shiui-ig evi'nywhere:-somle younger girls Are gone by nloonlight to the gardeni-beds, To gather flesh, cool chaplets for their heads;Gtsv cicatures sweet, though mnournfutl,'tis to see HIlow cacl pre fers a garland from that tree WIlielc brings to mind her childhood's innocent day, And the dear fields and friendships far away. The mnaid of I.x;I., blest again to hold In her full lip the Clhampac's leaves of gold,~ 'rhilks of the time when, by the GANGES' flood, I1er little playmates scatter'd many a bud Upon her loig, black hair, with glossy gleani Just dripping from the consecrated stream While the young Arab, haunted by the smell Of teer own mountain flow'is, as by a spell,Thie sweet Elcaya,lI and that courteous tree Which bows to all who seek its canopy,~ Sees, eall'd up round her by these magic scents, The elvl, the camriels, and her fatther's tents; Sighs for the )omce she left with little pain, And wishies earn its sorrows back again! So on, through scenes past all imagining, More like the luxuries of that impious Kinig,tt Whom Death's dark Angel, with his lightning torch, Struck down and blasted ev'n in Pleasure's porch, -Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent, Arm'd with Heaven's sword, for man's enfranchiseImentYoung Azim wander'd, looking sternly round, His simple garb and war-h)oots' clankilg sound But ill according with the pomp and grace And silent lull of that voluptuous place. Meanwliile, tlirouhli vast illuminated halls, Silent and bright, where nothing but the falls Of fragrailt waters, gushing with cool sound FiIom litany a jasper fount, is heard around, Young AZINI roams bcwilder'd,-nor call guess What mneans this maze of light and loneliness. Here, the wvay leads, o'er tesselated floors ()r mnats of CAItO, throulgh long corridors, Where, ranged in cassolets and silver urns, Swe-t wood of aloe or of sandal burns; And spicy rods, such as illume at night 'i'he bow'rs of TIBET,** send forth odorous light Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the road Ftor some pure Spirit to its blest abode:And here, at once, the glittering saloon Bursts on his sliht, boundless and bright as noon; Where, in the mnidst, reflecting back the rays " Is this, the n," th ough t the youth, " is this the way To free mall's spiri t from the dead'ning sway "Of worldly sloth,-to teach him while he lives, "To know no bliss but that which virtue gives, "And when he dies, to leave his lofty name "A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame? "It was not so, Land of the generous thought "And daring deed, thy godlike sages taught; "It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease, "Thy Freedom nursed her sacred energies; "Oh! not beneath th' enfeebling, with'ring glow "Of such dull lux'ry did those myrtles grow, "With which she wreathed her sword, when she would dare "Immortal deeds; but in the bracing air "Of toil,-of temperance,-of that high, rare, "Ethereal virtue, which alone cal breathe "Life, health, and lustre into Freedona's wreath. *" Thou hast rai.hed y heart with one ofthile eyes."-sl. Soig. E t "Tiey tinged tihe ende of hIer fingers scarlet,liti Henna, so tihat they reemle ra ches of coral."-Story f Priuce'sttun in Ba/arda.nush. Thie wom en black en the inside of their eyelids with a powder named ilie black Kohol. -Ressel. None of these ladies," says Shaw, " take thiemselves to be ceompleeley d,ressed till they lave tined the hair and edges of their eyelids with the powder o lea-ore. No, as tis operation is perfu,rmed by dipping first into Ilhe powder a small wooden bodkin of the thickness of dipping ir's en trepodskises ol gtdloist~ttecrltes-arw a quill, and t en diaws iig it aiter wars tiroug the eyelids over the baill of the eye we shall have a lively image of what the Prophet (Jer. iv. 30) miay be supposed to mean by renlding the eves with painting. This practice is no doubt ot great antiquity; besides the instance already taken notice of we id that w re Jezebel is said ('2 Kings ix. 30) to have pair.ted her e te ori al. s ar e she ad' isted hcr eyes with ti,e powder of ead os e."-S w tw's T'davels ~ "The appearance (it the tlossoms of the gold-coloured Champac on the black air of te I i n e has suppiaed the Snisecrit poets with any elegant alusions." -See'siatic Reacathes. vol iv _! A tree fitmous tor its perfume, and comm.on on the hills of Yemen. — ~~ieb) hr. ~ Ot' tie erus mimosa, "which droops its branches we inever any person pl"ro tches i s itf it saluted those who retire utrder its shade. (-Ibi3. **'Cle-esh re a principal ingredient in the compos ition of t'2e pe fumed r, ls, clic n ot rak keep constantly burning in th,ir preSf noe." —7'.rnr's Tl'et. * " C'est d'oo vient le bois d'nlo6s. que les Arabes appellent Oud Co isisur elegant allo~~~~~~~ioii- - otlieti, e islstondriiio ii ntmg 6. D yc, me ar, et celui du sandal, qui s'y tro e en negrande quatith."-yD'erh begot. t Thosands of variegated loories visit tile coral-trees."-Barro w. "on Mccah the re iare quati tes of blue pigeons, which none will aff right or abuse, m Ich less kill."'-Pitt', Acco,un.t tff the Mahometan s. ~''he Pagoda Thrush is esteemed amon,.g tie first choristers of Il di.. It sit s perhed w on the sacredl pagod as, and trom tihene, delivers i u me l odi ous pong."d-Pennd nt's d tiidos t tln is T7acel-nlier adds.3 th"t while (he Bi:ds of FPra&dise lie in:;i;> int,xi cated state, the emro ets come and eat off their legs; and that lens it is they are said to have no feet. ~ Birds of Paradise which, at the nutmeg season, come in fighets from tie southerny isles to India; and "the stren gth of the nutmeg," says Ta,ver,ier, "so ir,toxica,tes them that they li.,! dead dru,nk to the earth." ** "T}:at bird w Ri ch liveth in Arabia, atd builheti its,est with einna. mon." —Brown's Vulgar Errors. t' "Tihe spirits f the n tyrts will be lodigel in the chaps of green birds." —Gibbo)). vol. ix. p. 21. t: Shedad, who made tie deliiious garbdens of ri n, in imi,'tat ion;t Paradise. and was destroyed, lit blutiing the first tit-e h~e atteLmlpted us outer them. I 108 Here too he traces the kind visitings Of woi-nan's love in those fair, livin,,,- things Of land and wave, wlie fate-in.bondage thrown For their weak loveliness-is like her own On one side gleaming with a sudden grace Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase In which it undulates, small fishes shine, Like golden ingots from a fairy mine;While, on the other, latticed lightly in With odoriferous woods of COIIORIN,*Each brilliant bird that wings the air is seen Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleani between 'I'he crimson blossoms of the coral treet In the warm isles of Iiidia's sunny sea: Mecca's blue sacred pigeoii,t and the thrush Of Hiiidostar,,~ whose holy warblings gush, At evening, froni the tall pagoda's top; - Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop About the gardens, drunk with tliat sweet foodil Whose sceiit liath lured thcm o'er the summer floods And those that under Arat)y's soft sun Iquild their high nests of budding cinnamoi,In short, all rare and beauteous things, that fly Through tl. pure element, here calmly lie Sleeping in light, like the green birdstt that dwell In Eden's radiant fields of aspliodel! :~~~~~AL =OKH 10 " Who, that surveys this span of earth we press,This speck of life in time's great wilderness, This narrow isthmus'twixt two boundless seas, iTile past, the future, two eternities!Would sully the bright spot, or leave it bare, When he might build himn a proud temple there, "A name, that long shall hallow all its space, And be each purer soul's high resting-place? But no-it cannot be, that one, whom God Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's rod, A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws Its rights from Heav'nl, should thus profane its cause "With the world's vulgar pomps;-no, no,-I see "He thinks me weak-this glare of luxury "Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze Of my young soul-shine on,'twill stand the blaze!" While others waked, as gracefull y al ong Their feet kept time, the ve ry soul of song From psalt'ry, pipe, and lutems of heav'nly thrill, Or tlheir own youthful voices, lheav'iilier still. And now they come, now pass before his eye Forms such as Nature nmotulds, when she would vie With Fancy's pencil, and give birth to things Lovely beyond its fairest picturings. Awhile they dance before him, then divide, Breaking, like rosy clouds at even-tide Around the rich pavilion of the sun,Till silently dispersing, one by one, Through many a path that from the chamber leads To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads, Their distant laughter comes upon the wind, And but one trembling nymph remains behindBeck'ning them back in vain, for they are gone, And she is left in all that light alone; No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow, In its young bashfulness more beauteous now; But a light golden chain-work round her hair,* Such as the maids of YEzDt and SsnirAs wear, From which, on either side, gracefully hung A golden amulet in the Arab tonguie, Engraven o'er with somne immiiiiortal line From Holy Writ, or bard scarce less divine; While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood, Hteld a small lute of gold and sandal-wood, Which, once or twice, she touch'd with hurried strain, Then took her trembling fingers off again. But when at length a timid glance she stole At AzIm, the sweet gravity of soul She saw through all his features calm'd her fear, And, like a half-tamed antelope, more near, Though shrinking still, she came;-then sat her dozen Upon a musntid'st edge, and, bolder grown, In the pathetic mode of ISFAIIAN~ Touch'd a preluding strain, and thus began: So thought the youth;-but, ev'n while he defied This witching scene, he felt its witch'ry glide Through ev'ry sense. The perfume breathing round, Like a pervading spirit;-the still sound Of falling waters, iulling as the song Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng Around the fragrant NILICA, and deep Iii its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep;* And music, too-dear music! that can touch Bevond all else the soul that loves it muchNow heard far off, so far as but to seem Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream; All was too much for him, too full of bliss, The heart could nothing feel, that felt not this; Soften'd he sunk upon a couch, and gave His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on wave Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are laid; Te thought of ZELICA, his own dear maid, And of the time when, full of blissful sighs, ''They sat and look'd into each other's eyes, Silent and happy-as if God had giv'n Nautght else worth looking at on this side heav'ii. There's a bower of roses by BENDEMEZER'Sl stream, And the nightingale silngs round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. 'Oh, mv loved mistress, thou, whose spirit still Is with me, round me, wander where I willIt is for thee, fer thee alone I seek The paths of glory; to light up thy cheek WVith warm approval-ili that gentle look, To read my praise, as in an angel's book, Atid think all toils rewarded, when from thee ' I gain a smile worth immortality! blow shall I bear the moment, when restored 'I'o that young heart where I alone am Lord, 'IThough of such bliss uniworthy, —sinice the best ~ Alone deserve to be the happiest:'When from those lips, unbreathed upon for years, I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, - And find those tears warm as when last they started, ''lThose sacred kisses pure as when we parted. tO my own life!-why should a single day, *A rin egent keep me from those arms away?" No, the roses so on wither' d that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gather'd, while freshly tlhe shone, And a dew was distilI'd from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer when slmnmcier was gone. Thus memory draws from delight, er e it dies, An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the batiks of the calmi BE:NDE-,IZEII! " Poor maiden!" thought the youth, " if thIou wert serg, With thy soft lut e andl beauty's blvndishtlou ent, "To wake unholy wishes in this heart, "Or tempt its troth, thoti little know'st the art. "For though thy lip should sweetly COLunISCl wrong, "Those vestal eyes would disatvow its sonig. "But thou hast breathed sticlh purity, thy lay "Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day, "And leads thy soul-if e'er it wander'd thence"So gently back to its first innocence, "That I would sooner stop the uuchain'd dove, While thus he thinks, still nearer on the breeze Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies, Each note of which but adds new, downy links '['o the soft chain in which his spirit sinks. He turns him tow'rd the sound, and far away Through a long vista, sparkling with the play Of countless lamps,-like the rich track which Day Leaves on the waters, when he siniks from us, So long the path, its light so tremulous;He sees a group of female forms advance, Some chain'd together in the mazy dance By fetters, forged in the green sunny bow'rs, As they were captives to the King of Flow'rs;t And some disporting round, unlink'd and free, WVhio seem'd to mock their sisters' slavery; And round and round them still, in wheeling flight Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night; A*' On ofte t the iea-dresses of the Persian women comed of light golleni chain-work seit with small pearls with a thin gold pl,te peident about thie bigness of a crown-piece on whit h is impressed al Ara biati prayer and which hangs upon the heek blow the ear."-Ha wayls Tiravels. ' Certainly the women of Yezd a,re t he ihandsomest women in Persia. The proverbl is that to live Ihappy a man must ae a wi of Yezd, eat the bread of Yzdeas, d drink te wine of Si rz."-Tacrie. t Musnuds are cutshionted seats usually reserved tIr persons of distinction. ~ The Persians, like the ancient Greeks., call their musical modes or Perdas by tl,e lt names of,ittr,,t countries or cities,s tl mod)e, fl,-fa hah, tile mode of Irak, &c. 11 A river whic h flows near the ruins of Chilminer. M' "y Pandits assure me that the plant before us (the Nilica) is their t'i ttu;-j X "" b,, thus nmed because the bees are supposed to sleep on its bl..ascnk.." —Sir If. Jerseys. '"'hey dected it till the King of Flowers should ascend his thron e if ti.iaelled toliage. -'he Blnhardanush. LALT,A ROOKH. 109 That bower and its music I never forgct, But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think-is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calin BP.NDE-,IEE't? (10 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. "Wheni swift returning to its home of love, "' And round its snowy wing new fetters twine, "Than turn fromn virtue one pure wish of thine!" By all that thou hast To mortals given, Which —oh, could it last, This earth were heaven. Scarce had this feeling pass'd, when, sparkling through '['he gently opeii'd curtains of light blue ''hat veil'd the breezy casement, countless eyes, P'ceping like stars through the blue evening skies, [.ook'd laughing in, as if to mock the paiWe I'lhat sat so still and me.lancholy there:Atid now the curtains fly apart, and in From the cool air,'mid showers of jessamine Whlich those without fling after themn in play, Two lightsome maidens spring,-lightsorne as the Who live in thi' air on odours,-and around The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the ground, Chase one another, in a varying dance Of mirth and languor, coyness and advanice, Too eloquentiy like love's warm pursuit:While she, who sung so gently to the lute Hier dream of home, steals timidly away, Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray,But takes with her from Azi.MI's heart that sigh, We sometimes give to forms that pass us by In the world's crowd, too lovely to remain, Creatures of light we never see again! Impatient of a scene, whose lux'ries stole, Spite of himself, too deep into his soul, And where,'midst all that the young heart loves most, Flow'rs, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost, The youth had started up, and turn'd away From the light nymphs, and their luxurious lay, To muse upon the pictures that hung round,-* Bright images, that spoke without a sound, And views, like vistas into fairy ground. But here again new spells came o'er his sense:All that the peincil's mute omnipotence Could call up into life, of soft and fair, Of fond and passionate, was glowing there; Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that fine art Which paints of pleasure but the purer part; Which knows ev'n Beauty when half-veil'd is best,Like her own radiant planet of the west, Whose orb when half-retired looks loveliest.i There hung the history of the Genii-King, Traced through each gay, voluptuous wandering With her from SABA's bowers, in whose bright eyes He read that to be blest is to be wise:-t Here fond ZLILrIIKA Woos with open arms The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young charms, Yet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone, Wishes that Heav'n and she could both be won; And here MoIIAr.lzED, born for love and guile, Forgets the Koran in his MARY'S Smile;Then beckons some kind angel from above With a new text to consecrate their love.11 Around the white necks of the nymphs wli danced flung carcanets of orient gems, that glanced More brilliant than the sea-glass glitt'ring o'er Tie hills of crystal on the Caspian shore;W \hile from their long, dark tresses, in a fall ()1 cirls descending, bells as musical Ats those that, on the golden-shafted trees Of EDEN, shake in the eternal breeze,Ht ltititi round their steps, at ev'ry bound more sweet, As'twere th' ecstatic language of their feet. At lettirtli the chase was o'er, and they stood wreath'd WVthii! each other's arms; while soft there breathed IThrough the cool casement, ningled with the sighs (If moonlight flow'rs, music that seem'd to rise k'in some still lake, so liquidly it rose; A:i(l, a: it swell'd again at each faint close, T"ie ear couid track, through all that maze of chords tAd young sweet voices, these inl)assion'd words: With rapid step, yet pleased and ling'ring eye, Did the youth pass these pictured stories by, And hasten'd to a casement, where the light Of the caliii moon canme in, and freshly bright The fields without were seein, sleeping as still As if' no life remain'd ill breeze or rill. Here paused lie, while the music, now less near, Breathed with a holier language on his ear, As though the distance, and that heav'nly ray Through which the sounds camne floating, took away All that had been too earthly in the lay. A SPlTJT there is, whose fragrant sigh Is burnin, inow through earth and air; \'hlt',rc cheeks arc bluitlsing, the Spirit is nigh, \VlIere lips are mnceting, the Spirit is there! I lis breath is the soul of flow'rs like these, Alot i is floating ea-esioh! they resembleA : le was! ter-lilies,~ when the breeze is mnakin,g the stream around them tremble. '!,'il to thee, Iiil to thee, kindling pow'r! sfpiiit of Love, Spirit of Bliss! 'I'liT holiest titte is the moonlight hour, Altid there nwvar was moonlight so sweet as this. * It has bee: generally siuIppose.d that thle Mahlorm,etans prohibit all B te a an bpictures of at,imis: tit t louglI the practice is orliiiddevil by tlhe KJrt, r iy r no t figures sndil hoimages than t o r people. Frm NJ r. AIirpi,y's work, oo, we fliud that the Arabs of ~p iii ltad no 1 obj, oti L tilt in ttroductinJi EL' figaues iCt painting;. t Ls is not quite astroonically true. " Ir. fItdley (says Keil) has shown that Veus is brhotest we sh e is aijlt orty degrees re oved from the sun; and that ti.e but o. lz, ajo,rt pat of er licitd diskL is to be seen 1'o.tihe earth." the For thle lo es of King Solomoni (,a.o was snppo,d to preside ovir the whole race of Genii) wbith Bltki,s, tie Qee o Si a or Sa, see D'Herbdot, and the rates on tfhe, elw cha,p 2 "In the palace which Slon or ed to b il against t. e nrrital of the Que en of Sabla, the floor orpal e l p s (t trparentt gi las;, laidt over running ater, i whic hliseHre s wintiIn." This ledl the Queen into a very niatural mistake, which te Koran las not thought beneath its dignity to ommelrae. It s said to hr,'Enter thle palace.' And when she w it she imaginedl it to be a great er ad shIe dis covered her legs, Iby Ititing up her robe to pass tihrou,ghl it. Whiereupo Solomon said to her,' Verily, this is the p!ate evenly floored with glass.' "-Chlap. 27. i The wite of Potiphar, thus named by the Oriental,s. The oassion which this frail beauty of n,tiqlty conceived for hei young Hebrew slave as giveng rise to a ucstevmed poem in thi Persian language, entited busfv Zei a, ty JVuretddin Jami; the manuscript copy of whiv, in tihe ul- 11e Library at Ox-trd, is supposed to be Ithe finest in the whole worl t."-~'ote upon XNott's Trasrlation oj Haffz. b'Ihe particulars of Mslioet's a,mour with Heary, the Coptic girl, ic !j tstification of w rhich he d(itlid a ew celpter to the Koran, rnay b A found in Aa,,icr'$.Notes upon.3b.,[feda, p. 151. By the first love-beat Of the youthful heart, *" To the north of its (on the coast of the Caspian, near Badku) was a m~oun~tainl, whith,}~arkledi like d'iamnonds, arising /Yore the se.-glass and crystals wilh wlich it aounds. " —Jotraey of thte ]Russian.mbassado to Pcr.ia, 1746. t "To Adhich wil' be ad,ded the sound of the bells, hanging on the trees, which will ie pult in,o,tion by tile witty proceeding from the throne of (ol. a5. offi n al lie l,bi.s(ted w1is; fr musics, Irsif"-ae. Th bluel:; Vlutes' i evye s resnble bliue water-dilies, agita ted by tihe br,eezc...".ga...ai/ej ra. ~ She blue lotu1s. w!.ich crowts in Craslnme~e and inl Persia (lo THE MIRROR LIBRARY. By the bliss to meet, And the pain to part; We call thee hither, entrancing Power! Spirit of Love! Spirit of Bliss! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this. Oh! could he listei). to such souiids unmoved, And by that light-nor droain of her lie loved? B,; the fa'r and brave lvlio bitis-iiing unite, I,Ike the sun and wave, When they nieet at night; By the tear that shows . When passion is nigh, As the rain-drop flows Froni the lieat of the sky; Gazing on his-Iot, as they late had been, Quick, restless, wild, but moiurnfuilly serene; As if to lie, ev'n for that tranced minute, So near his heart, had conisolationi in it; And thus to wake in his beloved caress Took from her soul one half its wretchedness. But, when,lhe heard him call her good and pure, Oh,'twas too niuch —too dreadful to endtire. Shudd'ring she broke away from his embrace, And, hiding with both hands her guilty face, Said, ill a tone whose aniguiish would have riv'n A heart of very marble, " Pure! —oil Heav'n!" Dream on, unconscious boy! while yet thou mayst; Tis the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste. Clasp yet awhile her image to thy heart, Ere all the light, that made it dear, depart. Think of her smiles as when thou saw'st them last, Clear, beautiful, by naught of earth o'ercast; Recall her tears, to thee at parting giv'n, Pure as they weep, if angels weep, in Heav'n. ThiIk, in her own still bower she waits thee now, Wkithli the sanie glow of heart and bloom of brow, Yet shrined in solituide-thine all, thinc only, Like the one star above thee, bright and lonely. Oh! that a dreami so sweet, so long enjoy'd, Should be so saily, cruelly destroy'd! That tone-those looks so changed-the withliering blight, That sin and sorrow leave where'er th ey light; The dead despondency of those sunk eyes, Where once, had hie thu s m et h er by surpris e, He would have seen himself, too happy boy, Reflected in a thousand lights of joy; And then the place,-that bright, unholy place, Where vice lay hid beneath each winning grace And charm of.lux'ry, as the viper weaves Its wily cov'ring of sweet balsam leaves,-* All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold As death itself;-it needs not to be W':dNo, no-he sees it all, plain as the brand Of burning shame can mark-whate'er the hand That could from Heav'n and him such brightness sever, 'Tis done-to Heav'n and him she's lost forever! It was a dreadful moment; not the tears, The ling'ring, lasting misery of years Could match that minute's anguish-all the worst Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst Broke o'er his soul, and, with one crash of fate, Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate. The song is hush'd, the lautghing nymphs are flown, And he is left, mlsintg of bliss, alone;Alone?-no, not alone-that heavy sigih, That sob of grit, wlilch broke fromt some one nigh'hiose could it be?-alps! is misery found fere, even here, on tIlis enchanted groul?d? Ho turns, and sees a fenale form, close veil'd, Leaning as if both heart and strength had fail'd, Against a pillar near;-iiot glitt'riiig o'er N itlh germs and wreaths, such as the others wore, Bitt in that deep)-blue, melancholy dress,* [fOKifA.A'S rmaiders wear in mindfulness Of friends or kiindredcl, dead or far away; And such as ZELICA had on that day tte left her- -he,i. with heart too full to speak, He took al ay her last warmn tears Lipoii his cheek. A strange emotion stirs within hill,-more fhian mere compassion ever waked before; Uttcontscioitslv he opes his arms, while she Springs forward, as with life's last energy, lBut, swooning in that one convulsive bound, einks, ere she reach his arms, upon the ground;Hler vc-1 fulls off-her faint hands clasp his knees'Tis she hersellf-'tis ZEI,ICA lie sees! But, ah, so jale, so clihanged-iione but a lover Cotild in that wreck of beauty's shrine discover Thie once-adored divinity-v'n he Stiood for somie momniei ts niute, anid doubtingly Ptlt back the ringlets fi-on her brow, and gazed Upon those lids, where once such lustre blazed, Ere lie could thinkl she was indeed his own, Ow.-i darling mraitid, whom he so long had known In joy and sorrovw, beautiful in both; Vhlo, ev'n wheti griefwas heaviest-when loth He left her for the wars-in that worst hour Sat in htier sorrow like the sweet night-flow'r,t W%hen darkness brings its weeping glories out, And spreads its sighs like frankincense about. " Oh! curse me not," she cried, as wild he toss'd His desp'rate hand tow'rds Heav'n —-" though I am lost " Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall, " No, Iio-'twas grief,'twas imiadness did it all! "Nay, doubt me not-though all thy love hath ceased-. "I know it hath-yet, yet believe, at least, "That every spark of reasoii's light must be "Quench'd in this brain, ere I could stray from thee "They told me thou wert dead-why, AziM, why "Did we not, both of us, that instant die "When we were parted? oh! couldst thou but know "With what ade p de votedness of wo "I wept thy absenice —'er and o'er again "Thinking of thee, still thce, till thought grew pain. "And memn'ry, like a drop that, night and day, "Falls cold and ceaseless, wore mrly heart away; "Didst thou but kilnsi how pale I sat at home, "My eyes still turii'd the way thou wert to come, " And, all tihe long, lond night of h ope an d fear, " Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear" Oh God! t!eon wouildst not wonder that, at last, "When every hope wias all at once o'ercast, "When I heard frightful voices round me say, "Azimli is d!e,!-this wretched brain gave way, "And I became a wreck, at random driven, "Without one fnlirnpse of re ason or of b t eav'ne "All wild-and even this ouenclhless love within "Tu-rni'd to fol,i fires to light hiie into si!"'Thou pitiest rllc, —I klnevtw hou wouldst —that sky " Hath nau(].,t benie(ath it half so lorn as I. "The fienid, who lured me hither-hist! come near, *Or thou too, those art lott, if he should hear"Told me such thiirngs-oh! with such dev'lish art, 'As would have ruiin'd ev'n a holier heart"Of thee, and of that evecr-radiaiit sphere, "Where bless'd at lengrthii, if I but served him here, "I should forever live in thy dear sight, "And drink from those purei e)s eternal light. "Think, think how lost, how inadden'd I must be, "To hope that guilt couldi lead to God or thee! "Look up, my ZELICA-one nmoment show T.}ose gentle eyes to me, that I may know "TI'hy life, thy loveliness is not all gone, "But there, at least, shines as it ever shone. "Come, look upon thy AzINI —one dear glF.: ce, "Like those of old, were heav'n! whateve. chance "Hath brought thee here, oh,'twas a blessed one! " Thsre-rmy loved lips-they move-that kiss lIath run " Like the first shoot of life through every vein, And iiow I clasp her, mine, all mine agailn. Oh the delighlt-now, in this very hopLr, When, had the whole rich world been in my pow'r, I shlould( have singled out thee, only thee, From the wiuole world's collected treasury'T'o have thee here-to hanug thus fondly o'er "My own, tesht, purest ZELICA once more!" It was inde d the touch of those fond lips Lpon her eyes that chased their short eclipse, And, gradual is the snow, at Heaven's breath, Mtelts off' a nid siows the azu re flow'rs b eneath, lter lids unclosed, and the br'ight eyes were seen *'Deep blue is their motring colour."-Hanway. "Coneerunig the vipers, wtl,Iel Pliny says were frequent among tif t Thie torrowul,elyctaijti es, wineh begins to spread its rich odour after balsam-trees, I mde very prii, laer inquiry; several werebrougat me ,umsel ative both to Y,inbo anl Jidla."-Bruce. LALLA ROOKH. III .-2- T "Thou weep'st for me-do weep-oh, that I durst "Kiss off that tear!-but, no-these lips are curst, "They must not touch thee;-ne divine caress, "Onc blessed moment of forgetfulness I've had within those armns, and that shall lie "Shrinied in my soul's deep mem'ry till I die; "The last of joy's last relics here below, The one sweet drop, in all this waste of wo, *My heart has treasured from afifction's spring, "To sooth and cool its deadly withering! But thou-yes, thou must go-forever go; "This place is not for thee-for thee! oh no: Did I but tell thee half, thy tortured brain Would burni like mine, and mine go wild again! Enough, that Guilt reigns here-that hearts, once good, "N6w tainted, chill'd, and broken, are his food."Enough, that we are parted-that there rolls "A flood of headlong fate between our souls, " Vhose darkness severs me as wide from thee ' As hell from heav'n, to all eternity!" " But I must hence -off, off, I am not thine, " Nor Heav'n's, nor Love's, nor aught that is divine" Hold me not-ha! think'st thou the fiends that sever " Hearts, cannot sunder hands?-thus, then —forever!" With all that strength which madness lends the weak She flung away his arm; and with a shriek, Whose sound, though he should linger out more years Than wretch e'er told, can never leave his ears, Flew up through that long avenue of light, Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night, Across the suit, and soon was out off sight! LALLA ROOKII could think of nothing all day but the misery of these two young lovers. Her gayety was gone, and she looked pensively even upon FADLADFEN. She felt, too, without knowing why, a sort of uneasy pleasure in imagining that Azim must have been just such a youth as FERAMIORZ; just as worthy to enjoy all the blessinigs, without any of the pangs, of that illusive passion which too often, like the sunny apples of Istkahar,* is all sweetness on one side, and all bitterness on the other. As they passed along a sequestered river after sunset, they saw a young Hindoo girl upon the bank,t whose employment seemed to them so strange, that they stopped their palankeens to observe her. She had lighted a small lamp filled with oil of cocoa, and placing it in an earthen dish, adorned with a wreath of flowers, had committed it with a trembling hand to the stream; and was now anx. iously watching its progress down the current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which had drawn up beside her. LALLA ROOKII was all curiosity;-wlihcn one of her at. tendants, who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges, (where this ceremony is so frequent that often, in the dusk of the evening, the river is seen glittering all over with lights like the Oton-Tala, or Sea of Stars,t) in. formed the Princess that it was the usual way in which the friends of those who had gone on dangerous voyages offered up vows for their safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately, the omen was disastrous; but if it went shining down the stream, and continued to burn till en. tirely out of sight, the return of the beloved object was considered as certain. LALLA ROOKH, as they moved on, more than once looked back to observe how the young Hiiidoo's lamp proceeded; and while she saw with pleasure that it was still unextinguislihed, she could not help fearing that all the hopes of this life were no better than that feeble light upon the river.'I'he remainder of the journey was passed in silence. She now, for the first time, felt that shade of melancholy which comes over the youthful maiden's heart, as sweet and transient as her own breath upon a mirror; nor was it till she heard the lute of FER.AMORZ touched lightly at the door of her pavilioni, that sihe waked from the revery in which she had been wald(eritig. Instantly her eyes were lighted up with pleasure; and after a few unheard remarks from FADLADEEN upon the indecorum of a poet seating h i mse lf i n the pres ence of a Princess, every thing was arranged as on the preceding evening, and all listened with eagerness while the story was thus continued: — " ZELICA, ZELICA!" the youth exclaim'd, Iin all the tortures of a mind inflamed Almost to madness —" by that sacred Heav'n, "Where yet, if pray'rs can move, thou'lt be forgiven, "As thiou art here-here, in this writhing heart, "All siiful, wit ld, and ruin'd as thou art! "By the remembrance of our once pure love, "Which, like a church-yard light, still burns above iThe grave of our lost souls —which guilt in thee "Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me! I1 do conjure, implore thee to fly hence"If thou hast yet one spark of innocence, Fly with me from this place-" "'With thee! oh bliss! 'Tis worth wh ole years of t orment to hear th is. "W hat! take the lost one with thee?-let her rove "By thy dear side, as in those days of love, "When we were both so happy, both so pure?"'Too heav'nIly dream! if there's on earth a cure ]For the sunk heart,'tis this-day after day 'To be the blest compai;.on of thy way; "To hear thy angel eloquencec-to see '; Those virtuous eyes forever turn'd on me; " And, in their light re-chaste.i'd silently, " Like the stain'd web that whitens il the sun, ~Grow pure by being purely shione upon! 'And thou wilt pray for me-I know thou wilt"At the dim vesper hour, when thoughts of guilt 'Come heaviest o'er the heart, thou'lt lift thine eyes, -"Fall of sweet tears, unto the dark'ning,, skies, A A.d plead for ime with Ileav'n, till I can dare rTo fix my own weak, sinful glances there; 'I'ill the good angels, ~vhen they see me cling IForever nieatr thee, pale and sorrowing, 'Slall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven, ~ Anti laid thee take thy weeping slave to Heav'n! Oh yes, I'll fly with thee " Scarce had she said 'lieso breathless words, when a voice deep and dread As that of MONKER, waking up the dead lFroals their first sleep-so startling'twas to bothIRung through the casement near, "Thy oath! th, oath!" t)h Heav'n! the ghastliness of that Maid's look!'Tis he,,' faintly she cried, while terror shook Hler iimost core, nor durst she lift her eyes, Tho)ugh through the casement, now, naught but the skies And inoollight fields were seen, calm as before'Tis he, and I am his-all, all is o'er Go-fly this instant, or thol'rt ruin'd too-H "My oath, my oath, oh God!'tis all too true, "True as the worm in this cold heart it is"I am MOKAN.NA's bride-his, AzIv., his — The Dead stood round us while I spoke that vow, "Their blue lips echo'd it-I hear them now! sTheir eyes glared on me while I pledged that bowl, "'Twas burning blood-I feel it in my soul! " And the Veil'd Bridegroom —hist! I've seen to-night ' What angels know no t of-so fotul a sight, ' So horrible-oh! never mayst thou see "What there lies hid from all but hell and me! * "In the territory of Istkliahr there is a kind of apple, half of wticb is sweet and mlnf sour." —Ebnr hta.lal. t For an account ot' tis ceremony, see Grandpre's Voyage in the di.n Ocean. "The plaice wthere the Wiarigho, a river of Th iubt, rises, and wham there sre or tha hdredt springs wthicih sp):trl like stars when e it is caled litu-nor, ti is, ithle (s of 7ttrs."-l)c..cription of 7'iibel in Pinkerton. ~"' The Lescir or Tmperial Cam is divifed, like a regular town, into squares alleys and. streets, and lrom a ri,i"' g rou n d f urOi.heso o f the W a emosto asgrhtaeeatle plrospects il thec w-orld. S(r1tirn iup il a tfiV hours in an un.inha.t"I (tl plaits, it ra;.es the idea ol al (i.y hil ty eiIctaitinenit. Eaten thor ie At neve emaa te ttleoir seeus e t il ciiats to.e f tii tl. t: P pr1i,Jce ill hi s progress are f,i'cuetl~aSo c,lkrmcd wit-l tl e l. sc;r when -lluaicd il a bcautifu; and ConvellicStt Dl;tce, tiat l. y calot p cxail W/i.il l.em.~e vei So rff 11 I I I 112 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Wiiosp, are the gilded tents that crowd the way Where all was waste and silent yesterday? This City of War which, in a few short hours, Hath sprung up here,~ as if the magic powers LALLA ROOKM. 11, Of Him who, iii the twinkling of a star, Buitt the high pillar'tl halls of CIIILMINAR,* Had co)njured uo,, far as,lie eye can see, Thi world, of t it, atil domes, and sun-bright armory: Prniel~iy Im,.iiis 1 scrccO'd by m:ny a fold Of cri::l:.0 ctlot, antl to(01'd w illi halls of gold Po w,wi tC lcou of rich silver spnin, ir cli,is a-nti poitrels,litt'ring in the sunO Anl camels ltufttd o'er with''citeli's shellsT, ~Sha,~kit,,- in eve,ry breeze their ligh,It-toned bells' When round him,'mid the burning sanids, he saw Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw, And coovd his tthirsty lip, beneath the glow Of Men,CCA's sun, with urns of Persian s'owu:t* Nor e'er did armam-ent more grand than that Pour fro fie kinigdoms of tile Caliphat. First, in the van, the People of the Rock,t On their light mountain steeds, of royal stock:t Thenci, chieftains of DAMA~scus, proud to see The flashing of their swords' rich marquetry; —( Men, from the regionis near the VOLGA'S mouth, Alix'd with the rude, black archers of the South; And Indian lancers, in whiite-turban'd ranks, F'rom the fa-r SINDE]', or A'rTOCK'S sacred banks, With dusky lcgioiis from the Land of Myrrh,ll And many a mace-arm'd Moor and Mid-sea islander Bot yester-Cve, so nmotionless around, So miute was tins wide plaoi, tl' it not a sound Itil thlt f'4r tl,rrelt, or the locust bhirdt !1tttut~Iing'Ilnm le 1ll' thiiek(ets, could be heard io Yet hitrk! witt ciscortls inow, of ev'ry kind,' S!louts, laugihs, ani screamis, are revelling in the wind 'lile neigh of e t - lry; the tinklinig throngs Of ladte caelincs and their drivers' songs;nw R~iiiging of arms, and flapping in the I)reeze Of streamers fi'oi teii iliotifand canopies;R %'ar-mutsc, bursttanf out frotmn time to time, WVith gong aid tymbal,ii's tremeodons chimeuini Or, in the p.'iu;e, when harsher souiids are mute, Tie mellow breathin,gs of some horn or flute, That far off, broken by the eagle note Of th' Abyssiniaia trumpet,If swell and floata Nor less in nuaser, though more new and rude In warfare's school, wa s the vast multitud e That, fired by zeal, or by oppression wrong'd, Round the white standard of tll' impostor throng'&l Be side his thousands of l oelievers oblind, B3urning, and headlong as the Saminil wind — Many who felt, and more who fiar'd to feet Th e bloody Islaniste' s cadnvertinrgh ste el, Flock'd to his banner; —Chiefs, of th' Uz13EK race, Waving their heron crests with miartial grace;~ TUR~KOMANS, countless as their flocks, led forth 1From thi''arotmatic pastures of the North; Wild warriors of the turquoise hiills,**-and those Who dwel-l b~ey,ond the ever-las,,ing snows Of ItIN'Imo Ko)st',,,t in tormy freedom bred, iTheir fort the reekl, thieir camiip the torrent's bed. But none, of all wh,Io own'dt the Chiief's command, Rtish'd to that lal-ihlwith bolder hand, Or sterner hiate, tban I.-^AN'S ot'.tlaw'd men, tier Wor-stipp~lers of Fireitl'all panting then For vengieanice on tli' accursed Saracen; Venigeanc.e at last fo)r their dear country spuirn'd, Her throne uisurp'd, and her bright shrines o'erturned From YEZD's~~ eternial mansion of the Fire, Where aged s;iiiits in dreams of Hleav'n expire: From BAD)KT, and thios,e fountains of blue flame That burm into the CA.sPIAN,Ittl fierce they came, Careless for what or whom the blow was sped, So vengeance trluiumph'd, and their tyrants bled Who leads this mighty army?-ask ye " who Fp And mark ye no,, those banners of dark hue, h'lie Night and Shadow,, over yonder tent?-W It is the CALIPI's glorious armament. Roused in his Palace by the dread alarms, TIhat hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms, And of his host of infidels, who hurl'd I)efiance fierce at Islami** and the world,-i Though worn withi Grecian warfare, and behind l'lie veils of its bright P'alace calm reclined, Yet brook'd I.,- no, sitlh blasphemy should stain, Ilihus'Inreve,.ged, the ev~ening of his reign; litt, having sworn upon the Holy GravetFta To conquer or to perish, once more gave His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze, And, with an army nursed in victories, fiere stauds to crush the rebels that o'er-run HIis blest and beauteous Province of the Sun. Ne'er (lid the mitarce of MAfiA Di display Such pomp before;-not ev'n when oil his wayd T, MIECCA's Teniple, when both laud and seaT Were spoil'd to feed the Pilgrim's luxury;It Such was the wild and miscellaneous host, That highi in air their mnotley banners toss'd Around ilhe Propliet-Ch,i'ef-all eyes still bent Upon that glitteriug Veil, where'er it went, That beacon through the battle's stormy flood, That rainbow of lite field, whose showers were blood! Tov. Topreven,t thisincnenec to the, court, the Emperor, after, suffiien,t time,, is, allowed to the tresmento fottow, orders them to be burnt ou f their, tents."~JwsHnot Colonel W.ilks gives a lively picture of a. Eastern er n catp e n t seta, "Hi, camp, like ttint f In aies, ex'ibited a mottey aletio,n tf,covers fom the tcorchingand dewvs of tlhe nigtit, variegated dccrd bei nel Whie tstrea of tear in hiisd,noonti byle snperb suites of teits; ty ra gge clo~~~~~~th e o laktsstetchd oestic-ks or bran,!elms pam-'.sh,tily spr,'a OiIIII},CI,lover timl'C~ind Onllarlil~l 15siy SoeupptorIa'tIsot hanso thats crimsolndi haeaps ,oa intermixed witbout aity ,cept t f l gs of tisaully p,,'ti'k the c tt resof a onz~:ie of th~,,-e se s; tie only regular part ,)f the~~~~~~~ encamp"~n en~t~ s teel,o,sop, ecof whi,ch is con tdirly ini th,e fa booth a t a., English fair.' istor cc'i 0ii bkeltchs ofthei tint o f ii~' sIed.'-ieiah._. ill,.'hg liii el of sitapor and Balbec are (unpprsd to snv) been huiy e~i},a tingunder the orders ( who bvelon e t!e ld h p ile the ri,,, of Zoosr anAdw ae. t*" A;'p,'l ae or aeteitd withs and tu ft salel A of.,,~~~~d allured soutI.....d l,y means oftl....e at(,g;1i,ta 5 0et li 1111en Shirat an Iatehar, ca]wdll ed tie Forandh of Bt sir,o ,f'l it,itisofrdta it w'il f(i~l ow whrvrthat water i carried. ':. Some of ~he camelshv be.lls abo,ut the~ir necks, and' some about l1,..lgs, like, thsez whih or caresput about the~ir fr-oss nk, whice itoge ther itly ervant. (,,h belong to the camels, ,:1insis of g lit siiered',tiinging night.i men a pleasant noise, andh j~ne asses awy de4"gl, tfi'!y." —Pitt's Accoun~t of tle Mahometans.. "Thecaml-drver,'%1owsthe cael,inging. and sometimes plain ~pon h~~~~~~~is ie h idr}es~sad pipes, th~e fas.ter the camelsgo N,v hywill stand still wh en he i.e ovr}iusic."-Tavernier. !I' Tiff trupet s ofen cll,, mAbyss~in,ia, ne cane, wh~ich sig ri N.est!e ot,!f tle B.,al."-.N,te~ rc's Editor. ?. l~etwobl~ck tanard bone ~etrethe, Caliph., of the House of Abba,s,,ere ca,lled, allegoricalIly, Th. Night and The Stadow. —Sce ** "T;~e I',,r,ansswa by the, Tomb of Shahl Bes,ade, who is~ buriedt at Casbin: and w!,,: on,eirsaother, to assvrt a mtter, he,,,ill ask h i, if} dte sway the Itoly ae.-Sr. ii.5 gamt,:.in a sigepilgrim.age to Meecca, expended si millions of bo ftts * i Metcam apportavit, rem ibi aut n,uquam act raro visam. i' Th einhabif~tan'ts o lejaz or Arabia Petrma, called by an Eastern reappose writer, "The'((ple ofitie Roek." —Fb Haukal. Ii I an "TnoJe wmreo callerd +hy the Ara,bians Kahalmn, of whom a wr i in gnaloy Ines been kept far,,000 yea.,.']'hey are said to derive th i.oiinfo Kin ~g 8olom, n sseds." —.Nieb,hr. o "M liy ot tihe figures n the lisdes of their swovits are wrought in i odor sile, or n mrque,try with -mall gems." —dtsiat. M-lisc. v. i. ~ i of the Uzhek Tarta rs wear a plnme of white heron's Ntmount of indKea ir teyindou '. t urquo ise..-b~Iakal. 'r r ail descngription of these stupendous ranges of mountains, see El.hiso's Canbid. +ea y deP rmts o r Gu e bresb, those original natives of Persia who adher,,, to ti-.eir aninttith, the religion of Zoroaster, Dnd who, after t]3q contuest of theCoer iir Icaiotry by the Arabs, were either persei uted at home. or fi,rced] to b~ecome wanDderers abroad. ~~\"~ezd, t:ef h idef reidte th icient natives, who worship ehCaliphs of the Fire. wotilch latter they have carefully kept lighted, y ight ain The eti)hd for a oextnt, about 3000 years, on a muan er~z ca,Illed Aiti Qn,edah, signiifyiitg the House or Man Pthe ire. tie is rcikonedi very unftortunate who dies off that I When,, t}.e, wea-ris Liay. the sings of Naphtita (on an island nc[Bk),boil up thebihe. n the, Na!tha often takes fire on the s n racao,ttoe e,u e:th, anti r us lina ilante itt o the sea to a ilistance ahtost ir. aan te,e at Balu. 2 f i i I i I I I I LALLA ROOKU. I if 114 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. By which the prostrate Caravan is awed,* In the red Desert, when the wind's abroad. "On, Swords of God!" the panting CALIPH calls,"Thrones for the livinig-Heav'n for him who falls!" On, brave avengers, on," MOKA.NNA cries, And EBLIS blast the recreant slave that flies!" Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the dayThey clash-they strive-the CALIPr'S troops give way MIOKAN.NA'S self plucks the black Banner down, And now the Orient World's Imperial crown Is just within his grasp-when, hark, that shout! Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslem's rout, And now they turn, they rally-at their head A warrior, (like those angel youths who led, In glorious panoply of Heav'n's own mail, The Champions of the Faith through BEDER'S valet., Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives, Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives At once the multitudinous torrent backWVhile hope and courage kindle in his track; And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes Terrible vistas through which vict'ry breaks! In vain MIOKANNA,'midst the general flight, Stands, like the red moon, on some stormy night, Anmong the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by, Leave only her unshaken in the skyIn vain he yells his desp'rate curses out, Deals death promiscuously to all about, To foes that charge and coward friends that fly, And seems of all the Great Arch-enemy. The panic spreads-" A miracle!" throughout The Moslem ranks, "a miracle!" they shout, All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems A. light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams; And ev'ry sword, true as o'er billows dim Ihe needle tracks the load-star, following him! O ne sole desire, one passion now remains To keep life's fever still within his veins, Vengleance! dice vengeance on the wretch who cast O'er him and all he loved the ruinous blast. For this, when rumours reach'd him in his flight Far, far away, after that fatal night,Rumours of arm-nies, thronging to th' attack Of the Veil'd Chief,-for this he wing'd him back, Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl'd, And, when all hope seem'd desp'rate, wildly hurl'd Himself into the scale, and saved a world. For this he still lives on, careless of all The wreaths that Glory on his path lets fall; For this alone exists-like lightning fire, To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire! Right tow'rds MIOKANXNA now he cleaves his path, lnipatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath He bears frotii.Heav'n withheld its awful burst From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst, To break o'er Him, the mightiest and the worst! But vain his speed-though, in that hour of blood, Hlad all God's seraphs round MOKANNA stood, With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, MOKANNA's soul would have defied them all; Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong For human force, hurries ev'n him along: In vain hlie struggled'mnid the wedged array Of flyingf thousand-he is borne away; And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows, In this forced flight, is —murd'ring as he goes! As a grini tiger, whom the torrent's might Surprises in some parch'd ravine at night, Turns, ev'n in drowning, on the wretched flocks, Swept with him in that snow-flood from the rocks, And, to the last, devouring on his way, Bloodies the stream he hath not power to stay. But safe as yet that Spirit of Evil lives; With a small band of desp'rate fugitives, Trhle last sole stubborn tfagmenit, left unriv'n, Of the proud hcst that late stood fronting Heav'n, He gain'd MT.:,oi —breathed a short curse of blood O'er his lost throne —thlien pass'd the JIHON's flood,t And gathi'ring all whose madness of belief Still saw a Saviour in their down-fall'n Chief, Raised the whiitt banner within NEKSHEB'S gates,; And there, untanned, th' approaching conq'ror waits. Of all his Itareiii, all that busy hive With music and with sweets sparkling alive, He took but one, the partner of his flight, One-not for love-not for her beauty's lightNo, ZFI.ICA stood with'ring'midst the gay, Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday From th' Alma trec and dies, while overhead Tro-day's young flow'r is springing in its stead.~ Oh, not for love-the deepest Damn'd must be Touch'd with lheaven's glory, ere such fiends as he Can feel one glimpse of Love's divinity. But no, she is ls victim; —th ere lie all Her charms for i in —cl'arms that can never pas, As long as hell within his heart can stir, Or one faint trace of Heaven is left in her. To work an angel's ruin,-to behold As white a page as Virtue e'er unroll'd Btacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll Of damning sins, seaI'd with a burning soulThis is his triumph; this the joy accurst, That ranks him amtiong demons all but first: "Alla illa Alla!"-the glad shout renew Alla Akbar!"t-the Caliph's in MEItoU. Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets, And light your shrines and clhaint your ziraleets.~ The Swords of God have triumph'd-on his throne Your Caliph sits, and the veil'd Chief hath flown. Who does not envy that young warrior now, ro whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow, In all the graceful gratitude of power, For his throne's safety in that perilous hour? Who doth not wonder, when, amidst th' acclaim Of thousands heralding to heaven his name * Sarary says of the south wind, which blows in Egypt from Februm7 to May, "Sometimes it appears only in the shape of aii impetuous whirlwind, which passes rapidly, and is fatal to the traIveller, surprised in the middle of the deserts. Torrents of burning sand roll before it, the firmament is enveloped in a thick veil, and the sun appears of the colour of blood. Sometimes whole caravans are buried in it." t In the great victory gained by Mahonaed at Beder, lae was assisted, , the Mussulmans, by three thiousand angels, led by Gabriel, imoul nte on his horse lliizum.-See The Koran and its Commentators. The Tecsir, or cry of tlhe Arabs. " Alia Akbair'" says Ockley, means, " God is most mighty.". ~ The ziraleet is a kind ofi chorus, which th.e women of the East sing 4on joyful occasions. —tsscl. *'I'he Dead Seat, which con.tain,s neither animal nor vegetable life. .The ancient Ox,,s. I A city oTransoxiana " You lever ca ca, st your eyes on this tree, but you meet there either Gblossomn. or Quit; and a.s the blossom drops, underneath on the groulnd (which 1 is fliiutltly eoust, w ith these purple-coloored flow.re ) othen collme lbrthl il ti~i, t.aI " &c. &c.-Ad'uho,T. 11 I I i 114 TFIE MIRROR LIBRARY. 'Mid all those holier harmonies of fame, Which sound along the path of virtuous souls, Like music round a planet as it rolls He turns away-coldly, as if some loom Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can illume Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze Though glory's light may plav, in vain it play& Yes, wretched AziAi! thine i such a grief, Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief; A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can break, Or warm or brighten,-like that Syrian Lake,* Upon whose surface morn and summer shed Their smiles in vain, for fill beneath is dead!Hearts there have been o'er which this weight of wo Cari-ie by Iiii, use of suff'ring, tame and slow; But thine, lost youth! was sudden-over thee It broke, at )nce, when all seem'd ecstasy; When [-Ioie look',] til), and saw the gloomy Past llelt iiito spleii(lour, and Bliss dawn at last 'Tw;is tl)en, ev'ii then, o'er joys so freshly blown, This i-ilortal billet of misery came down; ;n tll(,n, the full warm gushings of t4y heart Were cli(!cli'd-like fount drops, frozen as they stard.And there-, like them, cold, sunless relies hang. Each fix'd and c[ililld into a lasting pang. i i Instant from all who saw th' illusive sign O A murmur broke-" Mi racul ous! divine!" rhe Gheber bow'd, thinking his idol star Had waked, and burst impatient through the bar I Of midnight, to inflame him to the war; W ~Vhile he of MoUssA's creed saw, in that ray, I The glorious Light which, in his freedom's day, Had rested on the Ark,* and now again ' Shoine out to bless the breaking of his chain. this gives the victim, that before him lies Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes, A light like that with which hell-fire illumines I'lie ghlastly, writhing wretch whom it consumes! P,lt other tasks now wait him-tasks that need All tile deep daringuess of tlough,t and deed W itli which tlhe Dives* have gifted him-for mark, t)ver yow plains, which night had else made dark, l'hose lanterns, countless as the winged lights li'hzt spangle INDIA's fields on show'ry nights,-t Far,s their formidable gleams they slied, 'c iiilhtv tents of the beleigiterer spread, '" ring alonig tli' horizon's dusky line, ,:l tlelce in nearer circles, till they shine 'lti;, the fotunts and groves, o er which the town ..!1 it s a: iii'd ill gilificence looks down. ~'#.I,, i-less, from his lofty battlements ;1 -.-\NNA \views thait multitude of tents; i t niles to think that, though entol'd, beset, ";,,t less than myriads dare to front himn yet;'i"litt friendless, throneless, he thus stands at bay, . thus a match for myriads such as they. i'h l)r a sweep of that dark Angel's wing, "I,,,) brntsh'd the thousands of th' Assyrian Kingt I,, darknkess in a Itoment, that I might ~'.t,le Hell's chambers with yon host to-night! ~, come what may, let who will grasp the throne, Q t:ih or Prophet, Man alike shall groan; l,ct who will torture him, Priest-Caliph-King I A'ke this loathsome world of his shall ring \N'tit victims' shrieks and howlings of the slave, u:ownds that shall glad me ev'ni within my grave'!" T'~lus, to himself-but to the scanty train kt i' left around him, a far different strain: ~'lorious Defenders of the sacred Crown I bear from Heav'n, whose light nor blood shall (I o'A m "N,ir shadow of earth eclipse;-before whose ger.I,. ' The paly pomp of this world's diadems,, 'Xte crown of GERASHID, the pillar'd throne Ot PAitviz,~ and the heron crest that shone,U 'MIagnificent o'er ALI'S beauteous eyes,~ Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies: "\Varriors, rejoice-the port to which we've pass'a o'er Destiny's dark wave, beams out at last! Vict'rv's our own-'tis written in that Book *' Upon whose leaves none but the angels look, ~I'Iiat IsLAM's sceptre shall beneath the power O(); her great foe fall broken in that hour, \t hen the noon's mighty orb, before all eyes, Ftrcai NEKSIIEB's Holy Well portentously shad rise! ' Nowv turn and see"! - " To victory!" is at o nce the c ry of all Nor sta nds MOKANNA loit'rifo g at that call; BItt inist(ant the huge gates are flung aside, And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide Into the boundless sea, the y speed their course Right on into th e Mosle m's mi ghty forc e. T hle watchmen of th e camp, -who, in their rounds lt ad paused, a nd even forgot' the punctual sounds Of the small drum with which they count the nigh, To gaze upon that supernatural light, Now sink beneath an unexpected arm, Aind in a death-grOan give their last alarm 'On for the lamps, that light yon lofty scren,; "Nor blunt your blades with massacre so mean; "T/terc rests the Caliph-speed-one lucky lance. "May now achieve mnankind's deliverance.'' l)esp'rate the die-such as they only cast, WVho venture for a world- 2nd stake their last. But Fate's no longer with him-blade for blade Springs up to meet thiem through the glimm'ring,.,,d, l And, as the clash is heard, new legions soon lPour tw the spot, like bees of KAUZEROON~ rI',o tte snri!! timbrel's summons,-till, at length, ] 7'hT, mighty camp swarms out in all its strength. I1 An I back to NFKSHEB'S gates, covering the plain With random slaughter, drives the adventurou- train; Among the last of whom the Silver Veil Is seen glitt'ring at times, like the white Hail O Of some toss'd vessel, on a stormy night, Catching the tempest's momentary light! And hath not this brought the proud spirit low? Nor dash'd his brow, nor check'd his daring? No Though half the wretches, whom at night he led To thrones and vict'ry, lie disgraced and dead, Yet norning h m ears him, with unshrinking crest, Still vaunt of thrones, and vict'ry to the rest;And they believe him!-oh, the lover may Distrnst that look which steals his soul away;The babe may cease to think that it can play With Heaven's rainbow;-alchymists may doubt The shining gold their crucible gives out; But Faith, fanatic Faith, once w%edded fast To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. They turn'd, and, as he A s,tdden splendour all around them broke, .,'id they beheld an orb, ample and bright, ',ise fromn tile Holy Well,"' End cast its light it);trd the rich city and the plain for miles,-tt F'lingring such radiance o'er the gilded tiles ( mariny a dome, and fair-roof'd imaret, As autumn suns shled round them when they set. And well th' Impostor knew all lures and arts That LUCIFER e'er taught to tangle hearts; Nor,'mid these last bold workings of his plot Against men's souls, is ZELICA forgot. Ill-fated ZELICA! had reason been Awake, through half the horrors thou hast seen, Thou never couldst have borne it-Death had come At once, and taken thy wrung spirit home. But'twas not so- a torpor, a suspense Of thought, almost of life, came o'er the intense And passionate struggles of that fearful night, When her last hope of peace and heav'n took flight: And though, at times, a gleam of phrensy broke,As through some dull volcano's vale of smoke Ominous flashings now and then will start, T Ie Demons of the Persian mythology. arreri mentions thie fire-flie in India during the rainy season. B-See .lis TravelsO : Sernaclerib, called by the Orientals King of Moussal.-D'Herbel ot. ~ tilosooes. For the description oft his Throne or Palace, see Gibbon as! D'1)Hebelot. T ere were said to be under this Throne or Palace of Khlosrou Parviz a buldrd vaults filled ovitt "treasures so immeese that some Mahometa ritrs tell,us their Propitet to encourage his disciples carried them to a r.k wiich at his command opened and gave then aprospect tlrough ~t or the treasures of Kihosrou."- Universal History. i{ "The crowa of Gerasiid is cloudy and tarnished before the heron tutt ofthly turban. -From one of the elegies or songs in praise of Al, riten in characters of gol round the gallery of Abbas's tomi- See (:/'tardlin. T le beauty of Ai's eyes was so remarkable that whenever the Per,,.I oould describe an y thing as very lovely, they say it is Ayn Hall, or l e Ey-,s of Ali.-Chardin. am " e are not told..re of this trick of the Impostor, than that it was "une machine, qu'il disoit 6tre la Lune." According to Richardson., the :miracle i. perpetuated in Nekscheb.-" Nakshlab the name of a city in Transoxiana. where they say there is a well in which the appea rance of t;.e n,.,n is t- he seen night,and day." t? "11 areusa pendant deux mlois le peuple de la ville de Nekhscheb, en bisanlt soytit toutes ies n,uits du fond d'un puits.n corps lumine, x sent*'.ile X a e. qui porto:t so lumie'e jusqt'k la distance de plisirurs mills."D'ferbeot. Hence he as called azendehma, or the Moonm,aker. *The Shechinah, called Saklnat in the Koran.-See Sale'' JVot6 chap. ii. r rThe parts of the night are made known as well by instruments of msiC, as by the rounds of the watchmen with cries and small dru.ms.-See Bu,rde,'s Oriental Custgos, vol. i. p. 119. t The Serrapurda, high screens of red cloth, stiffened with t:te, used to enclose a considerable space round the royal tents. —-o:.. n th Bahardanush. The tents of princes are generally illuminated. Nttrden.tet- un that the tent of the Bey of Girge was distinguished from tie other tents lsy firty lanterns being sittpetded before it.-See Harier's Observationu on J.I" r. I h~ "From the groves of orange-trees at K.uzeroon tile bees rt:11 a cl !-'.rated honey." orier', Travd, LALLA ROOKH. 115 spoke, THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Which sh: w the fire's still busy at its heart; Yet was she mostly wrapp'd in solemn gloom,Not stv-h as Azim's, broodin-g o'er its doom, And calm without, as is the brow of death, While busy worms are gnawing underneath-n But in a blank and pulseless torpor, free From thought or pain, a seal'd-up apathy, Which left her oft, wit-6 scarce one living thrill TIhe cold, pale victim of her tort'rer's will. At festivals of fire, were sent aloft Into the air, with blazing fatgots tied To their huge wings, scatt'ring combustion wide All night the groans of wretches who expire, In agony, beneath these darts of fire, Ring through the city —w~hile, decscenidinig o'er Its shrines and dourues and streets of sycamore,Its lone bazars, wit!i their brig,ht cloths of gold, Since the last pwacsfel pageant left u jtso]'d,Its beauteous marble baths, whose idl~e jets Now gush with bloo~d, —aid its tall minare,,ts, That late have stood up in the evening glare Of the red sun, uinhallow'd by a prayer; O'er each, ini turn, the dreadful flamt~ie-Ibolts fall, And death alid coniflagratoion through,Iout all Th'le desola~te city hold hl,igh fe;,4tival ~ Again, as in Madou, be had her deck'd Gorgeounly out, the Priestess of the sect; And led her glitt'ring forth before the eyesO Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice, — Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride Of the fierce NILE, when deck'd in all the pride Of nuptial pomp,,he sinks into his tide.* And while the wretched maid hurg down her head, And stood, as on.e just risen from the dead, Amid that g,azinig crowd, the fiend would tell His credulous slaves it was seme charm or spell Possess'd hera now,-and from that darken'd trance Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliverance. Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shiam-e, Her soul was roused, and words of wildness came, Instant the bold blasphemer would translate Her ravings into oracles of fate, Would hail Heav'n's signals in her flashing eyes, And call her shrieks the language of the skies! H MOKANNA sees the world is his n-o more; One sting at parting, aind ]~if. firasp) is o'er. AWhat!-droolinii now? t" —tius, with unblushing cheek He hiails the few, who ye,t can hear hiii,:peak, Of all those fam-iishi'd slaves arounird hiim, lyinig, And by the ligh~t of b'aizi,gi, tempj~les dyling;" What!-drooping n owu'now, wsieii at length we press " Home chsvery thresho ld of s u ccesst "When ALLA ft(om otir ranks t.::ttii tllinn'd away "Those gross,,er branche~s, thak-t k(tlpt ouit his ray "Of favotir from- us~, and we s~tanid at length "Heirs of his light atnd children of hiis strength, "The chosen few, who shiall survive the fall "Of Kings and Thirones, triumiiphant over all! "tave you then lost, weak muI~rnm'rers as you are, "All faith in him, who was yea,r Light, your Star? "Have you forgot the eye of glory, hiid "Beneath this Veil, tile flashing of whose lid "Could, like a sun-strolke of tlie, desert, wither "Millions of such as yonder Chief brinigs hither? "Long have its lightnings slep~t —too long-but now "All earth shiall feel th' unveiling of this brow! "To-fnight —yes, sainted meni! this very night "I bid you all to a fair festal rite, "Where-having deep refi'esli'd each weary l~inm "With viands, such as feast Ilcaven's cherubim, "Arid kitidled up yo)ur souls, now sunik and dim, N"tlit that puire wiine the Dark-eyed Maids above "Ke~ep, scal'd with precious mu.-:k, for those they love,* —. "I will mhyself unieurtain in your sighit "The( wenders of this brow's ineffable light; "Then lead you forth, and with a wiiik disperse "Yoiinimyriad:%,i howling,, through the universe!" But vain at length his arts-despair is seen Gath'riug around; and famine comes to glean All that tie sword had left uureap'd:-in vain At morn and eve across the northern plain He looks impatient for the promised spears Of the wild hordes and TAPTAlt mountaineers; Thev come not-while his fierce beleaguerers pour Engines of liavoc in, unknown before,t And horrible as new;:-javeliis, that fly Enwrcath'd with smoky flames thirugh the dark sky, And red-hot globes, that, opening as they mount, Discharge, as from a kindled Naphtha fount,Wf Showers of consuming- fire o'er all belowi [,ooking, as throougl th' illunmined night they go, Like those wild birds'! that by the Muaians oft, *" A customc still subsisting at ti aeayp, se t pe ms those they poveta ,he Egyptians formerly saeribeco a youni virgin to tie God of ttie Iile; to ihy now make a otatue o f earth ii.lipe of a girs o tis browy ine tile nae of the Betrot,ed lt,row it,to hei, t That they knew the secret of ti GrIeek firo n among twe disps early in tile eleveith rea n i at i ury,appears myrd owln toug t universe I. "Whe,n hec a r iet oum.findi~ l I-at the cutyo teJt was dfended by great river he ordered fitteen hundre d boats to be b u i t e hof wn h~ lirmed with siix iron spike, por.- ig,.o iheir prous and sides, to preveint their being bopi y tle t en-ey who w,ervey expert in that kind of wa.-. WVi~, henbhdiacbdbi ot, h orderedI twenty acbhe ew into theich boat, afts;itio flrme bafls,to btie tiig craiit of the Jith, nd npohuthi ances to the lhtle r~~~~~~iae n t firpe." Tag,ee a steo, toi, in Indian potims- the Cnstruief re-ehor in, waoice fiam finopt ge etiengrauias lonu bfr ppoffendl to mignic y tha bids herlk Freie. osei dfik' South eryndi, uope int. 4byl.,Aml itm ne bathiths e hJv, o, glhe Bratoug m na geiiie noie C eplist -by Sto Sth esi ho- in f,ames hadlltry st ava, we find, " I I, a i Bd at the art of 8o6tw the s!;arp-pointcd ~/epn ofFr. he meat ie a luderosrin ho l a hondr a u, lg tl Arabi ans, long f ea fbo i bppyosea diocomb tery in Earopt,e,s hintrouced by ten fire, Egyptian gaon 1the thirteenth century. ofodic. The ". sY. aty" te by o rpions, bo und round aI-d din sed wittid;it-, o.de,, glide I,.." i.le soe; pae etc loo'o, ad f wtuny ghen as itwr,d bu.rn,. Bt ~thrae other s Whrt, c.st in-to the, an e.,,'b..,ad tow which,,,,d.tpl tae siee ofg ^ ucunt of the ypar f in the yerdart of whic,ie Aled cilbe, by sea sa f ao Jobustibla matt,e r, wi th a ighsty t orw edddi er ly emittrd, strikes wit the force of lightning, and pk e ctadel.5 a-maethe xtracts from i Bi blith. Arab. Hispoug. i the Appmdidi. to Bertnfton's3 Li,terary History of the MideAges. Th Gre k fir,, be.i w hhas nowviy o eit d the longrshou the ilda alhies. "Itwa.sasGbo,"ihrauheinrdotalso -to,,, and iron. or dar,t,,, in arrow,s, ad jvln.twistedronwihfa and to,, which t d dce ply inr ithe d th e ind flolwe f il." ~ See Hanway,'s Accoun~t of the Springs of Nttp!.tl,,a at Baku (wh~ich Is, called by Lieuten,an~t Po,ttin.er Joala, MoTokee. or, theFlmn Mouth) taki~ng fire andt running in'-to the sea. Dr. C.oke,, in hisi Journal, mentions om well., in Circasiia stogly im~pregna,ted with, this in,,ta —able oil, from which iseboinwae.'Though~ the wecather," he adds, " was, now very coId, thewrt of these weIls of hot water produced near them the vedu,re and flowers of spr.ng." Majir ~%ott a ays that naphth a is u(t by th, as e are told i t was in hT!el. tos l ar s. Eag,er they listen-while each accent darts ~iNew life into thleir chlll'd and hlope-sick hearts; aShiteli treacli'ronis life as the cool draught supplies t poe lm upon the stake, who drinks and dies Wil,_i1y the(y point their lances to the light 0n1, lie fast siuking sun, and shout " To-night!" "T-irt" their Chief re-echioes in a voice Of fiendS-like mockery that bids hiell rejoice. Deliuded victims! —never hath this earth Seen miouirningi half so mournful as their mirth. H',.to tile:.-'w, whio:~~ ironi frames had stood Tis'ackitat{ waste of famrine and of blood, vFaaint, dy'irig wretches ciung, from whom the shout Of triumph like a maniac's laugli broke out: T'here, others, lighted by the smould'iring fire, Danced, like wani ghiosts about a funeral pyre, Alnong the dead and dyinig, strew'd arountd; While some pale wretchi look'd on, and from his wo!und Plucking the fiery dart by which lie bled. In ghastly transport waved it o'er his hecad! 'Twas more than midnight niow —a fearfuil paus~e Ilad follow'd the long shouts, t he wild applause, That lately from t,hose Roya~l (ilardens h~urst, W"here the Veil'd detiion held his feast accurst, m and b ird.s, wiich being thie let tih,,si., le air aipte artd aippereid nr, great illumination, aud as thece. teillied sinially fled(l t,, the awoods for shelter. it is -asy to ci,,Ccixe i;: efli,:':ai-ous they pro I * *'The righi.- — si~tlie r'ise I,o iritk.' pure -iii,is, s,-ah-d: lb !] "At the great festival of fire, attd i Si i,,y lice it dot ,.e to targe b'ne e f ]y eor;:i-,ltil~s.,.'. l roi:id ild L5v a - i. i 11(i ......... ma.y a r.,,, ori"t""y ],,.p.,..d bla..g t,d W t I tj -.phtl,.,.d a,,p,,,Itu. yill'.g lig,,t A.- ro.,. ky. - ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ When Zelica-alas, poor riin'd heart, In ev'ry horror doom'd to bear its part!W&L oidden to the banquet by a slave, W11ho, while his quiv'ring lip the summons gave, Grew black, as though the shadows of the grave CoIapass'd hint round, and, ere he could repeat His ities.sage through. fell lifeless at her feet! Shuddlering she weit-a soul-felt pang of fear, A presage that her own dark doom was near, lRoused ev'rv feeling, atid brought Reason bacO Oiice more to writhe her last upon the rack. All rotiod scil'di traIquil-cv'n the foe had ceased, \As it aware of that demoniac featet, Htis fiery bolts, and thoughl the heav'nis look'd red, ''w as I5bit soime (distant conflagrationl's spread. l!Lt Itisrk-she sto)s-t he listens-dreadful tone! 'is hIe!'I'orrtetor'i s lau,gh-and now, a groan, .A loi2 d atl -groan con(s with it:-can this be 'l'ie Ili ce of mirth, the bower of revelry? Sl:c enteis-Holy ALL., what a sig,ht s there befo!'e her! By the glimmn'ring light t)f th1 pale dawn, mixx'd with the flare of brands 'ltiat r)ound iy burnintn,, drcpp'd from lifeless hands, S-he saw the board( iti splendid mockery spread, Rich censer.s breatliiig-;garlai,ds overhead'Flie uri;s, the cuprs, fron wiichi they late had q(uaff'd, All told anid geii,s. but-what had been the draught? Oh w ho need ask, that saw those livid guests, \ ith tt'cir swoll n heads siiiik black'ining on their breasts, Or looi.ing pale to Hleav'ii with glassy glare, As if t!eiy solghlit but stw no mercy there; As if they felt, thougli poison rack'd them through, i',el1orsc {t;e deadlier tor,,letit of the tw?o! t ohile 0 the brav,est, hardiest in the train ')i hei false Clhief, who on the battle-plain \ oldi have itet death with transport by his side, I i.r u e and helpl)ess gasp'd;-but, as they died, (. horrible vengeance with their eyes' last strain, A.t1d tiacih'd the slakk'iting hand at him in vain " For mne-I too must die-but not like these "Vile, rankli)g things, to fester is the breeze; "To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, "With all death's grimness added to its own, "And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes "Of slaves, exclaiming,' There his Godship lies!' "No-cursed race-since first my soul drew breath, "They've been rny dupes, and shall be even in death. "Thou seest yon cistern in the shadc-'tis fill'd "With burning drugs, for this last hour distill'd:-* "There will I plunge me in that liquid flame- io "Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frarne!"There perish, all-ere pulse of thine shall fail"Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale. "So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rove, "Proclaim that Heav'ln took back the Saint it gave;"That I've but vanish'd from this earth awhile, "To come again, with bright, unishrouded smile! "So shall they build me altars in their zeal, "Where knaves shall minister, and fools shall kneel; "Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic spell, "Written in blood-and Bigotry may swell "The sail he spreads lor Heavi'n with blasts fi'om bell! "So shall my banner, through long ages, be "T'he rallying sign of fraud and anarchy;"Kinigs yet unborn shall ruc MOKANNA'S name, "And, though I die, my spirit, still the same, "Shall walk abroad in all the stormny strife, "And guilt, and blood, thiat were its bliss in life. "But, hark! their batt'ring engine shakes the wall"Why, let it shake —thus I can brave them all. "No trace of me shall greet them, when they come, "And I can trust thy faith, for-thou'lt be dumb. "Now mark how readily a wr-etch like me, "In one bold plunge commiien-ces Deity!," l)re dful it was to see the ghastly stare, 'I'lit sto-)y look of horror and despair, I'lie h some of these expiring victims east tI)oi their soiils' torimenitor to the last;Ui)on thiat imocking Fiend, whose veil, now raised, .i,(w'd tlieii. as in deatlih's agony they gazed, \ot tle line promise. light, the brow, whose beaming W\as to come forth, all conquering, all redeeming, B: eat: res I orribler t}LO Ileil e'er traced * its ownl brood; —no I)einoii of the Waste,* N r tellrch-y-ard Ghole, caught liugering in the light Oi tihe blest sun, e'er blasted humrran sight \' ithl linciameits so foul, so fierce as those t l' Imnpostor now, in grimniuc inock'ry, shows: e'i' rc, vw ewise Saints, behIolil your Light, your- Star "Ye wo.tI be dupes and victims, and ye are. Is it en-ough? or must I, while a thrill Lises in your sapient bosomns, cheat you still? S':;wear that the burning death ye feel within Is but the trauce with which Heaven's joys begin; ''hat this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced "E v'n monstrous mnan, is-after God's own taste; - And thaitt-but see!-ere I have half-way said AMy greetings through, th' uncourteous souls are fled. Farewell, sweet spirits! not in vail ye die, "If EBLIS loves you half so well as I. "[Ha, mny youlng bride!-'tis well-take thou thy s C Nay come-no shluddeting-didst thou never meet "I'he Dead Before? they graced our wedding, sweet; Andl these, my guests to-nighit, have brimm'd so true '['lleir partinig cpll)s, that t!toe shalt pledge one too. "But-lihow is thlis?-all empty?-all drunk up? fIlot lips have been before thee in the cup, 'Young bridc-3-et stay-one precious drop remains, "tnotiufi to warm a gentle Priestess' veins;' [Iere, drinik-and should thy lover's conquering arms li* "1 dona'Iu poison dans le vi,, ik tous se gent, et se jeta lui-m^ me e nsuite dat une clve plein*c i l rogues brrlantes et co,stmantes, afirn qa'il ite rec.dt/t rie, de totlS ti ntent,lres te son corps, et q ue ceux qui -recs,tiecnt dit ta se i te pttis.-'i' croire qu'il e6toit monite u cielt, ce qti ne m';~l(lt". It'lS d'a river." —J)Itc*rb,:lot. t r'i,, y hei;.11 *3 tt rreat reverenen fttr tiorinl grounds, whtich they isomtinn cct ll ii y tI timy t/t,cti(':tl inti if Citie of t, e Ci ntti, tilt( "wh:t t'o Cs~ pcpit wt:,i f,e Clt,sts otf tlh'e d.par:tdr tt. I io sit,,Iteh it the hitti ol his VusIJ g:ratV,;,-i.-;}de it, molrtalI c'y?e.."'!,k}i nis;/J6e. 'i "'F:1., Af 5;d autn 1, o ~it.ttit if t~'e numerotus solitutdes anti desert, ,r tl'.e- tvt~:: r ittjt'thjil t-'t ty 1.,y,i a le t de,,,n, sl,IIm t ey call the .'; t!:'e -s. J..;,:t I-r.|asr'; ttf' itte't';st*. Thiy oiti il;lutstrates thes , I:t'<,}f "'y s q-,.l;St{,,,,l ttille. byj -:tyin;:, t'ey;t,<' a< wild a-. the D('1...'' O,~:' t t ".!I,, t..''...,h st.s (I',.,D&'t i I i i i i I i i I LALLA ROOKH. 117 " Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms, 11 Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, " And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss! He sprung and sunk, as the last words were ca,,(iQuick closed the burning waters o'er his licad.. And ZELICA was left-witliin the ring Of those wide walls the only livitig thing The only wretched one, still cursed witi-i breath, In all that frightful wilderness of death! More like soine bloodless gliost-slcli as, tlley tcll, In the Lone C'ti,-s of the Sileiitt dwell, And there., unseen of all but ALLA, Si', Each by its own pale carcass, watching it But iiiorn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs TI-iroughout the camp of the beleagiierers. Their globes of fire (the dread artill'ry lent By GREECE to conquering MAIIADI) are spent And now the scorploii's shaft, the quarry sent From high balistas, and the shielded throng Of soldiers swinging the huge:-am along, All speak tlil iitipaticiit I,,:Ianiite's intent To try, at le'i,.gtl), if tower and battlement And bastioned wall be not less hard to win, Less tough to break down than the hearts wittila. First in iinpatience and in foil is he, The burning Azim-oh! could lie but see Thl Iii)postor once alive within his grasp, Not the gauiit lion's hug, nor boa's clasp, Could match that grll)e of vengeance, or keep pace With the fell heartiness of Hate's embrace! Loud rings the ponderous ram against the walls; Now snake the ramparts, now a buttress falls,. But still no breach —, Once more, one mighty swing 11 Of all your beams, together thundering!" 11 TEMIRR IRNY There-the wall shakes-the shouting troops exult, "Quick, quick discharge your weightiest catapult "Right on that spot, and NEKSIIEB is our own!" 'Tis done-the battlements come crashing down, And the huge wall, by that stroke riven in tawo, Yawning, like some old crater, rent anew, Shows the dim, deso'late city smoking through. But strange! no signs of life-naught living seen Above, below-what can this stillniess mean'? A mninute's pause suspends all hearts and eyes" In through the breach," impetuous AzIM cries; But the cool Cti ir,IP, fearful of some wile In this blank stillness, checks the troops awhile,Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanced Foih from the rtiin'd walls, and, as there glanced A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see The well-known Silver Veil'-"'Tis HIe,'(is lie, "MOKANNA., and alone!" they shout around Young AzIM from his steed springs to the ground"Mine, Holy Caliph! mine," he cries, "the task "To crush yon daring wretch-'tis all I ask." Eager hlie darts to meet the dernoin foe, Who still across wvide heaps of ruin slow And falteringly comnes, till they are near; Then, with a bound, rushes on AziM'S spear, And, casting off the Veil in falling, showsOh!-'tis his ZFLICA'S life-blood that flows! Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see T he maiden's d eath, an d the youth's agony, Were living still-when, by a rustic grave, Beside the swift Amnoo's transparent wave, An aged man, who had grown aged there By that lone grave, morning and night in prayer, For the last time knelt down-and, though the sha(d6 Of death hung dark'ning over him, there play'd A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek, That brighten'd even Deatht-like the last streak Of intense glory on th' lhortzoll's brim, When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and dim. His soul had seen a Vision, while he slept; She, for whose spirit he had pray'd and wept So many year,, had come to him, all dress'd In angel smiles, and told him she was bless'd! For this the old man breathed his thanks, and died And there, upon the banks of that loved tide, He and his ZELICA sleep side by side. TtIE story of the Veiled Prophet of Khorassan nei,tg ended, they were now doomed to hear FADLADEEN'S criticisms upon it. A series of disappointments and accidt,its had occurred to this learned Chamberlain during the journey. In the first place, those couriers stationed. as in the reign of Shah Jehan, between Delhi and the NWest. ern coast of India, to secure a constant supply of niatigoes for the Royal Table, had, by some cruel irregularity, failed in their duty; and to eat any mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of course, impossible.* In the next place, the elephant, laden with his fine antique porcelain,i had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shattered the whole set to pieces:-an irreparable loss, as many of the ~ ssels were so exquisitely old, as to have been used under tile Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many ages before the dynasty of Tang. His Koran, too, supposed to be the identical copy between the leaves of which Mahoniet's favourite pigeon used to nestle, had been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three whole days; not without miuch spir itual alarm to FADLADEEN, who, though professing to hold with other loyal and orthodox Mussulmans, that salvation could only be found in the Koran, was strongly suspected of believing in his heart, that it could only be found in his own particular copy of it. WVlien to all these grievances is added the obstinacy of the cooks, in pititing, the pepper of Canara into his dishes instead of the ciIinamon) of Serendib, we may easily suppose that he camne to the task of criticism with, at least, a sufficient degree of irritability for the purpose. "In order," said lie, importantly swinging about his chaplet of pearls, "to convey with clearness my opinion of the story this young man has related, it is necessary to take a review of all the stories that have ever -" -" My good FADLADEEN!" exclaimed the Princess, interrupting him, "we really do not deserve that you should give yeurself so much trouble. Your opinion of the poem we have just heard, will, I have no doubt, be abundantly edifying, without any further waste of your valuable eruditioii."-" If that be all,'," replied the critic, —evidently mortified at not being allowed to show how much he knew about every thing, but the subject immediately before him,-" if that be all that is required, the matter is ea sily dispatched." He then proceeded to analyze the poem in that strain, (so well known to the unfortunate bards of Delhi,) whose censures were an infliction from which few " I meant not, AzI,i," soothingly she said, As on his tremiAbliingd arm she lean'd her head, And, looking in his face, saw anguish the re Beyond all wounds the quiv'ring fleseh can bear "I meant not thou shouldst have the pain of this:"Though death, withe s hee thus tasted, is a bliss "Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but know, "How oft I've pray'd to (God I might die so! "But the Fiend's veiiom was too scant and slow;"TI'o linger on ere mnadd'ingsig-and I thought "If once that Veil-nay, look not on it-caugliht "The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should be "S truck by a thousand deatl-darts ins tan tly. "But this is sweeter — - oh! b elieve me, yes"I would net change this sad, but dear caress, "This death within thy arms I would not give s For the most smiling life the happiest live! "All, that stood dark and drear before the eye "Of my stray'd soul, is passing swiftly by; "A light comes o'er me from those looks of love, "Like the first dawn of mercy from above"And if the lips but tell me I'm forgiv'n, "Angels will ecelo the bless'd words in Heav'n! "But live, my AzI; i-ooh! to call thee mine "Thus once-again! any Azim-dream divine I "Live, if thou ever lov'dst me, if to meet "Thv ZELICA hereafter would be sweet, "Oh, li e to pray for her-to bend the knee "Morning and night before that Deity, "To *whomn pure lips and hearts without a stain, "As thine are, AzI_X, never breathed in vain,"And pray that fie may pardon her,-may take "Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake, " And, naught rememb'ring- but her love to thee, "Make her all thline, all His, eternally! "Go to those happy fields where first we twined "Our youthful hearts together-every wind "That meets thee there, fresh from the well-known flow'rs, ' Will bring the sweetness of those innocent hours " Back to my solI, and thou mayst feel again " For thy poor ZELICA as thou didst then. " So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies "TI'o Heav'n upon the morning's sunshine, rise " With all love's earliest ardour to the skies! " And should they-but, alas, my senses fail" Oh for one minute!-should thy prayers prevail"If pardon'd souls may, from that World of Bliss "Reveal their joy to those they love in this" I'll come to thee-in some sweet dreamland tell'; Oh Heav'n —I die-deal love! farewell, farewell "' ' he celebrity of Maza-gong is owgtotsmnoswicar certainlity the best truit I ever tasted. he parent-tree, from which all those ot this specits have been grafted, is lionoir'd during the fruit-se.Osoin by a guard of spOys: aid, in the reign ofStal} Jeihan curiers e re statioine t ili sd the i tilMratta coast. to se cure al abundaint ando fresh supply of mangoes for tie royal tGb,le."- -,hrs. Grabam's Jouihal to a Resid ence inl Indsia. t Tis old porceain is tf..nd in digging, and "if it is eIsteemd. it. not bease it ha s acquiedt rely netv detcree ef I)t:utly il tle ealtt, blt becauise it has retained s eiets t be ty*;t ti h m is of geat iportalnce* iln Chln~t, wJlerc th~ey g:ive' ]ar,,e'sumls fior l'.e sma;ile.~t vessels Xwhich wevere used tumhit'r the I npi rors Y~an and C l.i w},ot:eielged many age.s i?etfre the dilasty. i f T tic, at whi!. time prela,ii tif,gani to Te u.f(eyl by tie Eil " rotrs. (:tho the y ar 41'2. ) —.v1Ts ( tlectiioi ft broitris I ] b,ervatti'is,, c.,; —a,,., p silti, o, soit e. parts ob the L[j' trex _l.l e (ri. s of.... t;'till- arl Jetuits. Time fleeted —years oni ye ars had pass'd away, Aitd few of those who an it,-",,,,,rnful day, 118 THE MIRROR LIBRKRY. LALLA ROOKII. 119 recovered, and whose very praises were like the honey extracted from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief personages of the story were, if he rightly understood them, an ill fa-vonred gentleman, with a veil over his face;-a young lady, whose reason went and came, according as it suited the poet's convenience to be sensible or otherwise;-and a youth in one of those hideous Buciiarian bonnets, who took the aforesaid gentleman in a vcil for a Divinity. " From such m1aterials," said he, ;- what can be expected?-after rivalling each other in lo-) i speeches and absurdities, through some thousands of i'les as indigestible as the filberts of Berdaa, our friend ;i the veil jumps into a tub of aquafortis; the young lady ies ini a Set speech, whose only recommendation is that it is her last; and the lover lives on to a good old age, 'i,r the laudable purpose of seeing her ghost, which he at iast lappily accomplishes, and expires. This, you will -~.1-ow, is a fair summary of the story; and if Nasser, the VArabian merchant, told no better, our Holy Prophet (to wiomn be all honour and glory!) had no nieed to be jeal ous of his abilities for story-telling."* With respect to the style, it was worthy of the matter — it had not even those politic contrivances of struc tlare, which make up for the commonness of the thoughts l)y the peculiarity of the manuner, nor that stately poetical lphraseology by which sentiments mean in themselves, l;ke the blacksmith'st apron converted into a banner, are so easily git and embroidered into consequence. Then as to the versification, it was, to say no worse of it, exe crable: it had neither the copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of Hafez, nor the sententious march of Sadi; but appeared to him, in the uneasy heaviness of its move mrients, to have been modelled upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. The licenses, too, in which it indulg ed, were unpardonable;-for instance this line, and the poemin abounded with such; tmore as speedily as possible. Her manner, however, of first returning to the subject was unlucky. It was while they rested during the heat of noon near a fountain, on which sohne hand had rudely traced those well-known words from the Ga rden of Sadi,-" Many, like me, ha ve view - d this fountain, but they are gone, and their eyes are closed forever!"-that she took occasion, fr om the melancholy beauty of this passage, to dwell upon the charms of poetry in general. " It is true," she said," fet e poets can im i tate t h at sublime bird, whi ch flies always in the air, and never tou c he s e th e math:*-it is only once in many ages a Genius appear s, wh ose words, like t hose on the Written Mountain, l ast forever:t-but still there are some as delightful, perhaps, though not so wonderful, who, if not stars over our head, are at least flowers along our path, and whose sweetness of the moment we ought gratefully to inhale, without calling upon them for a brightness and a durability beyond their nature. In short," continued she, blushing, as if conscious of being caught in an oration, " it is quite cruel that a poet caninot wander through h is re gions o f enchantment, without having a critic forever, like te Old Man of the Se a, upon his back!"t FADLADEEN, it was plain, too,& this last luckless allusion to himself, and would treasure is as' iII his mind as a whetstone for his next criticism. A sua len silence ensued; aind the Princess, glancing a look at FERAMORZ, saw plainly she must wait for a more cour ageous moment. - But the glories of Nature, and her wild, fragrant airs playing freshly over the current of youthful spirits, will soon heal even deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeenrs of this world can inflict. In an evening or two after. they came to the small Valley of Gardens, which had been planted by order of the Emperor for his favourite sister IRochinara, during their progress to Cashmere, some years befc. e; and never was there a more spark. ling assemblage of sweets, since the Gulzar-e-Irem, or Rose-Bower of Irere. Every precious flower was there to be found that poetry, or love, or religion, has ever con secrated; from the dark hyacinth, to which Hafez coin pares his mnistress's hair,~ to the Cdimalatd, by whose rosy blossoms the heaven of Indra is scented.11 As they sat in the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and LALLA ROOKii remarked that she could fancy it the abode of that Flower-loving Nymph whom they worship in the temples of Kathay,l or of one of those Peris, those beautiful creatures of the air, who live upon perfumes, and to whom a place like this might make some amends for the Para dise they have lost,-the young Poet, in whose eyes she appeared, while she spoke, to be one of the bright spirit ual creatures she was describing, said hesitatingly that he remembered a Story of a Peri, which, if the Princess had no objection, he would venture to relate. " It is," said he, with an appealing look to FAILLADEEN, " in a " What critic that can count," said FADLADEEN, "and has his full complement of fingers to count withal, would tolerate for an instant such syllabic superfliuities?"lie h ere looked r ound, and disco vered that mo st of his audience were asleep; while the glimmering lamps seemtd inclined to follow their example. It became necessary, therefore, however painful to himself, to put an end to his valu able animadversions for the p resent, an d he accordilly colncluded, with an a ir of dignified candour, tlius:- Noteitstand ig wii thae obs ervations which I have thaoLag ht it my duty to make, it is by no means mly w ish to discourage the young man:-so far from it, indeed, th at if he will but to tally alter his style of writing and thllilkig, I have very littl e doubt t hat I shall be vastly [leased with him." Done days elapsed, after this harangue of the Great ( Chamberlaini, before LALLA ROOKII could ventur e to ask ior a nother story.'Tihe youthi was st ill a we lcom e guest I,I the pavilion-to ofie heart, perhaps, too dangerously fvelcoie;-ibut all mention of p oetry was, as if by commiion consent, avoided. Though none of the party had ,iluchi respect for FADLADEEN, yet his censures, thus magisterially delivered, evidently made an impression on t!em all. T'he Poet, himself, to whom criticism was quite a new operation, /being wholly unknown in that li'ara(lise of the Ildies, Ca shmere,) felt the shl ock as it is ,ei,erally felt at first, till use has made it Inore tolerable to the patient; —,,he Ladies began to suspect that they ,ought not to be pleased, and seemed to conclude that there must have been much good sense in what FADLA DZE..N said, from its having set them all so soundly to sleep;-while the self-complacent Chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea of having, for the hundred and fiftieth time in his life, extinguished a Poet. LALLA ROOKH alone-and Love knew why-persisted in being delighted with all she had heard, and in resolving to hear "The Hums, a bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to fir constantly il tile air, anl never touch the ground; it is looked upon as a Ih lir(l py o inalP meii; aud that every hleaa it overshades will in Otme wear as crown."-Wicho,rds~rn. n thc teris of alliancve made by Fuzzel Oola Khan with Hyder in 17n, one of the stipulation s o was, " that he should have the distinction of two lhonorary atte.ndaiits standing behind him, holding faus composed of ite featihers of t um, according to the practice of his family." Wilk,s's Sou,th of In,diu. lie adds in a note: —" The Ilumma is a fabubI d T ird ihe head over which its shadow once asses will assuredly he circled with a crown. The splen(did little bird suspended over the th,rone of Tippo Suitun, found at Seringapatam in 17P99, was intended to represent tihis poetical fimcy." f'a o the pilgrintm to MonenO t i Sinai we must attribute the inscriptions, figures. dc. on those rocks, wIhich have from thence acquired the name of the Written M ountain."~Folney. M. Gebelin and others aave been et much paisas to oloac soe myste ri o us and important meaning to these inscription s; but Niel)ulr, as well as Volney, thinks that they must have .een executed at idle hours by the travellers to Mount Sinai, " who were satisfied withl cuttin g t he unpolished rock with any pointed instrument adlding to their namnes and the date of their journeys some rude figures, whitch bespeak the hand of a people but little skilled in the arts." —iei The Story of Sinb,ad 6 ase.'ott's Hafez. Ode v. "the Ciamalata (called by Linnieue, Tpomnea) is the most beautif. of its order, both in the ct,our and fbrm of its leaves and flowers; its elegant bl.,ossom are'celestial rosy red, L,ove's proper hue,' and have justly procured it the name of Camalatat, or Love's Creeper." - Sir W. Jones. " Camalat' may also mean a mythlological plant, by which all desires are grante,d to such as inhabit tie heaven of Ind, ra;* and if ever flowe c wal worthy of Paradise. it is our charming lpomaea."'Ib. ~" Accordin,g to Fatiher Premare, in his tract ni Chinese Mythology, the Motiher of Fo-Ifi was tie dalghter of heaven surnamed Flower-hi v ige anc d as tie iymiph was walking alone on tlie bank of a river, She t ifiiiiiid herself enciircledl by a rainbow, after wtih she became pregnant, tian, ait tiale eunt i)f twelve years, was delierel of a son iadiaut as her ,self."-.siat. Res. * "La lecture de ces Fables plaisoit i fort aix Arabes, que, quand Mlahomet less (rareternoit dte l'itistoire de I'Ancienl Testament, ils les mne-| p, isiie.l t,!ui!isatit que (:elles (DNi e N r isier l cur raio ietotie n -t eioient be au- I cndup wluo e hs. Crii petitee aii I toy ti r, i h NAsser la malla-dictioi dte Maixtomnet et dle tons.-e~ distiples " —!J'}icl, cl(,t. t Ti,e hlu(-k, mit, l G~(,, wita silver sotidly r~..isted t:e tyrant Zohak, and asho se apron becume the Royal ~;andar(I o Persia. I LALLA ROOKH. 119 Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream. I'HE MIRROR LIBRARY. fighter and humbler strain than the other:" then, striking a few carel.ss but melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus began: "Beneath the pillars of CIIILMINAR [t~ "I know where the Isles of Perfume are,t "Many a fathom down in the sea, "To thle south of sun.bright ARABY;t I know, too, where the Genii hid "TI'he jewell'd cup of their King JANISIIID,~ "With liie's elixir sparkling high But gifts like these are not lor the sky. "Where was there ever a gemn that shlone "Like the steps of ALLA's wonderful Throne? "And the Drops of Life-oh! what would they be "In the boundless Deep of Eternity?" ON., morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood, disconsolate; Anrd as she listen'd to the Springs Of Life withlin, like music flowing, And caii,ght tlhe light upon her wings IThio lh the half-open portal glowing, Sh e w ep t to thigik her recreant race Should e'er have lost that glorious place! WVhile thus shie mused, her pinions fann'd The air of thiat sweet Indian land, Whose air is balni; whose ocean spreads O'er coral rocks, and amber beds;ill FVriose imiountairus, pregnant by th e bean Of the warm sun, with (lianonds te em; Whose rivulets are like rich brides, Lovely, with gold beneath their tides; Whose sandal groves and bowers of spice Might be a Peri's Paradise! But crimson now her rivers ran With human blood-tlhe srnell of deati Came reeking frormi those spicy bowers, And man, the sacrifice of man, Mingled his taint with every breath Upwafted from th' innocent flowers. Land of thle Sun! what foot invades TI'hiy Pagods and thy pill)a'd shalte(s-s Thy cavern shrines, an-d Idol stonies, Thy Monarchs and their thousand'T'lirones!*I "'is lie of GAZNAtt-fierce in wrath He comcs, and INDIA'S diademi1s Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path. His bloodhounds lie adorns witil gems, Torn from the violated necks Of m any a younig arid loved Sultana;t Maidens, within their pure Zenana, Priests in the very fatne he slaughters, And choaks tip wN'ithi the glitteri-ng wrecks Of Golden shrines the sacrcd waters! How happy," excltaiin'd this child of air, Are the hloly Spirits whxo wander there, "'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall; "Though muile are the gardens of earth and sea And the stars thleinselves have flowers for me, "One blossom of Heaven ouiit-blooins themn all "Though sunny the Lake of cool CAshnJERE, "With its p!ane-trec Isle reflected clear,* "And sweetly the founts of that Valley fall; Thougl bright are the waters of SING-SU-IIAY, And the gol(len floods that thlithlerward stray,t Yet-oh,'tis only the Blest can say ' lowv the waters of Heaven outshine them all! Go, w-ing thy flight from star to star, "From world to luminous world, as far "As the universe spreads its flaming wall: Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And sntiltiply each through endless years, "One minute of Heaven is worth them all!" The glorious Angel, who was keeping The gates of Ligt, beheld her weeping; And, as he nearer drew and listen'd To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd Within his eyelids, like the spray From Eden's fountain, when it lies On the blue flow'r, wihichi-Bramins say Bloomiis nowhere but in Paradise.t Downward the Pr:Rl turns hier gaze, And, throlghl the war-field's bloody haze, Beholds a youthful warrior stand, Alone beside his n,ative river, The red blade broken in his hand, And the last arrow ini his qtuiver. "Live," said the Coiq(lu'ror, " live to share "The trophies antil the crowns I bear!" Silent that yotitlhful warrior stood Silent lie pointed to the flood All crimson with his country's bloold, * The Forty Pillars; so the Persians call the ruis o'.Perse,.,. It is imagineld hy them that tbis palace.an( thle ed,ii,s,s at Bilbec ^ ere bai by enii, r the p rpose o hiig if tihei r.btrraeos caer s i menselc treasu^llres, whichl still renmai there. —I'Hcr belot, Vohle ~/. Ditede m ntion-s nnentions tbe s le of Pnchai, to te soIt,ith of Ar bia e lix, whelre th rsa temple f Jupiter. ohis isahd, or raather cito r ot' isles, I,s disappearedl,' suni,k (says (radprd) in the a,byss mde 1 t he fr e be pearth tieir tsundatiols."-Voya,e to the Ini dian O,cai.. The Isles of Pl nchaia. ~ "Th e cup of Jam,;shid, discove,reld, they say, when digging i'or t'i] tkmndaltionis of' Persepolis." —ltichaurdson. Il" It is not like the.( Sea of Iia;, whose bottom S ricl, with pea,rls a,t] anbergris, whose l fOUlitils ot theconst are ~torcd wi!h gold tt p::citols stonJcs whose gultf breed cre atures that yiehl ivory, and;,m,),;g the plants o- whose s hores are elbon,Y, red uwood, atd the w!ood f l'::ir zan, ulocs, camphor, cloves, sandal-wood, aned a1ll othler spi:ces a,til'tt, mutics; wihere parrots andl peacocks nre birds of the fi)e.t, at.~t.,:k and civet are collected upon the lands."e Tr ds of tw"o,ll,J/am:~:s dans. "Nymph of a fair but erring line!" Gently he said-" One hope is thine. "'Tis written in the Book of Fate, " The Peiai yet mray be forgiv'n, "$ Vho brings to this Eternal gate " The Gift that is most dear to Heav'n! Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin"'Tis sweet to let the pardon'd in." Rapidly as comets run To th' embraces of the Sun * Flecter than the starry brands Flung at night fromn angel handsn At those dark and daring sprites Who would climb tlh' empyreal heights, Down the blue vault thIe PERI flies, And, lighted earthward by a glance That just then broke from mornilag's eyes, Hung hov'ring o'er our world's expanse. But whither shall the Spirit go To find this gift for Heav'n?-" I know "The wealth," she cries, "of every urn "'In which unnumber'd rubies burn, *" Numerons smal itnds enierg e from tlie Lakeof Cashmere. One I calle Char Clenaur, from the plane trees ipon it."-FCster. t'rhe Altan Kol or Golden River of Tibet, which runis into the lakes of Sing-su hay, has aboundance of go'd in its sauds, which employs the insabitants all the summer in gathering it."-Deseription of T7bet in. Pinkerton. "The Brahn s f thi province insist that the blue camopac flow ers enTy in Praie." r. Jones. It appears, however, tfom a curious letter of the Slta o enancalow. given by Marsden, that one place on ea!rth may lay caim to tie possession of it. " This is tie Sultan, who kieepq t'e floer ciatepaka that is blue. and to l)e founid in no other cou,ntrybut his, bei,g yellow elsewhere." —!arsden's Sumatra. av~ "Ti1e eaio,eat.ns souv ppo- e that falling s tars are the firebrands w!,erewith the good angels drive way the ha/, when they approach too orar the empy-ean or ve-ee of tl,e heaven,s "-Frver. Thie beided twigs take root, nd hters grow About tle mother-tree, a piiar'd s/a de ligie over " rcl'd, and eli wks eween. ITo. Fer a parti ular dtescription attnd plate of ti Banly:lm-tr c, see Cf r di ner' s C eylon.' 1* "With this immense trea,~ur e Ma mooul rttrned to,,and in the yenr 400) preparedl a.,ag ili(. ct festival. wl,ere he,i llycd to l ie, people his wea~lth in goldensi thlrones axl in otlher ornanmntest>, i~ a gf,~t plain without tihe city ot Gh izni."-kiri. ~'ta tt "Mahmood ot'Gazna, or Ghizni,who e }llqtr( ] li;a i; t! e I,~:,:~) i!g of the 1I thcen tury. " —See Jlisl~isory i~ ])ow;in,! $ir.I..I./c,, T. "It is report,ed th.at tlhe hni. g eq,.il):,,q (,t til, tll; 1!-,,.,d was so magnificent, that he kept 41Y) grdyl(~utidan l,h}~,~il.ct1t Is,.":'t of whichl wore aI colhr set wvith] je wels. at d1 a covc t.,!: ediged ss ~t}, gr izj andl pearls." —Unioersal Hifstern. v01t~. iii. II I i I i I 120 PARADISE AND THE PERI. LALL ROK. 2 When their beloved Sun's awake - Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem The relics of a splendid dream Amlid whose fairy loneliness Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard, Naught seen but (when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam,) Some purple-wing'd Sultana* sitting Upon a column, motionless And glitt'ring like an Idol bird!Who could have thought, that there, even there, Amid those scenes so still and fair, The Demon of the Plague hath cast From his hot wing a deadlier blast, More mortal far than ever came From the red Desert's sands of flame! So quick, that ev'ry living thing Of human shape, touch'd by his wing, Like plants, where the Simoomn hath pass'd, At once falls black and withering! The sun went down on many a brow, Which, full of bloom and freshness then, Is rankling il the pest-h1oLuse now, And ne'er will feel that sun again. And, oh! to see th' unburied heaps On which the lonely imioonlight sleepsThe very vul!ttres turn away, An(d sicken at so font a prey! Only the fierce hyuena stalkst Throughotit the city's desolate walkst At midnight, and his carnage plies: Wo to the half-dead wretch, who meets The glaring of those large bluie eyes< Amid the darkness of the streets! Falre flew the shaft, though pointed well; The Tyrant lived, the Hero fell!Yet mark'd the P.r.I where he lay, Arid, when the rush of war was past, .Swiftly descending on a ray Of morning light, she caught the lastLast glorious drop his heart had shIed, Before his free-born spirit fled! Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, "My welcome gift at the Gates of Light. 'I'ltough foul are the drops that oft distil On the field of warfare, blood like this, For Libeity shed, so holy is,* It would not stain the purest rill, h'I'lat sparkles among the Bowers of Bliss! Oh, if there be, on this earthly sphere, A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, "l'is the last libation Liberty draws From the heart that bleeds anid breaks in her cause!" " Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave ''The gift into his radiant hand, " Sweet is our welcome of the Brave "Who die thus for their native Land. "But see-alas!-the crystal bar ' Of Eden moves not —holier far " Than even this drop the boon must be, "l'hat opes the gates of Heaven for thee!" l[Ieir first fotnd hope of Eden blighted, Now among AFRIC'S lunar Mountains,t Far to the South, the PER) lighted; Atid sleek'd her plumage at the fountains Of that Egyptian tide-whose birth Is hiddein irom the sons of earth Deep in those solitary woods, W'here oft the Genii of the Floods Dance round the cradle of their Nile, Anrid hail the new-bornt Giant's smile.l 'Thlence over EvYPT'S palmy groves, Her grots, and sepulchres of Kings,~ The exiled Spirit sighling roves; And now hangs listening to the doves In warin IROSETTA'S valell-now loves To watch the moonlight on the wings Of the white pelicans that break ''The azure calmn of AIm s' Lake.C 'Twas a fair scene —a Land more bright Never did mnortal eye behold! Who could have thought, that saw this night T'hose valleys and their fruits of gold Basking in Heaven's sereniest light;'I'hose groups of lovely date-trees bending Languidly their leaf-crowii'd heads, like youthful maids, when sleep descending Warns them to their silken beds;**W Those virgin lilies, all the night Bathling their beauties ill the lake, That they may rise more fresh and bright, Oblcctions may be made to my use of the word Liberty in this, an d e.,pecially in the story that tillows it as totally inapplicable to any state of tiingi tat has eer existed i te East; but thoughi I canno t, of c ours e, ean to emp!oy it inl that e.larged a.'I noble sese which is so wtl understood att the present day, and, I grieve to say, so l ittle acted uill, yet itis no disp tragi' enit to the word to apply it to tihat natiot nal idep e ndnce, thsat t Jee Jtiomo t he iterrence and dictation o for ign ers, itrout nwhich, ideeil, +o liberty f any kind can exist; and C." wSich both Hilldos and Pt trsianhs ought against tirerir yussulhnan iiva ders wirth, i smaniy rcases, a bravery t hat deserved much better aliec i iss. t " T'lie Mou,mtai,s of' tie Moon., or tile Montes Lunm of antiquity, at he loot of w-.ich thle Nile is supposed to arise."-Brtce. " Sometimres cal!ed," saiys Jackson, "Jibbel Kumrie, or tile white ;I. lunar-coloured moullins; se a white horse is called by the Arabians It mo1{)1-cohlured |1Or'~+, N "The Nile, whic',he Ah~yssin,ians know by the names of Abeyand Aliaway, or the Giant."-f/siat. Research. vol. 1. p. 3a7. 9 "See Perr}y's V'iev lf the Levan,t tbr an account ofthe sepulchres in ~'pper Thebes. asd th;e nu f,srl,ss Trots, covered all over with h.ierogyip~ies irn the mount-aires of ['lpper.,ypt. ]j " TIhe orcl.;ards c t Rosetla are fib (I{t with] turtle-doves."-$onnzili. a Sa,ar,y meat~ohs tl,e p:lleaz s nponlhake/ticris. 't "'J'h.e st:,.rb m!tte tr, tin se h ~::td languidly re~'inbs l'ke that of vhaatiniije wom[I:m~ over'comle wvith ~!ccp."-Iafrd el mess,ah!. Just then beneath some orange trees, Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze Were wantoning together, free, Like age at play with infancyBeneath that fresh and springing bower, Close by the lake, she heard the moan Of one who, at this silent hour, Had thither stol'i to die alone. One who in life where'er he moved, Drew after him the hearts of many; Yet now, as though he nie'er were loved, Dies here unseen, unwept by any! None to watch near him-i-one to slake The fire that itl his bosom lies, With ev'n a sprinkle from that lake, Which shinles so cool before his eyes. No voice, well known through m.iany a day, To speak the last, the parting word, Which, when all other sounds decay. Is still like distant music heard;That tender farewell o01 the shore Of this rude world, when all is o'er, Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark Puts off into the unknown Dark. gof any tid can ______________ c*s" a T'lch bt beautiful bird, with plumag e f t h e finet s hi.fing blue, with purplea beak and leas, the natural illS living ornaineit of ile tetupli. an.d palaces of the Greeks and Romans, w lici, t.om the sttteliuess of its port, as well as thie brilliaicy of' its clours, as obtaied tie title of Sultana." —Sontnini. t Jackson, speaking of tlhe plagu.e that occurred i West Itirbar,y. when,. he reas there, y, says, Thi ie bird f t fe ai y fle w rm tp abodes of me i.'hie hyeias, on tle cooitrary, visitedi the ce eteie s, &ce + "Gondar was full of ita,ynas from thle time it t dr,c(1 dark, tll the dawn of (lay, seeking tlie dilrlrent pieces of slaughlertri c.tassa, twhich this cruel iiid iiilci; p eiopli expose in tile 9 r cts with o ut itIriti am] wlho firiIly believi that threse ailread~s it on1 th~egrztml,l sits cross ]frefed thlereup-nor, aInd shtys his preyers, t loungl in' ti t{zipsi oi lt ket, ws. icti, hatvingt ettlIed, lie l eaps brisk)rly ip shut,.- th p, riic to;:1, kRi:.s cfl all.m:l:l~- that uere tlhey led, and, in spite of all the Great Cliamberlain's of an ancient Fue-Iille, built by those Ghebers or critilsc s, were s tasteless as to wish for the poet again. IPersians of the old religion, who, many hundred years OlC c~veiii,, as they were proceeding to their place of since, had fled liitheir fiom their Arab conquerors,t pre re,t foi thc nigi it the Princess, who, for the freer enjoy- ferring liberty and thieir altars in a foreign land to the al ue.,t of tle'air, had i'nouit,t,d her favourite Arabian pal- ternative of apostasy on perseeution iin their own. It was frcy, in passin r by a suail grove heard the iiotes of a lute impossible, lic added, not to feel interested in the many from, w'itlin itS lei..es, and a voice, which she but too well glorious but unsuccessful struggles, which had been made ki,-rw, singinir the following words:- by these original natives of Peisia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted conquerors. Like their own IF ire in the TELL me not of joys above, Burning Field at Bakou,; when suppre: sed in one place, If that world can give no bliss, they had but broken out with fresh flame in ainothere Truer, happier than the Love aud, as a native of Cashmere, of that faii aut Iloly Val Which enslaves our souls in this. ley, which litad il the same manner becom, the prey of strangers,~ and seen her anienit shb-es i nd native Tell me not of Hotiris' eves;- princes swept away t)efore the inarchl, tier intolerant in Far from me their dangerous glow, vaders, he felt a sympathy, he owueed, v,'l the sufferings If those looks that light the skies of the persecuted Chebers, which every monument like XVound like some that burn below. this befoie ttieiii but teiidecd nore pwerlutlv to awaken. It was the first tinie that FLi lAMIORZ? had ever ventured Who, that feels what Love is here, upoII so iiiuch prose befoie FAIinADi::.', and it may easily All its falsehood-all its pain- be conceived whbat eflect suicti prose as this must havo WVould, for even Elysitim's sphere, pro(1ucd upon that ni,'st oithocdox and iiiost pagan Risk the fatal dream again? ha ltiiigpersonage. lie sat foi soine nmiiiutes aghast, ejac. ulatilig onily at intervwls, "'-ig roted conquerors!-sympa Who, that'iiiidst a desert's heat thy witli ire- woslilftits i"il —while 1 ERiAMORZ, happy Sees tie wvaters fade away,' to take advantage of this alnost speeclless horror of the Would not rather die thain meet. (haliiberlatii, )roceeded to say tllat he knew a nielan. Streams again as false as they? cioly story, coinected with the events of one of those struggles of the brave I ire-worshippers against their Arab [Itc tone of melaneclioly defiance in wh'ch these words nasters, which, ii the eveningis was not too far advanced, were uttered, wvent to LALLA RooKti s heart;'and, as lie should lhave iich tilas wite in beiug allowed to relate she reluctantly rode on, she cotild:tot help feeling it to be 1 to the Prinicess. It was imitpossible for LALLA ROOKH to a sad but still sweet certainty, that Fli i'.MORaz was to the I refuse;lie tid never before looked hlalf so aniiated; and lull as enanioured aud miseratble as heiself.'whei hle stokie of the h1oly Valley }is eyes had sparkled, The place where they encsiuped that eivening was the she olltightt, like the talilsnainic characters on the scimi. first delightful spot they had c(,me to since they left La- tar of Sotloion. Icr coliscint was therefore most readily lirore. Oii one side of theimi was a grove fill of small erratited, and wliilc I at in unspeakable diskt,iaidoo temples, cund plauted with the most glaceful trees may, expecting treasoin aud aoboiniiation in every line of the East; where the taiiiariiid, the Cassia, and the the paet thlis begaii his story of the Fire worshippers:silken plautains of Ceylon were ningled in rich contrast u_il.h thk,,r~ f} Il;,-I,A; 4'... 1;.1'...... _, _ 1, r.. w "titre is n folrage pagoda thy n tiatnk, on lhe water of which float multvladriers of the lmauxilrl tell lotus: thei flower is larger than that of the white water lily,'ii is the imiost lovely of the nymplheeas 1 have seen."-.rs. (,rah/ei's Jouirinal of a tesidence in Ildia t "On lea voit p ier. mle~s par lis Khalitis se retire, dana le9 mon a anes du Keriiai: pl u.ieurs choisirent pour retraite la Tartarie et la (}itsile; dl'astr,s.'arr~drct.lr le -ti rs I lu Ger l ge, t l'est de Delta.".2tl. Jnqltestil, Mlelmoires dle l'Acad~lamic, tom. xxxi. p. 3X46. it The "OAgr ralthers," uiescribtet oy Aernpfer,.tlmnictat. F xot ~ "C:ashner~er (salys its historianls) hladlits own prinees 4000 years b~ heyre i d nlliao atriutencrit aItS eiifu't y Akhar i i ir eouldl htve found yome arisaieillty tO retuce tins paradlise ot thie In(lies situ'c ted as it is suih;...1 a fort.....i.......tai.... hlt it...... ti elt ut its iti ilr Iuse l"-'juI l, we. a s lwa';ba lyetralyedl by his Omlrahs."'-Pental t. 11 Voltaire tells s that in }i. Tragedy "Les G etres." le wias genieraiilly sappodla tO have allf' to the Janes i.ts l si,iuld nrt ie s;i: — pri.id if t' iahis slory ol thl e Fi re-osrlippers were lotulln cuapli}e of a sinfi !atr doubllehless ofl opplication. * Oriental Tales. tFcrishta. " Or rathler," says Scott, uponl the passage of Ferishlta, iron w12ich this is takien, "small coins, stamped with tie figure of a +t~ wer. They are still usey in India to din t ribut e in charity, ind, on oc.qs~o,, tierownv b~y thle purse-b~earers of thje great amnong thle po~pulac." t'i'he~ fine road.( mr:d,1 1y thle Empe3(ror Jchanr-(,'uire fromx Agru to!,a h,;:,, p::ntl wiot. th tr~,.s otnl eacht side.^.'I'iiis roadl is;250( leagules inl lenlgti~. It:m.~ "ir'jle pyc',t~;2.ls or t. urrets," salys Bernlet,'"erected( eve ry half ,':'-"A~.. toJ lw!"rk; 1l~.E >iys, l:!{l t eq!lCllt wvells to aflbrd dri:'l to) pa'sst, n;~"r,, 1~i,] 1o w\v\t( r l!;,,. yolln tree,-e." ''~1!, Bayal, or llltia~: C~ro~st-beak.,"-Si:- /-. Jtones. 126 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Like gems, in darkness, issuing rayw They've treasured from the sun that's set, Beam all the light of long-lost days! And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow To second all such hearts can dare; As he shall know, well, dearly know, Who sleeps ill moonlight lux'ry there, Tranquil as if his spirit lay Becalhn'd in Heav'n's approving ray. Sleep on-for purer eyes than thine Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine; Sleep on, and be thy rest unmoved By the white moonbeam's dazzling power;None but the loving and the loved Should be awake at this sweet hour Tis moonlight over OMAN's SEA;* Hcr batiks of pearl and palmy isles Bask in the isight-beam beauteously, And her blue waters sleep iii smiles. 'Tis moonlight in }tAR.-IOZIA'st walls, And through her E.txIR's porphyry halls, Where, some hours since, was heard the swell Of trumpet and the clash of zel,; Bidding the bright-eyed sun farcwell;The peaceful sun, whom better suits The music of the bulbul's nest,., Or the light touch of lovers' lutes, To sing him to his golden rest. All hush'd-there's not a breeze in motion; The shore is silent as the ocean. If zephyrs come, so light they comne, Nor leaf is stirs d ior wave is driven;The wind-tower on the E.MIR's dome~ Can hardly win a breath from heaven. And see-fwhere, high above those rocks That o'er the deep their shadows fling, Yon turret stands;-where ebon locks, As glossy as a heron's wing Upon the turban of a king,* Hang from the lattice, long and wild,'Tis she, that EmIR's blooming child, All truth and tenderness and grace, Though born of such ungentle race;An image of Youth's radiant Fountain Springing in a desolate mountain St Ev'n he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps Calm, while a nation round him weeps; While curses load the air he breathes, And falchions from uiunomber'd sheaths Are starting to aven-ge the shame His race hath brought on IRAN'sIl name. Hard, heartless Chief, unmoved alike 'Mid eyes that weep, and swords that strike;One of that saintly, murd'rous brood, To carnage and the Korani given, Who think through unbelievers' blood Lies their directest path to heav'n;One, who will pause and kneel unshod In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd, To mutter o'er some text of God Engraven on his reeking sword;-11 Nay, who can coolly note the line, The letter of those words divine, To which his blade, with searching art, Had sunk into its victim's heart! Oh what a pure and sacred thing Is Beauty, curtain'd from the sight Of the gross world, illumining One only mansion with her light! Unseen by man's disturbing eye, The flow'r that blooms beneath the sea. Too deep for sunbeams, doth not lie Hid in more chaste obscurity. SO, HINDA, have thy face and mind, Like holy myst'ries, lain enshrined. And oh, what transport for a lover To lift the veil that shades them o'er! Like those who, all at once, discover In the lone deep some fairy shore, Where mortal never trod before, And sleep and wake in scented airs No lip had ever breathed but theirs. Just ALLAI what must be thy look, When such a wretch before thee stands Unblushing, with thy Sacred Book,'I'urning the leaves with blood-stain'd hands, And wresting from its page sublime His creed of lst, and hate, and crime -; Ev'n as tlhose bees of'rRESIZON, D, Which, from the sunniest flow'rs that glad With their pure smile the gardens round, D)raw venomn forth that drives men mad.** Never did fierce ARAnIA send A satrap forth more direly great; Never was IRAN doom'd to bend Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. [Her throne had fall'n-her pride was crusli'dHer sons were willing slaves, nor blusli'd, In their own land,-no more their own,To crouch beneath a stranger's throne. Her tow'rs, where MITHRA once had burn'd, To Moslem shrines-oh shame!-were;.urn'd, Where slaves, converted by the sword, Their m ean, apo stat e worship pour'd,' And cursed the faith their sires adored. Yet has she hearts,'mid all this ill, O'er all this wreck high buoyant still With hope and vengeance;-hearts that yet Beautiful are the maids that glide, On summer-eves, through YFMEN's: dales, And bright the glancing looks they hide Behind their litters' roseate veils;And brides, as delicate and fair As the white jasmine flow'rs they wear, Hath YEMEN in her blissful clime, Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bow'r,~ Before their mirrors count the time,dl And grow still lovelier ev'ry hour. But never yet hath bride or maid In ARABY'S gayf Haremn smiled, Whose boasted brightness would not fade Before AL HA,.,N'S blooming child * "Their kings wear plumes of black berois' feathers lipin the rigli side, as a badge of sover,ignty." —a,w ay t "The Fountain of Youth, by a Maliometan tradition, I situate in some dark region of the East." —ichardson. : Arabia Felix. ~ "In the midst of the garden is the chiosk, that is, a large roon commonly beautified with a fi li i te m ist of it. It is raise nine or ten steps, and enclosed with gilte,d latice s round which vines. jessamines, and hone,suckles, make a sort of green wall; large trees are planted round this pflice, which is tihe scne of their greatest pleasures." -Lady J}L W. d/ lontalu. 11 Thle awomen of thelast are never withloutu their looking-glasses. " lil Barbary," sys Sha.w, "they are so foil of their looking-glasses, which they hang upon their breast that they -ill loot lay them aside, even w hen after the drudgery of the (lay tlh y are e,liget to go two or thret miles with a pitcher or a go,tt's skin to tistci water."-Travels. Il other parts of Asi:' they wear little looking-glasses on thir thumbs. " Hence (and from tie tus bei cosiere te emblem of beauty) is ththe meaning of the following ut i ntercourse of two lovers before their T'lle Persian Gulf, sometimes so called, which separates the shores ~t Persia and~ Arabia. The present Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Gulf. ; A Mloorishl instrument of mnusic. A: Gombaroon and other places in Persia, they have towers for ti1,e purpose of catching tile wind, and cooling the hoURSe.D- le Br,yn. il "[lrail is tile true ge neral na,e for the empire of Persia." —.siat. Res. IDi.uc. 5. O" the I, -l,des of their scimitars some verse from thle Koran is ta~it:'!) inst reiltetl'"-Iaessel. *o' Tlhere is a Hill osf Risloodetdros abtoitTrebizontd, whose flowers Ith. lutiste {e(s Uait, ai'l li,e lissney thene drives people trad."-Touret Barb. TF-IE MIRROR LIBRARY. 126 I THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. Light as the angel sliap(s tli,-tt [)less An itifant's dreain, yet ijot tile less "'H,k iti.,alit, f ],le, I t,-s t- li. p,,,.',i: Sh ais,,d I,,, to I,i,, i,,', Theii t.r,-'d it i.,,,,,d to l,,. ,Isi.ti,.4Ii8cdlany. Y,.l ii Came, in the flush of love and pride, And scaled the terrace of his bride * —. When, as she saw him rashly spring, And midway up in danger cling, She fang him down her lon-, black hair, Exclaiming, breathless, " There, love, there!" And scarce did inaiilier nerve uphold The heco ZAL ill that fond hour, Than wings the youth who, flect and bold, Now climbs the rocks to HINDA'S bower See-light as up their granite steeps The rtck-goats of ARABIA clamber,* Fearless from crag to crag he leaps, And now is in the maiden's chanber. Rich in all woman's loveliness;With eyes so pure, that from their ray Dark Vice would turn abash'd away, Blinded like serpents, when they gaze Upon the em'rald's virgin blaze;-* Yet fill'd with all youth's sweet desires, \Ii-gling the meek and vestal fires Of other worlds with all the bliss, Tile fonid, weak tenderness of this: A soul, too, more than half divine, Where, through some shades of earthly feeling, Religion's soften'd glories shine, Like light through summer foliage stealing, Shedding a glow of such mild hue, So wParm, and yet so shadowy too, As makes the very darkness there More beautiful than light elsewhere. She loves-but knows not whom she loves, Nor what his race, nor whence he came; Like one who meets, in Indian groves, Some u eos beauteous bird without a name, Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, From isles in th' undiscover'd seas, To show his plumage for a day To wond'ring eyes, and wing away! Will he thus fly-her nameless lover? ALLA forbid!'twas by a moon As fair as this, while singing over Some ditty to her soft Kanoo,',t Alone, at this same witching hour, She first beheld his radiant eyes Gleam through the lattice of the bow'r, Where nightly now they mix their sighs; And thought some spirit of the air (For what could waft a mortal there?) Was pausing on his moonlight way To listen to her lonely lay! This fancy nie'er hath left her mind: And-though, when terror's swoon had pass'd, She saw a youth, of mortal kind, Before her in obeisance cast,Yet often since, when he lhatlh spoken Strange, awful words,-and gleams have broken From his dark eyes, too bright to bear, Oh! she hath fear'd her soul was giv'n To some unhallow'd child of air, Some erring Spirit cast from heav'n, Like those angelic youths of ol(l, Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould, Bewilder'd left the glorious skies, And lost their hcav'n for womani's eyes. Fond girl! nor fiend nor angel he Who woos thy young simplicity; But one of earth's inipassion'd sons, As warm il love, as fierce in ire, As the best heart whose current runs Full of the Day God's living fire. Such is the maid who, at this hour, Ilath risen front her restless sleep, And sits alone in that highi bow'r, Watching the still and shining deep. Ah!'twas not thlus,-with tearful eyes And beating heart,-slie used to gaze On the magnificent earth and skies, In her own land, in happier days. Why looks she now so anxious down Among those rocks, whose rugged frown Blackens the mirror of the deep? WV1iotn waits she all this lonely night? Too rough tile rocks, too bold the s teep, For nman to scale that turret's height! So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire, When high, to catch the cool nighlt-air, After the day-beam's with'ring fire,t He built her bowlv'r of freshness there, Ald had it deck'd with costliest skill, And fondly thought it safe as fair; — 'rhinK, reverend dreamer! think so still, Nor wake to learn what Love can dare; Love, all-defyiing Love, who sees No charm in trophies won with ease; Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss Are plack'd on Danger's precipice! Bolder than they, who dare not dive For pearls, but when the sea's at rest, Love. in the tempest most alive, Hathli ev'er held that pearl the best lie finds beneath the stormiest water. Yes-ARABY's unrivall'd daughter, Though high that tow'r, that rock-way rude, There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek, WVotild climb th' untrodden solitude Of ARARAT'S tremendous peak,F And think its steeps, though dark and dread, Heav'nl's pathways, if to thee they led! Ev'n now thou seest the flashing spray, That lights his oar's impatient way; Ev'nl now thou hear'st the sudden shock Of his swift bark against the rock, And stretchest down thy arms of snow, As if to lift him from below! Like her to whom, at dead of night, T'he bridegroom, with his locks of light,~ They say that if a snake or serpent fix his eyes on the lustre of :.~ose stones (emeralds) he immediately becomes bliHnd.o sw-med ben ,,ft,dl ziz, Treatise on Jewels. t At Gorbaroon and tile Isle of-Ormus it i sometimes so hot, that :, ople are obliged to lie all day in the water."-JSarco Polo. 1hi mountain is generally supposed to be iSaccessible, Stray says, I ea ell assure the reader tla ttheir opini on is not true, wio suppose tni. mount. to be inaccessit le." He adds, that "the lower part ot the ~ inta is cloudy, misty, and dark, thie middlemost part very cold, and ie lotds of snow but tl e upper regions perfectly calm."-It was on t,is mountain that tie Atk was supp-osed( to have rested after thie Deluge, ,:d part of it, t"ey say, exists there still, whlicl Struy thus gravely accounts r:-" WVhiereas none can reIember tlhat the air on thie top of thie hill d'l ever change or was subject either to wind or rain, wliici is presumed t e the reason treat the Ark has endured so long without being rotten." -See Crrcri's Travels, wiere the doctor laughs at this wliole account of Mount Arirat. ~ Il onte of the tiooks of the Shah Nameh,, when Zal, (a celebrated hero of Persia, reniorkable for sis white hair,) comes to the terrace of iis mistress Rlodaheer at night, she lets lown hier long tresses to assist l in Ihis a-'ent -hf, howev er, ianaies it in a less rimanltic way by riai,g his crook in tt prios etlg beam.-See Champion's F'rdosi. " How sweetly," staid the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood, Looking upon that tranquil flood" How sweetly does the moon-beam smile " To-naight upon yon leafy isle! " Oft, in my fanicy's wanderings, " I've wish'd that little isle had wings, " And we, within its fairy bow'rs, I LALLA ROOKH. I.;Z. But quencli'd tO-Digilt that ardour seems, And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow Never before, but in tier dreams, flad she belield liiiii pale, as now And those were di-eartis of troubled sleep, From wliieli'twas joy to wake and weep; Visi,"r)s, that will not be forgot, But sadden every making scene, Like warning ghosts, that leave the spot All witherld, where they once have been. *:: 0. th,- of A,,,Ii, P,,t,-,, ,,, o,k-g..t. "-N iebuAr. t C".,U,'.p,,ce'I,, I",.Ito!', .,,, od,,, i. I,.Yaux -. lei ., di,,,-, 1, (I!", — point'. d. c(,,. - 7, t,a.s,af,d by 1), 0o see thee, h1ear thee, cal tnee mine, "Ob misery! must I lose that too? s Yet go —Oh peril's brijik we meet;-T "Those frightful rocks-that treach'rous sea-A 'No, never come again-though sweet, fThoughl hear'n, it may be death to thee. 'Fareweil! and blessiugs on thy way, "Where'er thou goest, beloved stranger! ' Better to sit and watch that ray, ' And think thee safe, though far away, "Than have thee near me, and in danger!" " Who cursct th l oturret's Arabg calie "TTo desolate our sh ri're s of fla tre, "And sleear, before God's burnTieng eye, "So break orr country's cthains, or d ie! H Thy bigot sire,-nay, tremble not,-i "He, iwho gane birth to those ldear eyes, "W spith me is stcred as th e spot " Frorn which oulr fires of worship rise! " But know-'twras hc I sought Illat night, " Whenl, from mny watch-boat on the sea, " I caught this turrct's glimmlr'rinlg light, " And up the rude rocks desp'rately "'Rush'd to my preysthou knlow'st the rest — " I climb'd the gory vulturc's nest, " And found a tremlbling dove within;" Thine, thine the v ictory —thine the sin" If Love hathl madl e oeC thlought hlis own, " That Vengcanlcc claims first —last —alole! " Oh! had we nevser, never inet, " Or coukl thlis heart ev-en nowv forget " How linlk'dl, howv blcss'd wre mright hlave been, " Had fate not frownl'd so dark betweenl! " Hadst thlou beenl bornl a Perls ian mraid, " In nleighlbourliug valley-s }:3ad we dwelt, "T'Ihroughl thce same fie lds inl childhood play'd, " At tile sam~ne kindflinlg,liar kne lt,-. " Then, thenl, while} all thlose nlamleless ties, " Ill whichl thc cha~rml of Country lies, " Ilad rouuld our hearts beenl hourly spun, "Till IRAN's cause andl thinle were one,; " While. in t~hy lute's awak'nlirg sigh " I heard thle voice ol day s gonle by, " And sawv, in ev'ry smlile oi' thsine, " Returning hours of glory shine; 'Daiger!-oh tempt me not to boast-" The youlth exclaim'ld —" thou little know'st 'What he can brave, who, born and nursed 'In Danger's paths, bas ilared her worst; 'Upon whose ear tbe signal-word 'oi strife and death is hourly breaking; ' Who sleeps wvith head upon the sword] "His fever'd hand must grasp in waking. Danger! —" ' Say on-thou fetar'st not then, 'And we.'nay mneet —oft meet again?" ~ Oh! look not so-beneath the skies 'I nlows fear nothing bult those eyes. If aught on earth could charm or force Myl sp~irit from its destined course,'I' anight could make this soul forget lThe bond tv which its seal is set, 'Two:'Id be those eyes; they, only they, 'Could melt that sacred seal away! Butt ns-'tis fix'd-my awful doom *Is fix'. —on this side of the tomb e'W meet no more;-why, why did Heav'n Minigle tw o souls that earth has riv'n, * Has rent asunder wvide as ours? 'Oh, Arab mnaidl, as soon the Powers "Of Light anld Darknless may combine, ~'As I be linlk'd w-ith thee or thine' ~'Thy Faither- " * They (the Glebers) lay so much stretss on t ylr cushee or girdle, au not to dare to be nn i nst a nt wititut it. —(urosccs Voyage.-"L~ jeune Asll be liik'aord wlt cthoseo thin, ayint tte dipuuille dl e sa robe, et la large ein*turc qiu'il portotit c()mme Otldl)re, " &. &c.-lt' Herb elot art. AgduanA. "'our ~C a distingu(;r d,'s ld,,I.,tres tie l'nde, les Gu dbrei se ceignlent tous d tin cor(hm dc l:e, (,ud tio il *l cimmeau."- tncy Clop~ie P}'a~lcoise. T k'Herobelo t says te 4liuhir s hie l w s te?r: t litt of h yath r. t " They suippole the't'tlr(,ne ~,f lh~e A'r;ql ltv is seated;a the sun, anti hencs*e thleir worsiipy of{ thait hu,;iiry.' —lattway. "A.s to fire, thle Ght'be~rs plac e t!ce.-;pringe-t catd of it. i!~ thltt globe of fire, the Sun,!)y il ellt called 5lyt tras, or Mi hir: to w~icl) the y pyte th ighest Noreverendei, il gratittud'; icr tlte mttnitb,d t ~e 1) iil.s Ih~wvttg trom its ministerial onenisence. whot twley pire wou llr tthee ctti>Wltli:k tie subiorttdination |o tAne ty. rbot sptir t, ojresty he. it s (trt;jttr, t'.,a: t.ley i tot only attr' butte b1 rigt ofascelhsio or be;ysnihis to t):.;titl (;r!'cr:', l yiily o'its opera tiuns, heard him}>ii swear Isit.i.pill' ly ) i l'iii irc,,:, ttiretaedn nd tgoverned' y t i~ e'::lictt; i'i'lc'iition /; it ii. t ill (f hi;vt it but Itey tm sgo hvoul givb ta}l wariol'l;bidey,,tll-gtacri,s i}t g i it i., ii ore thi an the '!....gl iili l1isrt hsis:;v~~,,:.,-('srvi::g j;: fi,t tSf r thlat slupe,:dous |lprodc'itti ml ot Ulhvi~,e p,)w(:r th,ll lil~ixlll ot ui::t:~." —/,f-'r.e.'I lie false ch~argres br~ugi:t;~gi'rt:lst )i-(e'(ligi,)~)l(,f tl:,,s( p)(.,,p,e I;y t':~ei,'.Mussulrn,' " tyratta " i. but alte i!i i)=t':tt,t'';:'tny 01 l[)e t:, tf tl*is *riter's reI tsd.ark, th./ "c'ltlll y iS!] u t o i)t,,et",io~:,' but (br th,, site t'fJlti!tg J;, _ __ _. __ " His gray head from that lightning glance! " Thou knows'st himn not —he loves the brave,: " Nor lives there ulndcr heaven's expanse "sOne who would prize, wsould worship thee " And thy bold spirit, more than he. "OCft when, in childhood, I havc play'dl " W\ith the bright falchion by hi3 side, ">I've heard him swear his lispinlg m~aid " In time should1 be a w^arrior's bride. " And still, when-e'er at ttarexnl hours, "l take h imr eoc, l she~rbets and flow'rs, ROOKI((. 129 signal of the bamboo-staff*, with the white flag at its top, renminding the traveller that, in that very spot, the tiger hlad miade some human creature his victim. It was, therefore, with much pleasure that they arrived at sunset in a safe and lovely glen, and encamped under one of those holy trees, whose smooth columns and spreading roofs seem to destine them for natural temples of religion. Beneath this spacious shade, some pious hands had elerected a row of pillars ornamented with the most beau. tiful porcelaint, which now supplied the use of mirrors to the young maidens, as they adjusted their hair in descending fromn the palankeens. Here, while, as usual, the Princess sat listening anxiously, with FADLADEEN in one of his loftiest moods of criticism by her side, the young Poet, leaning against a branch of the tree, thus continu. ed his story: "T, While t wron g'd Spirit of our lan d "Lived, look'd, aid spoke h er wrong s th rough thee,"G od! who ceuld thlic e this sword wTithstand a? " Its very flash were victory! "But now —estranged, div)rced forever, "Far as the grasp of Fate can sever; Our only ties hwhat lov e ihas ove, "I I'aith, friends, country, suiider'd wvde, "And then, then on,ly, true to love, "A Wher i false t o al l that's dear besides BThy father IRAN's deadliest foe"Thyself, perhaps, even now-but no"Hate never look'd so lovely yet! "No-sacred to thv soul will be "The land of him who could forget {' All but that bleeding land for thee. "When other eyes shall see, unmoved, " Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, "Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved, "And for his sake thou'lt weep for all! 'But look - At THE. morn hath risen clear and caln, And o'er the Green Sea' palely shines, Revealing BAHREJN'S~ groves of palm, And lighting KISIIMA'S~ amber vines. Fresh smell the shores of ARABY, While breezes from the Indian Sea Blow round SELAMA'S~ sainted cape, And curl the shining flood beneath,Whose waves are rich with many a grape, And coce'a-nut and flow'ry wreath, Which pious seamen, as they pass'd, Had tow'rd that holy headland castOblations to the Genii there For gentle skies and breezes fair! The nightingale now bend s her flightd l From the high trees, where all the night She sung so sweet, with none to listen; And hides her from the morning star Where thickets of pomegranate glisten In the clear dawn, —bespangled o'er With dew, whose night-drops would not stain The best and brightest scimitar** That ever youthful -Suiltaii wore On the first morning of his reign. With sudden start he turni'd, And pointed to the distant wave, Where lights, like chlarnel meteors, burn'd Bluely, as o'er somie seamian's grave: And fiery darts, at intervals,* Flew up all sparkling from the main, As if each star that nightly falls, Were shooting back to heaven again. My signal lights!-I must awayBoth, both are rluin'd, if I stay. Farewell-sweet life! thou cling'st in vain-S "Now, Vengeance, I am thine again!" Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd, Nor look'd-but from the lattice dropp'd Down'mid the pointed crags beneath, As if he fled from love to death. While pale and mute young HINDA stood, Nor moved, till in the silent flood A momentary plunge below Startled her from her trance of wo; Shrieking she to the lattice flew, "I come-I come-if in that tide Thou sleep'st to-night, I'll sleep there too, " In death's cold wedlock, by thy side. Oh! I would ask no happier bed " Than the chiill wave my love lies under: — Sweeter to rest together dead, Far sweeter, than to live asunder!" But no —their hour is not yet come Again she sees his pinnace fly, Wafting him fleetly to his home, Whlere'er that ill-starr'd home may lie; And calmn and smooth it seem'd to win Its moonlight way before the wind, As if it bore all peace within, Nor left one breaking heart behind! And see-the Suin himself!-on wings Of glory up the East he springs. Anigel of Light! w ho from the time Those heavens began their march sublime, Hath first of all the starry choir Trod in his Maker's steps of fire! Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere, When IRAN, like a sun-flow'r, turn'd To meet that eye where'er it burn'd? Wheti, from the banks of BENDEMEEIR To the inut-groves of SAMARCAND, Thy termples flamed o'er all the land? Where are they? ask the shades of them Who on CADESSIA'stt bloody plains, Saw fierce iniva(ders pluck the gem From IRAN's broken diadem, And bind her ancient faith in chains:Ask the poor exile, cast alone On foreign shores, unloved, unknown, fle Princess, whose heart was sad enough already, colh(i have wished that FERAMORZ had chosen a less mielanicholy story; as it is only to the happy that tears dre a luxury. Her Ladies, however, were by no means sorry that love was once more the Poet's theme; for, whenever ihe spoke of love, they said, his voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the leaves of that enchanted tree, which grows over the tomb of the musician, TanSein.t Their road all the morning had lain through a very dreary country;-through valleys, covered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more than one place, the awful * " Tlhe Manietulkes that were in the other boat, when it was dark, used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the air, which in some measure resembled l.ghtnmg or talhng stars."-Baumgarten. t " Within tile e iclosure which surrounds this monument (at Gualior) is t sine l1 thumbn to thse,,emory of Tani-Sethl, a mnusic ian of incomparable skill, who flourishsed at the court of Akbar. Thle tomb is overshatdowved by a tree, concerning which a superstitiouls notion prevails, tl iwt the ch ewing of its leaves i gie, an extraordinary melodiy to the voice.".Aarrati,, of a Journey from d,gra to Ou.ein, by TV. Hunter, Esq. * "It is usual to place a small white triangular flag, fixed to a bamboo stafi' o'f ten or twelve feet long, at the place where a tiger has destroyed a man. It id common tbr the passengers also to throw each a stone or brick near the spot, o that in the course of a little time a pile equal to a good wagou-load is collected. The sight of these flags and piles of stones imparts a certain mehmcholy not perhaps altogether void of ap prehlensiol." —Oriental Field Sports: vol. ii. t lhe Fieus Indica is called tle P,'god Tree and Tree of Councils; tahe first from the idols placed under its shade; the second. because m eetings were held under its cool branches. In some places it is bolieved to be the ia.unt of spectres as the ancientspressiig oaks of Wales lhave been of fairies; in others are erected beneath the shade pillars of stone, or posts elegantly carved and ornamented with the most beautifid porcelain to supply the use of mirrors."-Pennant. The Persians Gulf-" To dive for pearls in the Green Sea, or Per sianl Gulf:"-Sir W..Iones. ~ Islands in the Gulf... Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the entrance of the Gulf commamsly called Cape Mlisseldom. "The Indians, whenthey pass the promontory t hrow cooa,-nu,ts, fruits, or flowers into the ~m to secure: propitious voyage."-Jlforier. m iTle nightingale sigs figon the pomegranate-groves in the darytimc and from the loftiest trees at iigit." - Russi'sAleppo. I** I speaking of the climate of Sliraz, Franklin says, The dew is of such a pure iature that if the brightest scimitar should be exposed to it all night, it,(u,, iot receive the least rust.". tt Tlie place where tle l'ersiis were finally defeated by the b and their,iet monarchy dstroyed. I i I LALLA - I L Beyond the Caspian'& Iron Gates,* Or on the snowy Mossian mountains, Far from his beauteous land of dates, Her jasmine bow'rs and sunny fountains: Yet happier so than if he trod His own beloved, but blighted, sod, Beneath a despot stranger's nod!Oh, he would rather houseless roam Where Freedom and his God may lead, Than be the sleekest slave at home That crouches to the conqu'ror's creed! 'Tis HAFED-name of' fear, whose sound Chills like the mutt'ring of a charm!Shout but that awful name around, And palsy shakes the manliest arm. 'Tis HAFED, most accursed and dire (So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire) Of all the lebel iSonls of Fire! Of wi ose In align, trem,:ndou. - pow~ r The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour, Such tales of fearful wonder tell, That each aftrighted sentinel Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, Lest HAFED in the midst should rise! A man, they say, of monstrous birth, A mingled race of flame and earth, Sprung from those old, enchanted kings,* Who in their fiery helms, of yore, A feather from the mystic wings Of the Simoorgh resistless wore; And gifted by the Fiends of Fire, Who groan'd to see their shrines expire, With charms that, all in vain withstood, Would drowii the Koran's light in blood' Is IRAN's pride then gone forever, Quench'd with the flame ill MITtIRA'Ss raves'No-she has sons, that never-never Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves, While heav'n has light or earth has graves;Spirits of fire, that brood not long, But flash resentment back for wrong; And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds Of vengeance ripen into deeds, Till, in some treach'rous hour of calm, They burst, like ZEILAN's giant palm,t Whose buds fly open with a sound That shakes the pigmy forests round! Yes, EMIR! he, who scaled that tow'r, Anrid, had he reach'd thy slumbling breast, Had taught thee, in a Gheber's pow'r How safe ev'n tyrant heads may restIs one of many, brave as he, Who loathe thy haughty race and thee; Who, though they know the strife is vain, Who, though they know the riven chain Snaps but to enter in the heart Of him who rends its links apart, Yet dare the issue,-blest to be Ev'n for one bleeding moment free, And die in pangs of liberty! Thou know'st them well-'tis some moons since Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags, Thou satrap of a bigot Prince, Have swarm'd among these Green Sea crags; Yet here, ev'n here, a sacred band Ay, in the portal of that land Thou, Arab, dar'st to call thy own, Their spears across thy path have thrown; Here-ere the winds half wing'd thee o'erRebellion braved thee from the shore. Such were the talcs, that won belief, And such the colourieg Fancy gave To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief, One who, no more than mortal brave, Fought for the land his soul ador ed, For hail)py holes an d altars free, His only talisman, the sword, His only spell-word, Liberty! One of that ain( icnt hero line, Along whose glorious current shine Names, that have sanctified their blood;. As LFBANON'S small mountaini-flood Is render'd holy by the ranks Of sainted cedars on its banks.t 'Twas not for hiiii to crouch the knee Tamely to Moslem tyranny; 'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast In the bright mould of ages past, Whose melancholy spirit, fed With all the glories of the dead, Though fraimied for IRAN'S happiest years, Was born an.long her chains and tears!'Twas not for him to swell the crowd Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd Before the Moslem, as he pass'd, Like shrubs beneath the poison-blastNo-far lie fledl-indignant fled The pageant of his country's shame; While every tear her (children shed Fell on his soul like drops of flame; And, as a lover hails the dawn Of a first smile, so welcomed he The sparkle of the first sword drawn For vengeance and for liberty! Rebellion! foul, dishonouring word, Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd The holiest cause that tongue or sword Of mortal ever lost or gain'd. How many a spirit, born to bless, Hath sunk beneath that with'ring name, Whom but a day's, an hour's success Had wafted to eternal fame! As exhalations, when they burst From the warm earth, if chill'd at first, If check'd in soaring from the plain, Darken to fogs and sink again;But, if they once triumphant spread Their wings above the mountain-head, Become enthroned in upper air, And turn to sun-bright glories there! But vain was valour-vain the flower Of KERMAN, in that deathful hour, Against AL HASSAN'S whelming power, In vain they met him, helm to helm, Upon the threshold of that realm He came in bigot pomp to sway, * Tahmuras, and othler ancient IKings of Persia; whose adventiis in Fairy-land among the P,et ie and Dives may be found in Richardson's carious Dissertation. The gritffi Simoorgh, they say, took some feathers from her breast tfr Taumiras, with which he adorned his helmnet, and transmitted them after,wardls to his descendants. 't I his rivulet, says Danidii, is called the Holy River from the "cedarsaints" among which it rises. In the Lettree Edmb ante,a ther e is a different cause assigned for its name of Holy. In these are deep caverns, which formerly served as so many cells for a great nuiner of recluses, who had chosen these retreats as the only witnesses upon earth ot' the severity of their penanon. The tear s of these pious pe iitents gave the river of which we have jiut treated the name of the Hloly River."-Ses C/hdteaubrand's B,a-es lof Christianity And who is he, that wi eld s the m ight Of Freedom on the Green Sea brink, Before whose sabre's dazzling lightt The eyes of YEMEN's warriors wink? Who comes, embower'd in the spears Of KERMAN'S hardy mountaineers? Those mountaineers that truest, last, ~ Derbend.-" Les Turcs appelent cette ville Demir Capi. Porte de Faer' ce font len Canpise Portfe des ancient.-D'Herbeltt.'n tthe Talpot or Talipot tree. "This beautiful palm-tree, which -ows in the heart of the forests, may be classe d among the lof tiest trees, and becomes still higher when on the point of bursting forth from its ieafy summit. The sheath which then envelops the flower is very large, andl, when it bursts, makes an explosion like the report of a cannon. Tun/der~.e. t " When the bright cimitars make the eyes of our heroes wink." -The Moallakat, Poem of A:mru. I I I 130 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Cling to their courtry's ancient rites, As if that God, whose eyelids cast Their closing gleam oii IRAN'S heights, Among her snowy mountains threw The last light of his worship too! LAL ROKH' 1 31 Thither the vanquish'd HAFED led His little army's last remains;"Welcome, terrific glen!" he said, "Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread, " Is Heav'n to him who flies from chains!" O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known To him and to his Chiefs alone, They -oss'd the chasm and gain'd the tow'rs, This honb," he cried, " at least is ours;"Here we may bleed, unmock'd bv hymns ',Of Moslem triumph o'er our head; "Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs " To quive: to tl,e Mo;lem's tread. "Stretch'd on this rock, while vultures' beaks "Are w hetted on our yet warm cheeks, "Here-happy that no tyrant's eye "Gloats on our torments-we may die!" There stood-but one short league away From old HArtMozsIA's sultry bay A rocky mountain, o'er the Sea Of OIAN beetling awfu'ly;* A lasi a!-id solitarl ink Of those stupendous chains that reach From the broad Caspian's reedy brink Down winding to the Green Sea beach. Around its base the bare rocks stood, Like naked giants, ill the flood, As if to guard the Gulf across; WVhile, on its peak, that braved the sky, A ruin'd Temrnple tower'd so high 'That oft the sleeping albatrosst Struck the wild ruins with her wing, And fromn her clotid-rock'd slumbering Starte(d-to find man's dwelling there In her own silent fields of air! l3e: eatlih, terrific caverns gave l)ark welcome to each stormy wave That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in; And such the strange, mysterious din At tines throughout those caverns roll'd,And such the fearful wonders told Of restless sprites itnprisoii'd there, That bold were Moslem, who would dare, At twilight hour, to steer his skiff Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.t 'Twas night when to those towers they came And gloomily the fitful flame, That from the ruin'd altar broke, Glared on his features, as he spoke:'Tis o'er-what men could do, we've done If IRAN will look tamely on, And see her priests, her warriors driven " Before a sensual bigot's nod, "A wretch who shrines his lust in heav'n, " And makes a pander of his God; "If her proud sons, her high-born souls, " Men, in whose veins-oh last disgrace! "The blood of ZAL and RUSTAM* rolls, " If they w711 court this upstart race, "And turn from MIruaAR's ancient ray, "To kneel at shrines of yesterday; If they will crouch to IRPAN'S foes, " Why, let them-till the land's despair Cries out to Heav'ln, and bondage grows " Too vile for ev'n the vile to bear! Till shame at last, long hidden, burns Their inmost core, and conscience turns Each coward tear the slave lets fall Back on his heart in drops of gall. But here, at least, are arms unchain'd, And souls that thraldom never stain'd; " This spot, at least, no foot of slave Or satrap ever yet profaned; - " And though but few-though fast the wave Of life is ebbing from our veins, Enoughl for vengeance still remains. As paiin.!.ers, after set of sun, Rush from the roots of LEB3ANON Across the dark-sea robber's way,t We'll bound upon our startled prey: And when some hearts that proudest swell Have felt our falchion's last farewell; When Hope's expiring throb is o'er, And ev'n Despair can prompt no more, This spot shall be the sacred grave Of the last few who, vainly brave, Die for the land they cannot save!" On the land side, those tow'rs sublime, That seem'd above the grasp of Time, Were sever'd from the haunts of men By a wide, deep, and wizard glen, So fathomless, so full of gloom, No eye could pierce the void between: It seem'd a place where Gholes might come WVitli their foul banquets from the tomb, And in its caverns feed unseen. Like distant thit'der, from below, The sound of iiiany torrents came, 'I'oo deep for eye or ear to know If'twere the sea's imprison'd flow, Or floods of ever-restless flame. For, each ravine, each rocky spire Of that vast mountain stood on fire;4 And, though forever past the days WVlien God was worshipp'd in the bi"W e 'I'llat from its lofty altar shone,'Thloughl fled the priests, the volt'-ies gone, Still did the mighty flame burn Ot).,l Through chance and change, through good and ill, Like its own God's eternal will, Deep, constant, bright, unquenchable! His chiefs stood round-each shining blade Upon the broken altar laidAnd though so wild and desolate Those courts, where once the Mighty sax Nor longer on those mould'ring tow'rs Was seen the feast of fruits and flow'rs, With which of old the Magi fed The wand'ring Spirits of their dead;I Though neither priest nor rites were there, Nor charmed leaf of pure pomegranate;~ This mountain is my own creation, as the" stupendous chain," of vi,ichI L suppose it a link, does not extend quite so far as the shores of the P'ersians Gulf. "This long and lofty range of mountains formerly divided Media lIrou Assyria, an,d tow torms the bounldary of the Perian and Tirkish cmpires. It runs parallel witht the river Tigris and Persian Gulf, aud almost disappearing in the vicin.:y of Gonberooi (Hlarmozia) seems ce ore to rise in the souther districts f Kerman, and following a. -asterly course thlrough tle ent re of Mekraun and Balouchistan, is en;rily l,st il the deserts of Sinde." Kinier's Persian Empire. T These birds sleep in the air. They are most common about the Cape of Good Hlope. ''" ere is a. extraordinary hill in this neighbourliood called Koh6 Gtibr, or tie Guebre's mountain. It rises in the form of a lofty cupola, tod on the summit of it, they say, are the remains of an Atush Kuduor 'lire'Temnple. It is superstitiously held to be the residence of Deeyes or Sprites anud many marvellous stories are recounted of the injury and ss:atchcratt suffired by those who e,ssyed in former days to ascend or exlore it." —Pottig,er's Beloochistan. The G;ebers generally built their temples over subterraneous fires. tl " At the city of Yezd, in Persia, which is distinguished by the ,p'-l lation of tile Darfi1 Abadut, or Seat of Religion, tile Guebres are paeritte d to hllve al Atusl Kudu or Fire' emple (which, they assert, ta., Iy tt,e pacred fire in it since tle, days of Zoroaster) in ti he air o ~.,mpartmen~t of thre city: but tor thlis indulgence they are indebted to the a va~lrl, not the toleran-e of tile Persian government, Zurich taxes then) :;t twventy-five rupees each man." —Pottin,ger's Belooch,itan. * Ancient heroes of Persia. Among the Gueb,res there are some who boast their descent from Rustam."-St Iten's Persia. t See Russel's account of a panther's attacking travellers in the night on the sea-shore about the roots of L,ebanon. t "Among other ceremonies, the Magi used to place upon thie tops of high towers various kinds of rich viandis, upon which it was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their departed heroes regaled themselves." Richardso,n. ~t, tie ceremonies of the Glhebers round their Flire, as described by ict Lord, "the, Daroo," hle says, " giveth then wi;.'r to drink, andl a p,Rme granate leaf to chew in the mouth. to cleanse I} i irois.stard inclealneas." LALL. ROOKH. iii And with their corpses bloc In vain-for everv lance th Thousands around the conq For every arm that litied th Myriads of slaves were wa A, bloody, bold, and coutitte [3efore whose swarm as fas As dates beneath the tocus TilE- MIRROR LIBRARi'Y. Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air, Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet;* Yet the same God that heard their sires Heard them, while on that altar's fires They sworet the latest, holiest deed Of the few hearts still left to bleed, Should be, in IRAN's injured name, To die upon that Mount of FlameThe last of all her patriot line, Before her last untrampled Shrine. Seven nights have darken'd OMAN'S ea, Since last, beneath the moonlight ray, She saw his light oar rapidly Hurry her Gheber's bark away,And still she goes, at midnight hour, To weep alone in that high bow'r, And watch, and look along the deep For him whose snmiles first made her weep, But watching, weeping, all was vain, She never saw his bark again. The owlet's solitary cry, The night-hawk, flitting darkly by, And oft the hatefuil carrion bird, Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing, Which reek'd with that day's banqueting Was all she saw, was all she heard. Brave, sufPring souls! they little knew How many a tear their injuries drew From one meek maid, one gentle foe, Whom love first touch'd with others' woeWhose life, as free from thought as sin, Slept like a lake, till Love threw in His talisman, and woke the tide, And spread its trembling circles wide. Once, E.tla! thy unheeding child, 'Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smiledTranquil as on some battle plain The Persian lily shines and tow'rs,: Before the combat's redd'ning stain Hath fall'n upon her golden flow'rs. Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved, While Heav'n but spared the sire she loved, Once at thy evening tales o'f blood Unlist'ning and aloof she stoodAnd oft, when thou hast paced along Thy Harem halls with furious heat, Ilast thou not cursed her cheerful song, That came across thee, calm and sweet, Like lutes of angels, touclh'd so near Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear! 'Tie the eighth morn-AL HASSAN'S brow Is brighten'd with unusual joy What mighty mischief glads him now, Who never smiles but to destroy? The sparkle up on HERKEND'S Sea, Adhen toss'd at midni gh t furiously,* Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh, More surely than that smnilinig eye! "Up, daughter, up-the KERNA'St breath "Has blown a blast would waken death, "And yet thou slcep'st —up, child, and see "This blessed day for Heaven and me, "A day more rich in Pagan blood "Than ever flash'd o'er OMA,N'S flood. Before another dawn shall shine, His head-heart-limbs-will all be mine, This very night his blood shall steep These hands all over ere I sleep!" Far other feelings Love hath brought Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness, She now has but the one dear thought, And thinks that o'er, almost to madness! Oft doth her sinking heart recall His words-" for my sake weep for all;" And bitterly, as day on day Of rebel carnage fast succeeds, She weeps a lover snatch'd away In ev'ry Gheber wretch that bleeds. There's not a sabre meets her eye, But with his life-blood seems to swim; There's not an arrow wings the sky, Btut fancy turns its point to him. No more she brings with footstep light AL HASSAN's falchion for the fight; And-had he look'd with clearer sight, Had not the tnists, that ever rise From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyesHe would have mark'd her shudd'ring frame, When from the field of blood he came, The falt'ring speech-the look estrangedVoice, step, and life, and beauty changedHe would have mark'd all this, and known Such change is wrought by Love alone! "His blood!" she faintly scream'd-her mind Still singling one from all mankind"Yes-spite of his ravines an d tow'rs, "HAFEDt c, my child, this night is ours. "Thanks to all conqu'ring treachery, " Without whose aid the links accurst, "That bind these impious slaves, would be " Too strong for ALLA'S self to burst! "That rebel fienid, whose blade has spread "My path with piles of Moslem dead, "Whose baffling spells had almost driv'nl "Back from their course the Swords of Heav'n, "This night, with all his band, shall know, "How deep an Arab's steel can go, "When God and Vengeance speed the blow. "And-Prophet! by that holy wreath "Thou wor'st on OIIOD's field of death,t "I swear, for ev'ry sob that parts "In anguish from these heathen hearts, "A gem from PEnsIA'S plunder'd mines "Shall glitter on thy Shrine of Shrines. "But, ha!-she siilks-that look so wild"Those vivid lips-my child, my child, "This life of blood befits not thee, "And thou mniust back to ARABY. " Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex "In scenes that man himself might dread, "Had I not hoped our ev'ry tread " Would be on prostrate Persian necks"Curst race, they offer swords instead! Ah! not the Love, that should have bless'd So young, so innocent a breast; Not the pure, open, prosp'rous Love, That, pledged on earth and seal'd above, Grows in the world's approving eyes, In friendship's smile and home's caress, Collecting all the hear's sweet ties Into one knot of happiness! NO, HINDA, no-thy fatal flame Is nursed in silence, sorrow, shame; , "Early in the morning they (the Parseas or Ghebers at Oulam) o in efowds to pay their devotions to the Son, to whom upon all the altars there are spheres consecrated, made by magic, resembling the circles of the sun, and when the sun rises, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to turn round with a great noise. They have every one a censer in their handis. and offer incense to the sun."-Rabb i B e iamin N'ul d'entre eux oseroit se p arjurer. quand ifa pris'~ t6moin cet 616meat terrible et vengeur."-FEnc, clp. Flramoise. fte";'A vivid verdure succeeds the autumnal rains, and the ploughed lds are covered with a Persian lily, of a resplenldent yellow colour."Ru se'* Alepph * " It is observed, with respect to tl e Sea of lterke,,d, that,hen it is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire."-Travels of 7wo JMohammedans. t,A kind of trumpet;-it "was that used by Tamedlane, the sound of which is described as uncommonlly dreadful, and so loud as to be heard at the distance o f several miles"-:l irch'ar-esn' :" Mohamnmed bad two le ls,, i.tmior and extcrir on)e- the lat ter of which, called Ai Mawasha],, the filtet, A l r wrettled ga land, he wore at the battle ofOh.]." —UrTi"t.,'$ s torv. -- i I 1112 A passion, without hope or pleasure, In thy soul's darkness buried deep, It lies like some ill-gotten treasure.Some idol, without shrine or name, O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keep UDIIOIY watch. while.otherssleep. LALLA ROOKH. 133 to isle, when she saw a small gilded bark approaching her. It was like one of those boats which the Maldivian islanders send adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odoriferous wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom they call King of the Sea. At first, this little bark appeared to be empty, but, on coming nearer She had proceeded thus far in relating the dream to her Ladies, when FERA.MOtz appeared at the door of the pavilion. In his presence, of course, every thing else was forgotten, and the continuance of the story was instantly requested by all. Fresh wood of aloes was set to burn in the cassolets;-thie violet sherbets* were hastily handed round, and after a short prelude on his lute, in the pathetic measure of Nava,t which is always used to express the lamentations of absent lovers, the Poet thus continued: — Thi s bloody boast wa s all too true; There lurk'd one wretch among the few Whom HAFLID's eagle eye could count Around him on that F iery Mount,One miscreant, who for gold betray'd T he pathway h through t e valley's shade To those highrk tow'r s, where Free dom stood In her last hold of flamee and blood. Left onh ig the field that dreadful night, When, sallyini,r froim their Sacred height, The Ghebers forght hope's farewell fight, He lay-but di ed not with the brave; That sun, which should have gilt his grave, Saw him a traitor and a slave;And, while the few, who thence return'd To their high rocky fortress, mourn'd For him among the matchless dead They left belind on glory's bed, He lived, and, in the face of morn, Laugh'd them and Faith and Heav'n to scorn. THEI day is low'. rig-stilly black Sleeps the grim wave, while heav'n's rack, Dispersed and wild,'twixt earth and sky Hangs like a shatter'd canopy. There's not a cloud in that blue plain But tells of storm to come or past;Here, flying loosely as the mane Of a young war-horse in the blast;There, roll'd in mass es dark and swelling, As proud to be the thunder's dwelling! While sonie, already burst and riv'n, Seem melting dowvin the verge of heav'n; As though the infant storm had rent The mighty womb that gave him birth, And, having swept the firmame nt, Was now in fierce career for earth. Oh for a tongue to curse the slave, Whose treason, like a deadly blight, C(omes o'er the councils of the brave, And blast's them in their hour of might! May Life's unblessed cup for him Be drugg'd with treach'ries to the brim,With hopes that but allure to fly, W'ith joys, that vanish while he sips, Like Dead Sea fruits that tempt the eye, But turn to ashes on the lips!* His country's curse, his children's shame, Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame, ,May he, at last, with lips of flame On the parch'd desert thirstinig die,While lalies, that shone in mockery nigh,+ Are fading or. untouch'd, untasted, like the once glorious hopes he blasted! And, when from earth his spirit flies, Just Prophet, let the damn'd-one dwell Full in the sight of Paradise, B holding lieav'n, and feeling hell! On earth'twas yet all calm around, A pulseless silence, dread, profound, More awful than the tempest's sound. The diver steer'd for O.Mus' bowers, And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours; The sea-birds, with portentous screech, Flew fast to land;-upon the beach The pilot oft had paused, with glance Turn'd upward to that wild expanse;And all was boding, drear, and dark As her own soul, when HINDA's bark Went slowly from the Persian shore.No music timed her parting oar,e Nor friends upon the less'ninig strand Linger'd, to wave the unseen hand, Or speak the farewell, heard no more'But lone, unheeded, from the bay The vessel takes its mournful way, Like some ill-destined bark that steers In silence through the Gate of Tears.~ LALL.A ROOKH had, the night before, been visited by a dream which, in spite of the impending fate of poor HAFrs, made her heart more than usually cheerful during the moriliig, anid gave her cheeks all the freshened animation of a flower that the Bid-murLsk has just passed over.t She lancied that she was sailing on that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies, who live forever on the water,~ enjoy a perpetual summer in wandering from isle original possessors of the island of Borneo. Tie other is a specie of sea-gipsies or itinerant fishermen, who live in small covered boats and en.oy a perpetual summer on tihe eastern ocean, shitiing to leeward from island to island, with tihe variations of the monsoon. In some oftheir customs this singular race resemile the natives of thie Mallivia islands Tire Maldivians annually launch a snall bark, loaded with perfumes gums, flowers, and odoriferous wood, and turn it adrift at the mercy oft wind and waves, as an offbring to the Spirit of the Winds; and some times similar offerings are made to thie spirit whom they term the King of the Sea. In like manner the Biiajas perform their offering to the god of evil. launching a small bark loaded with all tihe sins -and misfortuntes of th e ation, which are inagined to tall on tihe unhappy crew that may be o unlucky as first to meet with it." —Dr. Leyden ot the Language and Literature of the lndo-Chinese Nations. * " The sweet-scented violet is one of the plants most esteemed, par ticularly for its great use in Sorbet which they make of violet sugar." Itasselquist. "The Sherbet they most esteem and whichi is drunk by the Graod Signor himself is made of violets and sugar."-Tavernier. t " Last of all shie took a guitar, and sung a pathetic air in the mew ure called Nava, which is always used to express the lamentations olf absent lovers."-Persian 7kles. i " The Easterrs used to set out on their longer voyages with music." Harmer. ~.l " pTie Gate of Tetirs, the straits or passage into the Red Sea, con po nly called Bahehrnandel. It received this n, aie front the old Ara bians, on account rf tlre danrger ht' the tlavigntiot, and the number of s lripsvrecks by which it as dislaguishe;l: *,ich induced then to con sieder;as dead, and to wear mot'ig fir all w*r had the irldness X a, hazard tire passage through it into the Ethiopic occae."-Aichardspr * "Thley say that there are apple-trees upon the sides of this sea, which bear very love,} fruit, but within are all thil of ashes."- Thevenot. rh e same is asserted of the wora,nges tigere, vide fitman's Travels in A.i',tic'I'urkey. "The Asplhalt L[ake, known, by the name of the Dead Sea, is very remarkable on account or' the considerable proportion of salt which it con tins. In thisrespect it surpass es every other kno wn water on the surfie of tile earth. Teivs great proportion of bitter tasted salts is the reaso n,vi:y l;eit];er a.,imal For plant call live in this; water."-K'aproth's Chemical Anlivsii al the Water of the Dead Sea, Annals of Philosophy, Ja,n,uary, 181:3. tasxelquist, however, do,utst. the truth of this last ausertionv, as there,,re s}eii-fish to be found in the Ilke. Lord By,ron has a similar allusion to the fruits of the Dlead Sea, in that wonde rful display of genius, his third Canto of Childe Harold-magnifice,ut b, yo."d any thing. perhaps, that even he has ever written. I"The Su.1r,.b or W~Vater of the Desert is said to be caused by the raretfctionl of the atmosphere fro,. extreme ]eat; and, which augments thle delsio n. it is most rctquent in ltlows, where water might be expected to lodg,e. I have seen bushes and trees reflected in it with as hmch accuracy as though it haed been the face of a clear and still lake." -Pottinger. *As t thre unbelievers, their works are like a vapour in a plain, whfic,-h the Ihirsty traveller tlhinketh to be water, until when he cometIt he:e, aidhle findtqll: -l;.4t awakes A nlew wonlder ealch minllte, aws s!,,w Iy it breaks, tills, culpolas, foultdai:Is, call' k1 frth cvery7 one Out of darkness, as if just bo.-n of tlle Skun. When the Spirit of Fra;t~rance is up w ith the day, From his ttalre:n- or nlight-fl,w'rs stealing awvay; And thc wind(, fulll of wtalltonmrlss wzoos like a lover The youlng aspenz.trees,~ till thleyT tremnble all over. When thle East is as w.;IrIJ as tilc ligrllt cf first hopes, Anld Day, with hlis bannerf of radianlce urnlfrei'd, Shines in throulgh the,m-su,,.tainlous portal[] that ope;, Sublime, from thtwt V.tllcy of' hliss to thle world! a... vs,.........,.o UZt~tl [n rlnce~s, WllO were here allowed a much freer range than they could safely be indulged with ill a less sequestered place, ran wild among the gardens and bounded through the meadows lightly as younu roes over the aromatic plains of Tibet. While FADLAFEE-N, in addition to the spiritual comfort derived by him from a pilgrimage to the tomb of the saint from whom the valley is named, had also opportunities of inidulging, in a small way, his taste for victims, by put ting to death some hundreds of those unfortunate little lizards,/ which all pious Mussulmans make it a point to kill;-taking for granted, that the manner in which the creature hangs its head is meaut as a mimicry of the at titude in whlicii the Faithful say their prayers. About two miles from Htissuii Abdaul were those Royal ("aidcis.~ which had grown beautiful under the care of so many lovely eyes, and were beautiful still, though those eyes could see them no longer. This place, with its flowers and its holy silence, interrupted only by the dipping of the wings of birds in its marble basitis filled with the pure water of those hills, was to LALLA ROOKH all that her heart could fancy of fragrance, coolness, sid almost heavenly tranquillity. As the Prophet said of Damascus, "it was too delicious;"11 —and here, in listcning to the sweet voice of FERAMOaZ, or reading in his eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the most exquisite momeints of her whole life were passed. One evening, when they had been talking of the Sultana Nourinahal, the Light of the Harem,~ who had so often A wandered amoug these flowers, and fed with her own hands, in those marble basins, the small shining fishes of which she was so fond.** the youth in order to delay the But never joye t, I)( l;'.il;t scr d say', In dew of sp~ri,,~ or sullltp. ersr raiy, Did the sw5ee't Valor! s'!',ijf' so, fay As now it shsines —all levi- a i~l liE'ha, Visions bv dlay;'~d fi~asts tv\ ili!,:ht! A happier sintiet illumells c;tcil tImow, With quicker spread: each, Lleart uzelose.s, And all is ecstaisy, —f,r noew Thc Valley hlo!x! its Fealst of1 Roses;,* The joyouls Tlime(, wh,n?,)le~tsurcs iour Profusely rolun, and(. inl th(.ir showser, Hearts open, like thle S;easohs R~se, Trhe F'lowv'ret of. hlunder d lcaw s,**'s E~xpanding while the dlecw-f:}11 ftowNs, And every l,af its ba.lml receivsc.i; * "T 1he in!,abitants of this country (Zinge) are iiever afflicted with eadness or omelaiscioly; oln this subject the Sheikh /bu-a-.~he;'r-/lzari ihas the fol sowing distich. "' Who is t he man vithout care or sorrow, (tell) that I i,iy rub my hand to him. "'lBeholl) the Zingians, without care or sorrow, frolicksome with tipsiness and mirth.' "The phi oaopihers have discovered tha t the cause of this cheerfulness proceeds eroc the ilfluence of the star Sobeil, or Caisoptis, which rises over them every iit.it - Extract fromn a Geosraphieal Persian.Ianuscript ca/ltd Heft Mirln or the Se ne n Climates, translated by W. Ouselet,, F S q. ; Ttle star S~oheil. or Canppus. 4+ "Th 1'!eiz:~rd S~tellio. Trhe Arabs call it H~atdun. The Turks kill *t, for t!;ey imragie that by deelnsing the head it mimics them wl he n teeey say thteii pri y,'rs."-Hassedquist. ~ l:or thle e particuslars respecting tlussuln Abdlaul I nm indebted to te vury inteiresting, introductiou of Mr. Elpinstone's wori upon Cauh~u!. I1"A.v do poer et that Bazar, *i thout the gate of Damascus, you .-ee ihe Greeil otqne so called because it hathl a steeple faced with greeiu igled britcks. which render it very resplendent; it is covered at top with} a pavilionr ol' the same stuff. Thle'1 urks s~ay thi9 mosque was miade in that plai e, becai] e Mahomet bein come so far, Iould not enter the town, sa5 ing it s too delicious."-Thevenot. Tlis reminds one of tie follovicg pretty pass;age in Isaac Walton. " lken I sat laxt on this primro.-e balnk, ~d looked downi the sge eadowsI I thought of them as ChIarl e th e Emp eror ilid of the city of Florence, that they were too pleas~ant to b~e lookefd on. buit only oin ho~lidays.'" ~ Nourmahal sianifie4 Light o the Harecm. She was afterwards call~d eourjehan, or the 51g t of tse Woasrld. *'* See thue third nlote onl p. 3&. * " Haroun A1 Ralsehid,:*iuiq,~idnmir K9'nlife dles Abaslfsishes, s'ettlt zuu jour broutiile, avec urie (h se.. mal ire,.q~ n,,f l,:nle Mlartdabl, au'il aietaoi cepeutsant jusqu'kl'cxcds. tt cclte n, siiit-lligence ay;aiit dej. dutrle quelque tem., corlnment ~ /~',n,y~v(r. G;'t/"tr B'trm'tki,on tihvori, quti s'en ap~perc~ut, commalleidal ~t Abbs b~. In Ahna~f, excellenlt po/ete de ce teheslba, d cl tmposer qTe qTerks kiul it, ue:ujct d~: tti iie bro 0 llerie. C e poete Fxocuta F'ordlre tce Grspecinthe. fi ti t cm indebted r es ve i ts p(ar Moussali en presenice du Khalitc, et ce priuce falt te-llenlvnt tou(q,6 dle latenedresse dles vcrs du po ete, et de in douceur dle ila voix dut mu.-siicie,, quv'il ala auissio tIt trouver Mtddao m et fit sa paix:tcre el e." —' Herbelot. J' "Th'}e rose of Ka~shmiere tor its brillimticy andi delicacy ofrodour has lonig beenp roverbiail in the Eaust." —bbstr.t O *T'liedar mud iier oaiq tic z(lrae tfhi osellws, tleat soundeud witil ravishing melod~l." —Son~ osf.la~uad(eva. ~''Thle little isles inl the l~ake ot- Cm-hXemnsre are set wvith arb~ours anld largeleavedl aspen-trees, slenlder amll,a~ll." —lief,Jer. I[11" The Tluckt Su~limanl, thle niamie bestow ed bsy time Mahomn-letans on Ithlis lhill. torms one sidle of u granid port, l to the l'~ke." —Fbrster. pl" Te Feast ofn Rose contin ues te wIole tiT'e of their rei sining in ebdoom."ae e Pietr e dc oa falle. * * " Gul sad~ berk, thle Rose ofra hlund(red leaves. I belie;ve a p~articular s pecies. "-Ouselel;. 14 TH IRRLBAY But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling, That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing,Some lover, who knows all the heart-touching power Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. Oh! best of delights as it ev'ry where is To be near the loved One,-what a rapture is his Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide O'er the Lake of CASIMERE, with that One by his side! If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, Think, think what a Heav'n she must make of CASHMERE' Twas when the hour of evening came Upon the Lake, serene and cool, ffhen Day had hid his sultry flame Behind the palms of BARAMOULE,* Nhen maids began to lift their heads, ,efresh'l from their embroidered beds, Where they had slept the sun away, 4,nd waked to moonlight and to play. All were abroad-the busiest hive ,)n BEL.A'St hills is less alive, When saffron beds are full in flow'r, Than look'd the Valley in that hour. A thousand restless torches play'd lhrough every grove and island shade; A thousand sparkling lamps were set On everv dome and minaret; And fields and pathways, far and near, Were lighted bv a blaze so clear, That you could see, in wanid'ring round, The smallest rose-leaf on the ground. Yet did the maids and matrons leave Their veils at home that brilliant eve; And there were -lancinig eyes about, And cheeks that would not dare shine out In open day, but thought they might Look lovely then, because'twas night. And all were free and wandering, Aind all exclaim'd to all they met, That never did the summer bring So gay a Feast of Roses yet:The moon had never shed a light So c-lear as that which bless'd them there; The roses ne'er shone half so bright, Nor they themselves look'd half so fair. So felt the magnificent Son of ACBAR,* When from pow'r and pomp and the trophies of war He flew to that Valley, forgetting them all With the light of the HAREM, his young NOURMAHAL When free and uncrown'd as the Conqueror roved By the banks of that lake, with his only beloved, He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match, And preferr'd in his heart the least ringlet that curl'd Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world. There's a beauty, forever unchangingly bright, Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer-day's light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendour. This was not the beauty-oh, nothing like this, That to young NOUIRMIATAL gave such magic of bliss! But that loveliness, ever il motion, which plays Like the light uponi autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lip to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes; Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint hath of Heav'n in his dreams When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face! And when angry,-for ev'n iii the tranquillest climes Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimesThe short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken New beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness totich'd her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heav'nlier dye, From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealings From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings. Then her mirth-oh!'twas sportive as ever took wing From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring; Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages, Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their cages.t While her laugh, full of life, without any control But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul; And where it most sparkled no glance could discover, In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she b.-righten'd all over,Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, When it breaks into dimples and laughs il the suln Such, such were the peerless eniich-ntinents, that gave NOURMAHAL the proud Lord of the East for her slave: And though bright was his Harenm,-a living parterre Of the flow'rs., of this planet-though treasures were there, For which SOLIMAN'S self might liavO giv'n all the store That the navy from OPIIIR e'er win g'd to his shore, Yet dim before her were the smiles of thie m all, And the Light of his lIaremn was young NOURMAHAL! And what a wilderness of flow'rs! It seem'd as though from all the bow'rs And fairest fields of all the year, The mningled spoil were scatter'd here. The ILake> too, like a garden breathes, With the rich buds that o'er it lie, As if a shower of fairy wreaths Ha,] fawlln upon it from the sky! And then the sounds of joy,-the beat O)J tabors and of dancing feet; The miiiaret-crier's chant of glee Suniri from his lighted gallery,t Alid answered by a ziraleet From ncighbouring Harem, wild and sweet;- The merry laug'hIter, echoingfl From ~ardens, where the silken swing{ WVafts sormie delighted girl above 'Flie top leavees of the orange-grove; ()r from those infant groups at play .Amonig the tentsh] that line the way, Flingnt,r,l, Ainiawed by slave or mother, Han,dffuls of roses at each other. i, the souindls fiown the Lake,-the low whisp'ring in boats, .\k t' l'? shoot through the moonlight; —the dipping of O:Frs, Ail thlie wild, airy warbling that ev'ry where."hrats, T,hrough the groves, round the islands, as i' ail the shores. Like tiose of KATIIA.Y, utter'd music, and gave A! answer in song to the kiss of each wave.~ _ one But where is she now, this night of joy, When bliss is every heart's employ?When all around her is so bright, So like the visionis of a trance, That one might think, who came by chanse Into the vale this happy night, He saw that City of Delight~ In Fairy-land, whose streets and tow'rs Are made of gemns and light and flow'rs! + A place mentioned in the Toozek Jehangeery, or Memoirs of Jehanlire, ere t here i s a n account of the beds of saffron-flowers about Cashmcere. + "it is thie custom among the women to employ the Maazeen to eiant, from tle gallery of the nearest minaret, which ons that occasion i illuminated and the wo men assembled at the thouse respond at intervals Eith a ziraleet or joyous chorus." —Russd. '"T,e swing id a favourit p me pa stim e i n the East, as promoting a circulai i of air. extremely refreshing in those sultr cl imates."-ihardson. The sin, are adornedwi i th festoons. f This pas time is accompaied1 wqtn muse of voices and of instruments, hired by the masters of the lW.gY." — Th,ven ft. ii' At the keeping of tl e Feast of Roses we beheld an infinite number of tents pithed, wit such rof if me, ih omen, boys, and girls, with music dances," &c. &c. —Herbert. ~"'An cold ommentator of tiWe C(hoql-Kin,- say.y, the ancients having reiiiarked that a current of water n-tde sooe of tie stones near its bn atnks send fortht a soitil t;,ey'ltacid some of tlcn, alind brin charned with the detigitful souindl tlhey emitted, ccnsrtictt'l King or musical instrutce its of them." —prosier. ni o a f. 5is miraculotus qsality l.a- been attrihlltte: aso' to t;fe store of Attica. " Ho jus littus, ait Capella, concenturnm musicum illisis terra undis red dere, qutd p rop ter tn tit iois vim puto dictum."-Ludov. iPve, in J-nglsti,,. de Civit.t. Dei. lit,. xviii. c. 8. Je!,a -Guire wras tl,e "soI of tIhe Great. Acbar. IA the wars ofi t h Di ves witi, tie Peris, wiheever the former took the latter orisoners.i " taffy shut. te lip il iron cages and hung them oI the hicige't trees. II, re they...... vidte. d by th eir companions, who Ibrmollttt tiemel th~e c':mc~s.t ~d3'm:rs'" —IlIichardson' I] the Al~'al Islalu:ge thbe sa ~ s *o~rd signifies Yeomen and flowenr ~ Tile cupitil ofShadukiam. S,:e th!e first note on D.o 2 141 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. LALLA ROOK[1. 14. Where is the loved Sultana? where, When mirth brings out the young and fair, Does shle, the fairest hide her brow, In melancholy stillness now? Hence is it, too, that NOaURMAHAL, Amid the luxuries o f th is hour Far from the joyous festival, Sits in her own sequester'd bow'r, With no one near to sooth or aid, But that inspired and wondrous maid, NAMOUNA, thle Enchantress;-one, O'er whom his race the golden sun For unremember'd years has run, Yet never saw her blooming brow Younger or fairer than'tis now. Nay, rather,s-as the west wind's sigh Freshens the flow'r it passes by, — Time's wing but seem'd, in stealing o'er, To leave her lovelier than before. Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, And when, as oft she spoke or sung Of other worlds, there came a light From her dark eyes so strangely bright, That all believed nor man nor earth Were conscious of NAMOUNA'S birth! Alas!-how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love! Hearts that the world in vain had tried, And sorrow but more closely tied; That stood the storm when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships that have gone down at sea, Wiie,. sea v';,t, ail,n! Fortnetnr' A somnething, light as air-a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken(-)h! love, that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this hath shaken. And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin; And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said; Till fast declining, one by one, The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds,-or like the stream, That smiling left the mountain's brow As though its waters ne'er could sever, Yet ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods that part forever. All spells anrd talismans she knew, Fronm the great Mantra,* which around The Air's sublimer Spirits drew, To the gold gemst of AFRIC, bound Upon the wand'ring Arab's arm, To keep him from tile Siltim'st harm. And she hiad pledged her powerful art,Pledged it with all the zeal and heart Of one who knew, though high her sphere, What'twas to lose a love so dear,To find some spell that should recall Hler Selitri's smile to NOURIAIIAL! Oh, you, that have the charge of Love, Keep him in rosy bondage bound, As in the Fields of Bliss above He sits with flow'rets fetter'd round;* Loose not a tie that round him clings, Nor ever let him use Ihis wings; For ev'n an hour, a mninute's flight Will rob the plumes of half their light. Like that celestial bird,-whose nest Is found beneath far Eastern skies,Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, Lose all their glory when he flies!t 'Twas midnight-through the lattice, wreathed With woodbine, many a perfume breathed From plants that wake when others sleep, From timid Jasmiine buds, that keep Their cdour to themselves all day, But, when the sunlight dies away, Let the delicious secret out To every breeze that roams about;When thus NAMOUNA:-"'Tis the hour That scatters spells on herb an d flow'r, And garlands might be gather'd now, That, twined around the sleeper's brow, Would make, him dream of such delights, "Such miracles and dazzling sights, As Genii of the Sun behold, At evening from their tents of Gold Upon th' horizon-where they play Till twilight comas, and, ray by ray, Their sunny mansions melt away. Now, too, a chiplct might be wreath'd Of buds o'er which the mriooni has breathed, Which worn by her, whose love has stray'd, " Might bring some Peri from the skies, Some sprite, whose very soul is made " Of flow'rets' breaths and lovers' sighs, And who might tell " Some diff'rence of this dang'rous kind,By which, though light, the links that bind The fondest hearts may soon be riv'n; Some shadow in Love's summer heav'n, Which, though a fleecy speck at first, May yet in awful thunder burst;Such cloud it is that now hangs over The heart of the Imperial Lover, And far hath banish'd from his siglht His NOURMAHIAL, his Harem's Light! Hence is it, on this happy night, When pleasure through the fields and groves Has let loose all her world of loves, And every heart has found its own, He wander s j oyl ess and alone, And weary as that bird of Theace, Whose pillion knows no resting-place.l In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes This Eden of the Earth supplies Come crowding round-the cheeks are pale, riThe eyes are dim:-though rich the spl)ot With ev'rv flow'r this earth has got, WYhat is it to the nightingale, If there his darling rose is not?~ In vain the Valley's smiling throng Wership him as ie moves along; lIe heeds them not-one smile of hers " For me, for me," Cried NOURMAIIAL impat iently," Oh! twine that wreath for me to-night." Then, rapidly, with foot as light As the young musk-roe's, out she flew, To cull each shining leaf that grew Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams, For this enchanted Wreath of Dreams. See the representation of the Eastern Cupid,pinioned closely round ath wreaths ot flowers, in Picart's Ceremonies RIeligieuses. t' Among the birds of Tonquin is a species of Goldfinch, which sings so m,elotdiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. Its wings, when it is percied, appear variegated with beautiful colours, but when it flies theyi lobe all their rplcndour." —Grosier. btlese tb"ds on the Bo phloru,s arenever known to rest, they are ealled by the rench' les a.men damn6es..' "-Dolloay. a' e i "You maiy place a hun,,dr,ed handfuls of fagra,,t herbs an~l flowers before the nightingale, et lee wishes not, in his constant heart, for mniore thauthe ewyer+ hrbe h his beloved roine." —.ami i * " He is said to h,ave fo,und the great.Mantra, speil or talisman, through which he ruled owtr the elemenits anI spirits of all de,omiaations."-'-Fil ford. t "A Th e go i d jwels of'Jiniic, which are cilledl by the Arabs El Herez, froI the l, sup posed cho a they con,tain."-Jackshon. "A de'I,on, supposed to haunt'woods, &c. ill a human shape."Ribchitrdoln. cS 1The;}::me of'Jehtkn-Gulire beiore his accession to the throne.. ~ ~ LALLA ROOKH. 14-.!i Is worth a world of worshippers. They but the Star's adorers are, She is ihe Heav'ri that lights the Star I 14 TH IRRLBAY Anemones and Seas of Gold,* And new-blown lilies of the river, And those sweet flow'rets, that unfold Their buds on CAMADEVA'S quiver;tThe tube-rose, with her silv'ry light, That in the Gardens of Malay Is call'd the Mistress of the Night,t So like a bride, scented and bright, She comes out when the sun's away; — Amaranths, such as crown the maids That wander through ZAMARA's shades;~ And the white moon-flow'r, as it shows, On SERENDIB's high crags, to those Who near the isle at evening sail, Scenting her clove-trees in the gale; In short, all flow'rets and all plants, From the divine Amrita tree,dl That blesses heaven's inhabitants With fruits of immortality, Down to the basil tuft,~ that waves Its fragrant blossom over graves, And to the humble rosemary, Whose sweets so thanklessly are shied To scent the desert** and the dead:All in that garden bloom, and all Are gather'd by young NOURMAIHAL, Who heaps her baskets with the flow'rs And leaves, till they can hold no more; Then to NAMOUNA flies, and show'rs Upon her lap the shining store. Springs out of the silv'ry almond-flow'r, That blooms on a leafless bough.* Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, 'IT,-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade The visions, ta o that oft to wor ldly eyes The glitter of mines unfold, Inhabit the mountain-herb,t that dyes The tooth of the fawn like gold. The phantom shapes-oh touch not them - That appal the muird'rer's sight, Lurk in the fleshly inandrake's stem, That shrieks, when pluck'd at night! Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fads, The dream of the injured, patient mind. That smiles with the wrongs of men, Is found in the bruised and wounded rind Of the cinnamon, sweetest then. Then hasten we, maid, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fads No sooner was the flow'ry crown Placed on her head, than sleep came down, Gently as nights of summer fall, Upon the lids of NOURMAIIAL;And, suddenlv, a tuneful breeze, As full of small, rich harmonies As ever wind, that o'er the tents Of AZABT blew, was full of scents, Steals on her ear, and floats and swells, Like the first air of morning creeping Into those wreathy, Red Sea shells, Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping;~ And now a Spirit, form'd,'twould seem, Of music and of light,-so fair, So brilliantly his features beam, And such a sound is in the air Of sweetness when he waves his wings, — Hovers around her, and thus sings: With what delight th' Enchantress views So many buds, bathed with the dews And beams of that bless'd hour!-her glance Spoke something, past all mortal pleasur es, As, in a kind of holy trance, She hung above those fragrant treasures, Bending to drink their balmy airs, As if she mix'd her soul with theirs. And'twas, indeed, the perfume shed From flow'rs and scented flame, that fed Her charmed l fe-for none had e'er Beheld her taste of mortal fare, Nor ever in aught earthly dip, But the morn's dew, her roseate lip. Fill'd with the cool, inspiring smell, Th' Enchantress now begins her spell, Fhius singing as she winds and weaves In mystic formi the glittering leaves: From CIIINDARA'Sll warbling fount I come, Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell; From CIIINDARA'S fount, my fairy home, Where in music, morn and night, I dwell. Where lutes in the air are heard about, And voices are sitigiing the whole day long And every sigh the heart breathes out Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song! Hither I come From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in Music's strain, I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath, Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again. I know where the winged visions dwell That around the night-bed play; I know each herb and flow'ret's bell, Where they hide their wings by day Then hasten we, mr,Fro, To twine our braid, To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. The image of love, that nightly flies To visit the bashful maid, Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs Its soul, like her, in the shade. The dream of a future, happier hour, That alights on misery's brow, For mine is the lay that-lightly floats, And mine are the inurm'ring, dying notes, That fall as soft as snow on the sea, And melt in the heart as instantly: T* "The almond-tree with white flowers, blossoms on the bar# ~ranches. "-Hassclq~uist. t A, herb on Mloult libaius, which is said to communicate a yellow golden hue to the teetih o' thlet goats and other animals that graze upon it. .Niekuhr thin,k.s this ma,.y be tie herb which the Eastern alchymista ,look to as t teabs of making gold. "Mo st of those alchymical enthu6iasts think themselvea s sure of success, if they could but find out the herb, whichi gilds the teeth and gives a yellow colour to the flesh of the sheep thlat ea t it. Even the oil of this plant must be of a golden colour. it is called Hasckischat ed dab." Father Jerome Da.ndin,i, however, asserts that the teeth of the goats at Mount Libanmst are of a silver colour; and adds, "this conifirms to me that which I oboservd iln Candia: to wit that the animals that live on Mount Ida eat a certi herb,m which renders their teeth of a golden colour; which according to my judgment cannot otherwise proceed than from the mines which a re und er ground."-D)andini, Voyage to Mlount Lilbanuls. t The myrrh country. t "This idea (of deities li ing in shells) was not unknown to the Greeks, who represent the young Nertes, one of the Cupids, as tiving in shells on the shor es of the Red Sea."-Tfilford. 11 "A fabulous f()untam, where instruments are Ir,id to be conv'-ntir playiug."-s-Richards on ' Hemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the brightest gold ~o.eur."-Sir If. Jones. t " This' tree (the Nagacesara) is one of the most delightul on earth, o the _del iciou s odour of its blossoms justly gives them a pface in the quiver of Camadeva, or the God of Love." —Sir W. Jones. qivr"The Malayan. s t"e tse tuberose (Poliathes tuberosa) Sandal Mslam, or the Mistress of the Night." —Pennant. ~ The people of the Batta country in Sumatra, (of which Zamara is one of the ancient names,) " when not engaged in war, lead an idle, intetive life, passing the day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of flower, among,whch the globe-amaran thus, a native of the ntrz, mostly prevails." —-.Marsden. Ai" the lar gest and richest sort (of the Jambu, or rose-apple) is called Amyits or immortal, and the mythologists of Tibet apply the same word to a celestial tree, bearing ambrosial fruit." Sir W. Jones.. ~F Sweet bazil, called Rayhan in Persia. and generally found in churchrards ne women in Egypt go at least two days in the week, o rrayand weep at the sepulci.res of the dead * and the custom then is to throw upon the tom.bs a sort of herb whic,the Arabs call roan, and which is our sweet basil."-J-.Millet, Lett. 10. is* " the Great Des ert are fund many stalks of lavender and rose rmary." —qsiat. ]Iet e, oe THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 146 LALLA R. 14 And the passionate strain that, deeply going, Refines the bosom it trembles through, As the musk-wind, over the water blowing, Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too. Mine is the charm, whose mystic sway The Spirits of past Delight obey;Let but the tuneful talisman sound, And they come, like Genii, hov'ring round. And mine s the gentle song that bears From soul to soul, the wishes of love, As a bird, that wafts through genial airs The cinnanoni-seed from grove to grove.* 'Tris I that mingle in one sweet measure The past, the present, and future of pleasure;G WVhen Memory links the tone that is gone With the blissful tone that's still in the ear; And Hope from a heavenly note flies on To a note more heavenly still that is near. That evening, (truing ng that his soul Might be from haunting love released By mirth, by music, and the bowl,) Th' imperial SELIM held a feast In his magnificent Shalimar: —* In whose Saloons, when the first star Of evening o'er the water s trembled, The Valley's loveliest all assembled; All the bright creatures that, like dreams, Glide through its foliage, and drink beams Of beauty from its founts and streams;t And all those wand'ring nminstrel-maids, Who leave-how can they leave?-the shades Of that dear Valley, and are found Singing in gardens of the Soijtht Those songs, that ne'er so sweetly sound As from a young Cashmerian's mouth. The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, Can as downy soft and as yielding be As his own white plume, that high amid death Through the field has shone-yet moves with breath! And, oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten, When Music has reach'd her inward soul, Like the sileit stars, that wink and listen While Heaven's eternal melodies roll. So hither I come From my fairy home, And if there's a magic in MIusic's strain, I swear by the breath Of that moonlight wreath, Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again. There, too, the Harem's inmates smile; Maids from the West, with sutn-bright hair And from the Garden of tile NILE, Delicate as the roses there;-~ Daughters of Love from CYPRUs' rocks, With Paphiian diamonds il their locks;-II Light PEatI forms, such as they are On the gold meads of CANDAIJAR-1; And they, before whose sleepy eyes, In their own bright Kathaian bow'rs, Sparkle such. rainbow butterflies, I'hat they might fancy the rich flow'rs, That round them in the sun lay sighing, Had been by magic all set flying.** 'Tis dawn-at least that earlier dawn, Whose glimpses are again withdrawn,; As if the morn had waked, and then Shut close her lids of light again. And NOITR.MAIIAL is up, and trying The wonders of her lute, whose stringsOh, bliss!-now murmur like the sighing From that ambrosial Spirit's wings. And then, her voice,'tis more than human Never, till now, had it been given To lips of any mortal woman To uitter notes so fresh from heaven; Sweet as the breath of angel sighs, When angel sighs are most divine.'Oh! let it last till night," she cries, "And he is more than ever mine." .nd hourly she renews the lay, So fearful lest its heav'nly sweetness Should, ere the evening, fade away, For things so heav'nly have su-h fleetness! But, far from fading, it but grow Richer, divincr as it flows; Eve ry thing youn g, e very thing fair From East and West is blushing ther e, Except-except —oh, NOURMAuIAL! Thou loveliest, dearest of them all, The one, whose smile shone out alone, Amidst a world the only one; Whose light, among so many lights, Was like that star on starry nights, The seaman singles from the sky, To steer his bark forever by! Thou wert not there-so SELIM thought, And every thing seem'd drear without thee, But, ah! thou wert, thou wert,-and brought Thy charm of song all fresh about thee. Mingling unnoticed with a band Of lutanists from many a land, * "In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one of the Delhi Emperors, I believe Shal Jehan. constructed a spacious garden called the Sbalimar, which is abundantly stored with fruit-trees and flowering shrubs. Some f t he rivulets wich intersect the plai. are led into a,canal at the b;ck of the garden, and flowing through its cntre or occasionrlly tiron into t variety of water-works, compose the chi,i beauty of the Shalimar. l'o decrate this spot the Mog l Pri nces of India have di,played an equal agificence nd taste; especially Jehan Gheer, who, with the enchanting Noor Mahi, made Kahmire h usua l r esidence duri ng t he s mer o iths. On arches thrown over the canial are rected, at equal distances, four r tfive s aits of apar tments, each consisting of a saloon. with four rooms at t he angles, wherer the te llowers of the court attend, o hanp tsn gr prepare sherbetso coffee, and the hookah. The frame of th e doors of til principal s aoon is compose d f m iec aes or of a stone of a black colour, streaked wi th yello w lines. and of a loser grain and higher poish than porphyry. They were taken. i t is said fom t Hindoo temple, bay one o f the Mogul princes, and are etstee med of tgr ea t valse."-or ster. t "Thle waters of Cachemnir are the more renowned from its being supposed th ththe Cachmirians are ind ebted for their beauty to them., -.rtli Yezdi. t " From him I received the following little Gazzel, or Love Song, the, notes of which he committed to pa,per from the voice of one of those singing girls of Cashmere, who wander from that delightful valley over the various parts of lndia."'-Persian.Misce.llanies. ~ "T,e roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile, (attached to the Emperor of Morocco's palace,) are unequIalled, aid mnttresses are made of their leaves for the men of rank to recline up(n." —.Jackson. 11 "On the side of a mountain. near Paphos there is a cavern which produces the most beautiful rock-crystal. On account of its brilliancy it has been called the Paphian diamo.ndl."-.fariti. hi "There ia part of Candlahar, called Peris. o, Fairy Land."Therenot. In #me of those countries to the north of India, vegetable gold is supposedi to be produced. $* "These are tlhe.tterfiies;vhich are ca le-,d n thie Cinee ln guige-FlyinglIeaves. Some of them }ave sI,., shining colours, Ned are so variegated, that they tony he c,aI,lled Hylg fh!wers: nail il.d:,d they are always produ,ced in til,e finest qowvr ~'~,tcs."-[),, * "The Pompadour pigeon is the species, which, by carrying the irait of the cinnamon to different places, is a great disseoiniator ot this valuable tree."-See Brown's Illustr., Tab. 1. t "VYhenever our pleasure arises from a succession of sound, it is a ;,erception of a complicated nature, made ip of a sensation of the pr|e .ent sun or note, and an idea or remembrance of the foregoi ng, w h le their mixtture and concurrence produce such a mysterious delght, as e ither could have produced alone. And it is often heightened by an a;ticipation of the succeeding notes. Tihuis Sense, Memory, and Ima gintion are conjunctively employed."-Gerrard on Taste. This Is *xactly tthe Epicurean theory of Pleasure. a,s explained by 'icero:-".uocirca corpus gaudere tamdiu, du, praesentem sentiret I-oi,lpttem; anita ur et prwesentem percipere pariter cam corpore et pr.spi-ere venientem, nee prteteritam preeterfluere sinere." Miadamede Stael accounts upon the same principle for thegratifieatiaon e've derive from rhyme:-" EIl e est l'image de l'espranc e et dvra ptvenir. I i son noTs fait dasirer celui qui doit lui r6pondre, et quand le second etentit il aolsc rapp elle celui qui vient de nou ns 6ehapper. . "she Persians hav,e to morings, w the Sonobhi Kazim and the Soiobi.i Sadig, t fca n te o tecont o the false and the real day-break. They count for this phenomenon, in a io.st whimsical manner. They say that as the sun ri,es from behind the Kohi Qaf (Mount Caucasus) it passes a hole perforated through that mountain., and that darting its rays through it, it is thle cause of the Soobhi Kazim, or this te.mporary appearance of daybreak. As it ascends, the earth is again veiled in arkness. until the sun rises above the mountain, and brings with it the Snobhi Sadig, or rea .orning." —Sott Waing. He thinks Milton may allude to this, AIhen., FWr - I ILALLA ROOKH. 147 Till rapt she dwells on every string, And pours again each sound along, Like Echo, lost and languishing, In love with her own wondrous song. a " Ere the blabbing Eat,,. scout, Ti., nice..rn n the Indian te'p rrom her,cabin'd loop-hole wep., ~4 TH MIRO LIR And veil'd by such a mask as shades The features of young Arab maids,-* A mask that leaves but one eye free, To do its best in witchery,She roved, with beating heart, around, And waited, trembling, for the minute, When she might try if still the sound Of her loved lute had magic in it. Of her own country maidens' looks, WTu warm they rise from TEFLIS' brooks * And With an eye, whose restless ray, Full, floating, dark-oh, he, who knows His heart is weak, of Heav'n should pray To guard him from such eyes as those' With a voluptuous wildness fings Her snowy hand across the strings Of asyriiida,t and thus sings: The board was spread with fruits and wine; With grapes of gold, like those that shine On CASrIN's hills;t-pomegranates full Of melting sweetness, and the pears, And sunniest applest that CAUBUL In all its thousand gardens~ bears;Plantains, the golden and the green, MALAYA's nectar'd mangusteen;lI Prunes of BOKIIARA, and sweet nuts From the far groves of SAMARCAND, And BASReA dat es, and apricots, Seed of the sun,~ from IRAN'S land;Wi th rich conserve of Visna cherries,* O f orange flowers, and of those berries That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles Feed on in EgAc's rocky dells.tt All these in richest vases smile, In baskets of pure santal-wood, And urns of porcelain from that islett SOferk underneath the Indian flood, W hence of t the lucky diver brings Vases to grace the halls of kings. Wines, too, of ever) clime and hue, Around their liquid lustre threw; Amber Rosolli,~~-the bright dew From vineyards of the Green-Sea gushing Jill And SHIRAZ wine, that richly ran As if that jewel, large and rare, The ruby for which KUBLAI-KHAN Offier'd a city's wealth,~ I was blushing, Melted within the goblets there! Come hither, come hither-by night and by day, We linger in pleasures that never are gone: Like the waves of the summer, as one dies away. Another as sweet and as shining comes on. And the love that is o'er, in expiring, gives birth To a new one as warmn, as unequalI'd in bliss And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this.t Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant their sigh As the flow'r of the Amrra just oped by a bee;~ And precious their tears as thatt rain froni the sky,I Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea. Oh! think what the kiss and the smile must be worthl When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss. And own if there be an Elysium on earth, It i1i tills, it is this. Here sparkles the nectar, that, liallow'd by love, Could draw down those angels of old from their sphere, Who for wine of this earth~ left the fountains abovea, Andu forgot heav'ii's stars for. the eyes we have h're And, bless'd with the odour our goblet gives forth, What Spirit the sweets of his Eden would miss? For, oh! if there be an ElysiuLm on earth, It is this, it is this. The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, When the same measure, sound for sound, Was caught up by another lute, And so divinely breathed around, That all stood hOshed and wondering, And turn'd and look'd into the air, As if they thought to see the wing Of ISPAFIL,** the Ange], there;So pow'rfully on ev'ry soul That new, enchanted measure stole. While now a voice, sweet as the note Of the clarm'd lute, was heard to float Along its chords, and so entwine Its sounds with theirs, that none knew whethe) 'I'he voice or lute was most divine, So wondrously they went together: And amply SELIM quaffs of each, And seems resolved the flood shall reach His inward heart,-shedding around A genial deluge, as they runl, That soon shall leave no spot undrown'd, For Love to rest his wings upon. He little knew how well the boy, Can float upon a goblet's streams, lighting them with his smile of joy; As bards have seen him in their dreams, Down the blue GANGES laughing glide Upon a rosy lotus wreath,*** Catching new lustre from the tide That with his image shone beneath. There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two, that are link'(1 in one heav'nly tie, With heart never changing, and brow never cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die! One hour of a passion so sacred is worth Whole ages of heartless and waniid'ring bliss; And, oh! if there be an Elysium oni earth, It is this, it is this. ,But what are cups, w ithout the aid Of song to speed them as they flow? And see-a lovely Georgian mnaid, With all the bloom, the freshen'd glow * The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps prettily orbad."-Carreri. Niebuhr mentions their showing but one eye in conversation. t" The golden grapes of Casbin."-Description of Persia. t"The fruits exported from Cabul are apples, pears, pomegranates," &at.-Elphkisstose. "We sat down under a tree, I istened to the birds, and talked with the son of our Mehmaundar about our country and Caubul, of which lie la.ve an enchanting account: that city and its 100,000 gardens," &c. 1l " Th e manusteen, the ost delicate fruit in the world; the pride ofthe Malay is. ands."-Jlarsden. 11 "A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persians tokmek-shems, signifying sun's seed."-Description of Persia. ' Sweetmeats, i a crystal cup, c onsisting of rose-leaves inconserve, with lemon of Visna cherry, orange flowers," &c.-Russel. tt " Antelopes cropping the fresh berries of Erac."-The.4loallakat, Poem of Tarhao. :[~:" Mauri-ga-ima, an island near Formosa, suppo-ed to have been unkc in the sea folthe crimes of its inhlabitantts. The vessels which the [hermen andl divers bring up from it are sold at an immense price in hina and Japan."-See Kempfc,. 6~ Persian Tales. nH The white,ine of Kishma. "The king of Zeilt;n is said to have the very finest ruy that aas over seen. Kubla-i-Klhan sent and offbred the value of a city fbr it, hilt ie King answered oe vould not give it tor the treaure of tIle world." .Mad'co Polo. ** Ti,e Indians feigs that Cupid wtas first seen f tig w th e ;,agles Fin the Nrnp':tea Nelan.bha.-ite Pest.Te e o c 'Twas not the air,'twas not the words, But that deep magic iii the chords And in the lips, that gave such pow'r As Music knew not till that hour. At once a hundred voices said, "It is the miiask'd Arabian maid!" While SELIM, who had felt the strain Deepest of any, and had lain I Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm bathls.-See Ebn tfankal t' e Indian Syrinda, or guitar." —Symez. t " Aroundl the exterior of the Dewa: Kheatb (a building of' S.'ali Al lum's) in the cornice are tl,e tfollowing lines in letters of gold tpol". grouinil of white marble-' If there be a paradise up/n earth, it is this, is this.' "-Frasck/in. ~ " )egligtful are the flowers of the Amra trees on the onltain. - tops. while the mvrmariig bees pursue their volupluous to il."So 54 o,of Jayadeva. 11'lT,.e Nisan, or drops of spring rain, which they ]r,it've to produc,,C pearls if thely t.11 into shells."-Ricbardi on. I For tl accoun t ofti le shale wliich wine lind In tbt t;.d l of the a1) gel% see.4ariti. ** The Ange! of Music. Sec note t. 43. I I is THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 4, LALLA ROOKH.~-es The mask is off-the charm is wrought — And SELIM to his heart has caught, In blushes, more than ever bright, His NOURMAIIAL, his Harem's Light.! And well do vanish'd frowns enhance The charm of every brighten'd glance; And dearer seems each dawning smile For having lost its light awhile: And, happier now for all her sighs, As on his arm her head reposes, She whispers him, with laughting eyes, " Remember, love, the Feast of Roses!" Some minutes rapt, as in a trance, After the fairy sounds were o'er, Too inly touch'd for utterance, Now motion'd with his hand for more: Fly to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab tents are rude for thee; But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt, Of tents with love, or thrones without? Our rocks are rough, but smiling there Th' acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less For flow'ring in a wilderness. FADLADEEN, at the conclusion of this light rliapsouy, took occasion to sum up his opinion of the young Cashmerian's poetry,-of which, he trusted, they had that evening heard the last. Having recapitulated the epithets, " frivolous"-'" inkarmonious"-" nonsensical," he proceedied to say tlt, viewing it in the most favourable light, it resembled one of those Maldivian boats, to which the Princess had alluded in the relation of her dream-,*a slight, gilded thing, sent adrift without rudder or ballast, and with nothing but vapid sweets and faded flowers on board. The )rofusion, indeed, of flowers and birds, which this poet had ready on all occasions,-not to mention dews, gems, &c.-was a most oppressive kind of opulence to his hearers; and had the unlucky effect of giving to his style all the glitter of the flower-garden without its method, and all the flutter of the aviary without its song. In addition to this, he chose his subjects badly, and was always most inspired by the worst parts of them. The charms of paganism, the merits of rebellion,-these were the themes honoutred with his particular enthusiasm; and, in the poemii just recited, one of his most palatable passages was in praise of that beverage of the Unfaithful, wine;-" being, perhaps," said he, relaxing into a smile, as cinsciotis of his own character in the Harem on this point, " one of those Ija;rds, whlose fancy owes all its ill uiiinatioii to the grap)e, like that painted porcelain,t so curious and so rare, s hose imiages are only visible when liquor is poured into it." Upon the whole, it was his opinion, from the specinmeis which they had heard, and which, he begged to sly, were tile mtost tiresome part of the journrv, thliat —wihatever other merits this well-dressed young geutlerman ight possess-pcetry was by 1no means his pfliper avocation; "and indeed," concluded the critic, " from his fondness for flowers and for birds, I would venture to suggest that a florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suitable calling for him titan a poet." They had now begunii to ascend those barren mioutitains, which separate Cashmere from the rest of India, and, as the heats were intolerable, and the timre of their encampments limited to the few hours necessary for refreshmenit and repose, there was an end to all their delightful evenings, and LALLA ROOKII saw no more of FERAMORZ. She now felt that her short dream of happiness was over, and that she had nothing but the recollection of its few blissful hours, like the one draught of sweet water thlat serves the camel across the wilderness, to bta her heart's refreshment during the dreary waste of life that was before her. Tile blight that had fallen upon her spirits soon found its way to her cheek, and her ladies saw with regret-though not without some suspicion of the cause-that the beauty of their mistress, of whicb they were almost as proud as of their own, was fast vanishing away at the very moment of all when she had most need of it. What must the King of Bucharia feel when, instead of the lively and beautiful LALLA ROOKIf, whom the poets of Delhiii had described as more perfect than the divinest images in the house of Azor,t he should But if for me thiou dost fors ake Some other maid, and rudely break Her worshipp'd innate fromn its base, To give to me the ruin'd place; There was a pathos ill this lay, That, ev'n without enichantment's art, Would instantly have found its way Deep into SELim's burtning heart; But, breathing, as it did, a tone To earthly luttes and lips unknown; With every chord fresh from the touch Of Music's Spirit,-'twas too much! Startinig, he dash'd away the cap, Which, all the time of this sweet air, His hand had held, untasted, up, As if'twere fix'd by mag,ic there,And naming her, so long unnamed, So long unseen, wildly exclaim'd, "Oh NOUIMAHHAL! oh NOURMAHAL! " Hadst thou but suing this witching strain, I could forget-forgive thee all, *And never leave those eyes again." * Jh ~d~ll rL;:~ft.-spoe ohv h oe fds * See p. 37. t "The (Chinese had formerly the art of painting on the sides of pet celain vessels fishl and other animals which were, only perceptible when Iathe vessel was full of some liquor. Tley call this species Kla-tsin. tl.a Aiis, azureip is pt i press, ol account of the manner in which the aoure is laid os."-" They are every now and tilet trying to recover the art of this mitagical psilisig, but to no) ptsrptse."-I)ti.s' : An etni,tetit carver of isols, s-id i the iKorst to be.fanther to-.Abre ham. " t.sie sich a lovly idol,i1 is not to be imet with in thie hote of Azor." —lfiz. *Iv Tyh water un L' ppsd to have the power -of dis40v~,'ig w~t,tr t-iider'.r' u z:d.! LALLA ROOKH. 149 Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvlry-footed antelope As gracefully and gaily springs As o'er the marble courts of kings. 't'hei: come-thy Arab maid will be The oved and lone acacia-tree, The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness. Oh! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart,As if the soul th,-it minute caught .Some treasure it through life had sought; As if the very lips and eyes, Predestined to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again, Sparkled and'spoke before us theii! So came thy ev'ry glance and tone When first on ine they breathed and slione; New, as if brought from other spheres, Yet welcome as if loved for years. Th"n flv with me-if thou hast known No other flame, nor falsely thrown A gem awa)-, that thou liadst sworn Should ever in thy heart be worn. Come, if the love thou hast fr me, Is pure and fi-esfi as mine for thee,Fresh as the fountain uiider ground, When first Itis by tire lupwing found.* Then, fare thee well-I'd rather make My bower upon some icy lake When thawing suns begin to shine, Than trust to love so false as thine! TFIE MIRROR LIBRARY. called the Shalimar. Though never be)re had a night of more wakeful anti anxious thought been passed in thi Happy Valley, yet, when she rose in the morning, ano her Ladies came around her, to assist in the adjustinen of the bridal ornaments, they thought they had never seen her look half so beautiful. What she had lost of the bloom and radiancy of her charms was more than made up by that inte.'ectial expression, that soul beaming forth from the eyes, which is worth all the rest of loveli ness. When they had tinged her fingers with the Henna oleaf, and placed upon her brow a small coronet of jewels, of the shape worn by the ancient Queens of Bucharia, i they flung over her head the rose-coloured bridal veil, t and she proceeded to the barge that was to convey her ti a cross the lake;-first kissing, with a mourniful look, the hs little amulet of carnclian, which her father at parting had hungii about her nieck. d The moiorning was as fresh and fair as the maid on t h r from se nuptials it rose, and the shining lake all covered w with boats, the minstrels playing upon the stiores of the a ndltiis, and the crowded summer-houses on the green TIly s around, with shawls and banners waving from their e c,)ota,a presented such a picture of animated rejoicitig, as wi the r l g dwho was the object of it all, did not feel with t t a g a y twtrt. To LALLA ROOKIT alone it was a melanclioly we tei,a,ftt; nor could she have even borne to look up,on the mile,t a e r, were it not for a hope that, among the crowds i g,ft ind, she might once more perhaps catch a glimpse of wu'htr u o taxtoRZ. So much was her imagination haunted by af)i.,i thought, that there was scarcely an islet or boat she o e ptoe semd on the way, at which her heart did not flutter fo ith the momentary fancy that he was there. Happl~y, fir tier eyes, the humblest slave upon whom the lIght of tiis dear looks fell!-In the barge immediately after the princess sat FADLADI':N, with his silken curtains thrown widely apart, that all might have the benefit of his august p resence, and with his head uill of the speech lie was to del iver to the King, "concerninig FERAAIORZ, and liters ture, and the, Chiabuk, as connected therewith." They now had entered the canal which leads from the Lake to the splendid dom-ies and saloons of the Shialimar, and went glidinig on through the gardens thiat ascended from each bank, full of flowering shrubs that made the air all perfume; while from the middle of the cana rose jets of water, smooth and unbroken, to such a dazzling height, that they stood like tall pillars of diamnond in the sunshine. After sailing under the arches of various sa loons, they at length arrived at the last and most inagni ficent, where the monarch awaited the coming of his bride;and such was the agitation of her heart and firame, that it was with difficulty she could walk up the marble steps, which were covered with cloth of gold for her ascent from the barge. At the end of the hall stood two throues, as precious as the Certlean iThroiie of Ci)ul burga*, on one of which sat ALtIts, the youthful King of Bucharia, and on the other was, in a few minutes, to be placed the most beautiful Princess in the world. Im mediately upon the entrance of LALLA RooKII into the sa loon, the monarch descended from his throne to meet her; but scarcely had he time to take her hand in his, when she screamed with surprise, and fainted at Iris feet. It was FERAMOItZ himself that stood before her!-FFRAMORZ errcaledrinah, tichwas-. himself, the Sovereigii of Bisehania, who in this dispignifi a nttae had ortitery beenguise had accompanied Ihis young bride firom Delhi, and. rui ~~s ro tte ityotCa~tmee it laviug won her love as an humble minstrel, now ampli inter pe~~esered to nj o itunesga King. of Csii~ts b Abu Fazl th an The consternation of FADLADEEN at this discovery was, the ytn- sys ~sjs Renet ppers othitat?effor the~ moment, almost pitiable. But change of opinion eang it sot of tim ~~~~~~is a resource too convenient in courts for this experienced receive v i pale an d inatdimate victim, upon whose cuheek ne i ther heal th nor pleasure bloomed, and from whose eyes Love had fled, —to hide hireself hi her heart? I f a ny thing could Te c hade rmed away the celan cholp of her spwrts, it would have been the fresh airs and enclhanting scenery of that Vz21ey,- which the Persians so juistly called the Unequalled.* But neither thie cool ness of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling, up) those bare and burning mountains,'neither the sp'lendour of the minarets and pagodas, that shoge out from the denpth of its woods, Dno th e grottoes, hermitages, and miraculous founitain-s,t which make every spot of that region holy grouijd,-ineithier the countless waterfall,,, that rush into the Valley from-r all those high and rorii.ttic mountain.s that en-circle it, nor the t'air city on thet, Lake, whose houses, roofed with flowers,t appeared at a distance like one vast and variegated parterre; —not all these wonder,, and glories of the most lovely country under the sun coal], steal her heart for a minute from those sad thoughits which but darkened, and grew bitterer every stetl',shc advanced. The gay pomips and processions that met her nipolli hl,-r entrance latet the Valley, and tile magnificence w it~, which the roads all along were decorated, did hionoulr the taste and gallanitry of tile young King. It was n~~ when they approached the city, and, for the last to mniles, they had passed under arches, thrown fromrhd,, to hedge, festooned with only' those rarest roses tfr(,i~ which the Attar Gul, more precious than gold, is distilledt and illuminated in rich and fanciful forms with lanitern:.of the triple-coloured tortoise-shelleof Pegui.~ Sometiinc,, from a dark wood by the side of the road, a display )~ fire-works would break out, so sudden and go brilliant, that a Bratiniin might fancy he beheld that grove, in whose purple shia-de the God of Battles w,,-.R born, bursting i.'ito a flame at the moment of his birth;-while, at other' times, a qu,ick and playful irradiation continued to brighten all the fields and gardens by which they passed, forminig a line of dancing lights along the horizon; like the meteors of the north as they are seen by those hunters,lf who pursue the whlite and blue foxes on the confines of the Icy Sea. These archies and fire-works delighted the Ladies of the Prince,-s exceedingl,y; and with their usual good logicr, they deduced fromy his taste -for illuminations, that the King,, of Bachariia would make the most exemplary ]-.asbaild imaginable. Nor, indeed, could LALLA, ROOKH ]erself help feellag the kindness and s,plendotir with which he young, bridegroom welcomed her;-but she also felt how painful is the gratitude, which kindtress from those we cai-mot love excites; and that th-eir best blandishmrents come over the heart with all that chilling and deadly swveetness, whiich we can fan-cy in the cold, odoriferous, wlind,IT that is to blow over this earth in the last days. Theli marriage was fixed for the morning after her arrival, whoa she was, tb.,r the first tine, to be presented to the monarch in that Imperial Palace beyond the lake, * Ka,.Sm ~ ~ ~ ilettie otmNat'er.tibrntnier.ohi ~'~tis ot~ par be ot wors'itpoaoi' the requested inhabitants has mu]tipllie,d ti,e! pase'w,sd o r' ah eoof Beschani, and of Brama. All "I o,et i, h~ ly t.intaioos abound.".oorj leha Guie metion "a itanainin Csmr called Tirnagh, whiche hogmies a snake pr obably plake had been sheen thef bu id g fomy they I went tywie to tis fouatain, whi col i about tweny tetp from the city o t Capiashtmer.vnstens o whoih i p a nd san ctity a re t o be trexdtil wita nhut i ben tesiot igt vheo red iant recpF td eag es, cilh tt irozein it. eeigh B is,thmccont of b tinere by Abut-Fazil, the author of the Ayin-Acba,roc,'' wh.," says.Mj r tlenel, "appears to hav,e cuht som,e (,f the, en~thusiasmi or th~e-vally, by h~is descripti~on of the hni deyLsc p elIacedia iin it. wa ~I " On a standi.ng rofofe wood is, laid a co~vering of fie~ earth, wh,ichi shelters th e building fr.. the grea t quantity of -notw thiatey in the winter,sea,on., This. fence, comm.unicates an equal warmth, in w ipter, . refreshieg coolnss i n by asothe grave s alt oay whel to Gopd oy the houis1e, whichP ar e pllmnt ad yith a variety of flnmers. exhbt it a distahoe tlhe spaiou ew of a beautifully-ch~eq,uere-d parterre,."-Forster. ~ " Two hnred slaves, there are, who ha.ve no other office, th~an to hunt the woods, and marshes for triple,-coloured tortoise. fo~r the King's Vi,,ary. Of the shell,; of these. also lanterns are made."-Vl.'icent le ,i F.,;, des,cription of the Aurora Borealis. a., it appears, to thes.e huntel~,videEnycoad. ~ Tiffs wind,.Iwhich is to blow frmSyria Daacn,is, according to tha. Maho mtas oneo the signs of the, l,ast Da,y's; approach.. Anoter o ila sigs is "Grat dsrs in the, worhlI, so that a man wi~n h a'a'ban the,r's grave shalIl sa~y, Would( to God I were in hb p,'..!"-aesPe imina.ry Discourse. * ~' On Mahommed hau'd retuan to Keneburos' te capi tal on Dekk an ) hF o m dade t goeat. sti ni, a sn itd morpa te tothen much pon~.p an,d m g i iec,cligit Firozehor Crla., I hav,e hea.rd se,hos t ow tfro n,eia Firozeh in the rein of Sult an 0i t - mAtoo B hate ce,o d e s ci gn it. T hey, say that it wa s ic le d i o e gth n in e fhe nt, artl the nbrea.dth; mdof ebony, c o e e )ihpae f. pure- gold, and set with preciou s stns fimesvaue Every prnc f' the, hou,se of Bhmeee wo posse.thstrn, made a oit of ad,inig to it some ri~ch stones; s tha.t w he, inth reig~ or Sula 1aIt.o, it was taken. to pie!ces, to r o v soeof t!,e jeesto I., set in, vae,nd 'ups, thejwe.r v le it a t onecorre o f'os,mryfrmlin sterlin,g.) I learnedl also that it was calle!d Firozeh i'o be-'ng partly enmle f a k-h om, w~e as i.u time" torail~ co- cc.led blr thao number of jew,:lsI.." Ft,risb.t. I i op 150 0 SONGS WRITTEN IN AMERICA. courtier not to have learned te avail himself of it. His criticisms were all, of course, recanted instantly: he was seized with an admiration of the King's verses, as unbounded as, he begged him to believe, it was disinterested; and the following week saw him in possession Gf all additional place, swearing by all the Saints of Islarm that never had there existed so great a poet as the Monarch ALIRIS, and, moreover, ready to prescribe his favour SONGS WRITTEN IN AMERICA IN 1806-7. And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear, That they found in his heart something better than fame. I KNEW BY THE SMOKE. I KNEW by the smoke, that so gracefully curl'd Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that was humble might hope for it here!" Nor did woman - oh wom an! whos e fo rm and whose soul Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue; Whether sunn'd in the tropics or chill'd at the pole, If woman be there, there is happiness too: it was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around In silence reposed the voluptuous bee; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound Bus the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. Ard -' Here in this lone little wood," I exclaim'd, "With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, ' Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, "How blest could I live, and how calm could I die! 'By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips "In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips, ' Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine!" CANADIAN BOAT SONG. FEAINTLY as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past. The stranger is gone —but he will not forget, When at home he shall talk of the toils he has known, To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met, As he stray'd by the wave of the Schuylkill alone THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. "They tell of a young man. who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, waseever Raft1erwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not deadl, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses."-a.non. "La Po6sie a ses inonstres comme la niature."-D'ALKB=tiRT. "THEY made her a grave, too cold and damp " For a soul so warm and true; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, "Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, " She paddles her white canoe. "And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, " And her paddle I soon shall hear; "Long and loving our life shall be, "And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, "When the footstep of death is near." Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before. Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl; Butt, when the wind blows off the shore, Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past. Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. Blow, breezes, blowv, the stream rins fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past. ALONE BY'HE SCHUYLKILL. ALONE by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, And bright -t%ere its flowery banks to his eye; But far, very fd were the friends that he loved, And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh. Oh Nature, though blessed and bright are thy rays, O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown, Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays In a smile from the heart that is fondly our own. And, when on t he eart h h e sun k to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew! And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake, And the copper-siiake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, "Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake, " And the white canoe of my dear?" Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain Unblest by the smile he had languish'd to meet; Though scarce did he hope it would sooth him again, Till the threshold of home had been press'd by his f e et. He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface play'd" Welcome," he said, " my dear one's light.' And the dim shore echoed, for many a night, The name of the death-cold maid. But the lays )f his boyhood had stol'n to their ear, And they'oved what they knew of so humble a iLame I, 151 ite regimen of the Chabuk for every man, woman, and child that dared to think otherwise. Of the happiness of the King and Queen of Bacharia, after such a beginning, there can be but little doubt',' and, among the lesser symptoms, it is recorded of LALLA ROOKII, that, to the day of her death, in memory of their delightful journey, she never called the King by any other name than FERAMORZ. Nor did she her enamoring magic deny, That magic his heart had relinquished so long,Like. eyes he had loved was her eloquent eye, Like tiem did it soften and weep at his song. Oh, blest be the tear, and in i-neinory oft May its sparkle be shed oer the wand,rer's dream, Thrice blest be that eye, and may passion as soft, As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam! THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore; Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat return'd no more. When calms delay, or breezes blow Right from the point we wish tO steer; When by the wind close-haul'd wg, And strive in vain the port to near; I think'tis thus the fates defer My bliss with one that's far away, And while remembrance springs to her, I watch the sails and sighing say, Thus, my boy! tlhus Bat oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, This lover and mraid so true Are seen at the hour of midnight damp To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamnp, And paddle their white canoe! But see, the wind draws kindly aft, All hands are up the yards to square, And now the floating stu'n-sails waft Our stately ship through waves and air. Oh! then I think that yet for me Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, Some breeze to waft me,le, love, to thee And in that hope I smiling sing, Steady, boy! so. No,..'er did the wave ill its elements steep An island of lovelier charms; It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, Like Hebe in fler-cules' arms. The blush of your bowers is light to the eye, And their melody balm to the ear; But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, And the Snow Spirit never comes here. A BEAM OF TRANQUILLITY SMILED IN THE WEST. The down from his winig is as white as the pearl That shines through thy lips when they part, And it falls on the green earth as melting, my girl, As a murmur of thine on the heart. Oh! fly to the clime, where lie pillows the death, As he cradles the birth of the year; Bright are your bowers and balmy their breath, But the Snow Spirit cannot come here. A BEAM of tranquillity smniled in the west, The storms of the morning pursued us no more, And tile wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest, Still heaved, as remenmbering ills that were o'er. Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour, Its passions were sleeping, were mnute as the dead(; And the spirit becalmn'd but rememnber'd their power, As the billow the force of the gale that was fled. How sweet to behold him, when borne on the gale, And brightening the bosom of morn, He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil O'er the brow of each virginal thorn. Yet think not the veil he so chillingly casts Is the veil of a vital severe; No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasts, Should the Snow Spirit ever come here. But fly to his region-lay open thy zone, And he'll m weep all his brilliancy dim, To think that a bosom, as white as his own, Should not melt in the daybeam like him. Oh! lovely the print of those delicate feet O'er his luminous path will appearFly, fly, my beloved! this island is sweet, But the Snow Spirit cannot come here. I reflected, how soon i n i the cup of lnayie The pearl of the soul may })c ielted away; How quickly, alas, the p)ure sparlkle of fire We inherit from heav'n, may be quench'd in the clay And I pray'd of that Spirit who lighted the flame, That Pleasure no msore unight its purity dirnm; So that, sullied but little, or brightly the same, I might give back the boon I had borrow'd from hillit How blest was the thought! it appear'd as if Heav'lii Had already an opening to Paradise shown; As if, passion all chliasten'd anal error forgiven. My heart then began to be purely its own I look'd to the west, and the beautiful sky, Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more. "Oh! thus," I exclaim'd, "may a heavenly eye "Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before.1" But when the skies have lost their hue, And sunny lights no longer play, Oh then we see and bless thee too For sparkling o'er the dreary way. WELL-PEACE TO THY HEART. WELL-peace to thy heart, though anothers it be, And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for me' To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves, Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves, And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet Their allurements forgive and their splendour forget Farewell to Bermuda, and long may the bloom Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume; May spring to eternity hallow the shade, Where Ariel has warbled and Waller has stray'd. And thou-whlen, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam Through the lime-cover'd alley that leads to thy home, Where oft, when the dance and the revel were (lone, And the stars Were beginning to fade in the sun, I have led thee along, and have told by the way What my heart all the night had( been burninig to sayOh! think of the past-give a sigh lo those times, And a blessing for me to that alley) of liines. 41. i 52 THE SNOW SPIRIT. I thought of those days, when to Pleasure alone My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh; When the saddest emotioii my bosom had knonvii, Was pity for those who were wiser than 1.. THE FIRE-FLY. AT morning, when the earth and sky Are glowing with the light of spring, We see tliee. not, thou humble fly! Nor think upon thy gleaming wing. Thus let me hope, when lost to me The lights that now my life illume, Some milder joys may come, like thee, To'cheer, if not to warm, the gloom! -THE STEERSMANIS SONG. WiiF,,v freshly blows the northern gale, And under courses snug we fly; Or when light breezes swell the sail, And royals proudly sweep the sky; 'Longside the wheel, unwearied still I stand, and, as my watchful eye I)oth inark the needle's faithful thrill, I think of her I love, and cry, Port, my boy, port! THE CULPRIT FAY, JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. "My visual orbs are purged from film, and, lo! . Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales I see old fairy land's miraculous show! Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales, Her Ouphs that, cloaked in leaf-gold, skim the breeze, And fairies, swarming II TENNANT's ANSTER FAIR. ('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell;) "Midnight comes, and all is well! Hither, hither, wing your way! 'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day." 'Tis the middle watch of a summer's nightThe earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Naught is seen in the vault on high But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue, A river of light on the welkin blue. The moon looks down on old Cronest, She mellows the shades, on his shaggy breast, And seems his huge gray form to throw In a silver cone on the wave below; His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut bough and the cedar made, And through their clustering branches dark Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's sparkLike starry twinkles that momently break Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullen's velvet screen; Some o n the backs of b eetles fly From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks nigh, And rocked about in the evening breeze; Some f rom the hum-bird's downy nestThey had driven hin. out by elfin power, And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering ising-stars inlaid; And some had opened the four-o'clock, And stole within its purple shade. And now they throng the moonlight glade, Above-below-on every side, Their little minim forms arrayed In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride I The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnished length of wavy beam In an eel-like, spiral line below; The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid. And naught is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katy-did; And the plaint of the wailing whip-poor-will, Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, Ever a note of wail and wo, Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow. They come not now to print the lea, In freak and dance around the tree, Or at the mushroom board to sup, And drink the dew from the buttercup;A seene of sorrow waits them now, For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow; He has loved an earthly maid, And left for her his woodland shade; He has lain upon her lip of dew, And sunned him in her eye of blue, Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, Played in the ringlets of her hair, And, nestling on her snowy breast, Forgot the lily-king's behest. For this the shadowy tribes of air To the elfin co:ulrt must haste a,way:And now they stand expectant there, To hear the doom of-the culprit Fay. 'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell; the wood-tick has kept the minutes well; He has counted them all with click and stroke Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak, And he has awakened the sentry elve Who sleeps with hil in the haunted tree, To bit him rin the houlr of twelve, Anll call tlhe fays to their revelry; rwelve small strokes on his Akling bell 0 BY 1. IV. II. V. Ill. t54 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. vi _ _ The throne was reared upon the grass, Of spice-wood and of sassafras; On pillars of mottled tortoise-slhell Hung the burnished caiopA — And over it gorgeous cumtainis fell Of the tulip's crimuso,' ral)ery. The inonarch sat on his jutl,gment-seat, On his brow tile ciowii imilperial shone, The prisoner Fasy was at iis ofet, And his Ipeecrs were -ragel around the throne. He waved Iis sceptre ia thie air, He looked aroundl and calmly sp)oke; his brow was crave and lhis eye severe, But his voice in a softened accent broke: The goblin marked his monarch well; He spake not, but he bowed him low, Then plucked a crimson colen-bell, And turned him round in act to go. The way is long, he can not fly, His soiled wing has lost its pow er, And he winds adown the mountain high, For many a sore and weary hour. Through dreary beds of tangled fern, Through groves of nightshade dark and dern, Over the grass and through the brake, Where toils the ant and sleeps the sn ake; Now over the violets azure flush He skips along in lightsome mood; And now he thrids the bramble-bush, Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier, He has swum the brook, and waded the mire, Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak, And the red waxed fainter in his cheek. He had fallen to the ground outright, For rugged and dim was his onward track, But there came a spotted toad in sight, And he laughed as he jumped upon her back. He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist, He lashed her sides with an osier thong; And now, throughxl evening's dewy mist, With leap and spring they bound along, Till the mountain's magic verge is past, And the beach of sand is reached at last. "Fairy! Fai-y! list and mark: Thou hast brvlke thine elfin chain; Thy flame-woodl lamp is quenched and dark, An('l thy wings are died with a deadly stainThou hast ulied thine tlfirn puliri ty In the glance of a mortal oiai(len's eye, Thou hast scorned our dread decree, And thou sliouldst pay the forfeit high, But well I Gloow her siiilesq mind Is pure as the angel tlbins above, Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind, Such as a spirit well might love; Fairy! had sile spot or taint, Bitter had been thy punishment. XI. Tied to the hornet's shardy wings; Tossed on the pricks of nettles' stings; Or seven long ages doomed to dwell With the lazy worm in the walnut-shell; Or every night to writhe and bleed Beneath the tread of the centipede; Or bound in a cobweb dungeon dim, Your jailer a spider huge and grim, Amid the carrion bodies to lie, Of the worm, and the bug, and the murdered fly These it had been your lot to bear, Had a stain been found on the earthly fair. Now list, and mark our mild decreeFairy, this your doom must be: XII. The elfin cast a glance around, - As he lighted down from his courser toad, Then round his breast his wings he wound, And close to the river's brink he strode; He sprang on a rock, he breathed a prayer, Above his head his arms he threw, Then tossed a tiny curve in air, And headlong plunged in the waters blue. ' Thou shalt seek the beach of sand Where the water bounds the elfin land; Thou shalt watch the oozy brine Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine, Then dart the glistening arch below, And catch a drop from his silver bow. The water-sprites will wield their arms And dash around, with roar and rave, And vain are the woodland spirits' charms, They are the imps that rule the wave. Yet trust thee in thy single might: If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right, Thou shalt win the warlock fight. Up sprung the spirits of the waves, From the sea-silk beds in their coral caves, With snail-plate armor snatched in haste, They speed their way through the liquid waste' Some are rapidly borne along ,)n the mailed shrimp or the prickly prong, Some on th e blood-red le eche s glide, Some on the stony star-fish ride, Some on the back of the lancing squab, Some on the sideling soldier-crab; And some on the jellied quarl, that flings At once a thousand streamy stings; They cut the wave with the living oar, And hurry on to the moonlight shore, To guard their realms and chase away The footsteps of the invading Fay. "If the spray-bead gem be won, The stain of thy wing is washed away: But another errand must be done Ere thy crime be lost for aye; Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark, Thou must reillume its spark. Mount thy steed and spur him high To the heaven's blue canopy; And when thou seest a shooting star, Follow it fast, and follow it farThe last faint spark of i!s burning train Shall light the elfin lamp) again. Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay; Hence! to the water-sidle, away!" VI. X. I Vil. Soft and pale is the moony beam, Moveless still the glassy stream; The wave is clear, the beach is bright With snowy shells and sparkling stones; The shore-surge comes in ripples light, In murmurings faint and distant moans; And ever afar in the silence deep Is heard the splash of the sturgeon's leap, And the bend of his graceful bow is seenA glittering arch of silver sheen, Spanning the wave of burnished blue, And dripping with gems of the river-dew. Vill. Xill. IX. XIV. Fearlessly lie skims -,ilon,-,, - His liope is higb, -ind his limbs are strong. THE CULPRIT FAY. He spreads his arms like the swallow's wing, And throws his feet with a frog-like fling; is locks of gold on the waters shine, At his breast the tiny foam-bees rise, His back gleams bright above the brine, And the wake-line foam behind him lies. But the water-sprites are gathering near To check his course along the tide; Their warriors come in swift career And hem him round on every side; On his thigh the leech has fixed his hold, the quarl's long arms are round him rolled, The prickly prong has pierced his skin, And the squab has thrown his javelin, The gritty star has rubbed him raw, And the crab has struck with his giant claw; He howls with rage, and he shrieks with pain, He strikes around, but his blows are vain; Hopeless is the unequal fight, Fairy! naught is left but flight. She wa.Q as lovely a pleasure-boat As ever fairy had paddled in, For she glowed with purple paint without, And shone with silvery pearl within; A sculler's notch in the stern he made, An oar he shaped of the bootle blade; Then sprung to his seat with a lightsome leap, And launched afar on the calm, blue deep. The imps of the river yell and rav e; They had no power above the wave, But they hleaved the billow before the prow, And they dashed the surge against her side, And they struck her k eel with jerk and blow, Till the gunwale bent to the rocking tide. She wimpled about to the pa le moonbeam, Like a feather that floats on a wind-tossed streamI And momently athwart her track The quart upreared his island back, And the fluttering scallop behind would float, And patter the water about the boat; But he bailed her out with his colen-bell, And he kept her trimmed with a wary tread, While on every side like lightning fell The heavy strokes of his bootle-blade. He turned him round, and fled amain With hurry and dash to the beach again, lie twisted over from side to side, And laid his cheek to the cleaving tide; The strokes of his plunging arms are fleet, And with all his might he flings his feet, But the water-sprites are round him still, To cross his path and work him ill. They bade the wave before him rise; They flung the sea-fire in his eyes, And they stunned his ears with the scallop-stroke, With the porpoise heave and the drum-fish croak. Oh! but a weary wight was he When he reached the foot of the dogwvood-tree. -ashed and wounded, and stiff and sore, He laid him down on the sandy shore; He blessed the force of the charmed line, And he banned the water-goblin's spite, For he saw around in the sweet moonshine Their little wee faces above the brine, Giggling and laughing with all their might At the piteous hap of the Fairy wight. With sweeping tail and quivering fin, Through the wave the sturgeon flew, And, like the heaven-shot javelin, He sprung above the waters blue. Instant as the star-fall light He plunged him in the deep again, But left an arch ot' silver bright, The rainbow of the moony main. It was a strange and lovely sight To see the puny goblin there; He seemed an angel form of light, With azure wing and sunny hair, Throned on a cloud of purple fair, Circled with blue and edged with white, And sitting at the fall of even Beneath the bow of summer heaven. Soon he gathered the balsam dew From the sorrel-leaf and the hlienbane bud; Over each wound the balm he drew, And with cobweb lint he stanched the blood. The mild west wind was soft and low, It cooled the heat of his burning brow, And he felt new life in his sinews shoot, As he drank the juice of the calamus root; And now he treads the fatal shore, As fresh and vigorous as before. xviI. XXII. Wrapped in musing stands the sprite: 'Tis the middle wane of night; His task is hard, his way is far, But he must do his errand right Ere dawning mounts her beamy car, And rolls her chariot wheels of light; And vain are the spells of fairy-land; He niust work with a human hand. A moment, and its lustTre fell; But ere it met the billow blue. He caught within his crimson bell A droplet of its sparkling dewJoy to thee, Fay! thy task is done, Thy wings are pure, for the gem is wonCheerly ply thy dripping oar, And haste away to the elfin shore. XVIII. 'Ie cast a saddened look around, But he felt new joy his bosom swell, When, glittering on the shadowed ground, He saw a purple mussel-shell; Thither he ran, and he bent him low, He heaved at the stern and he heaved at the bow, And he pushed] her over the yielding sand, 'Pill hf eqf to the verge of the hauntecl land. 155 XIX. XV. XX. Onward still he held his way, T'll he came where the column of moonshine lay, An,l saw beneath the surface dim The brown-,acked sturgeon slowly swim; Around him were the goblin train But he sculled with all his might and main, And followed wherever the sturgeon led, Till he saw him upward point his head; Then lie dropped his paddle,-blade, And held his colen-goblet up To catch the dro in its crimson cup., XXI. XVI. XXIII. He turns, and, lo! on either side The ripples on his path divide; And the track o'er which Ws boat must pan Is smooth as -t sli(,et (,f polished glass. Aroiintl, their lit-nbs the se-,t-ni-inl)lis lave, With siif)wy ai-i-Ds liall'swe'liti,,,,- out, IViiile on i,lie 7]css(ti -in(] W,-ITE TI,cir sc,. —g,-ec:.-i ringlets l c,-.,ely float; TITHE MIRROR LIBRARY. They swim around with smile and song; They press the bark with pearly hand, And gently urge her course along, Toward the beach of speckled sand; And, as he lightly leaped to land, They bade adieu with nod and bow, Then gayly kissed each little hant, And dropped in the crystal deep below. Up to the vaulted firmament His path the fire-fly courser bent, And at every gallop on the wind, He flung a glittering spark behindHe flies like a feather in the blast Till the first light cloud in heaven is past. But the shapes of air have begun their work, And a drizzly mist is round him cast, He can not see through the mantle murk, He shivers with cold, but he urges fast; Through storm and darkness, slept and shade, He lashes his steed and s purs a main For shadowy hands have twitched the rein, And flame-shot tongues around him played, And near him many a fiendish eye Glared with a fell malignity, And yells of rage, and shrieks of fear, Came screaming on his startled ear. A moment stayed the fairyv there; He kissed the beach and breathed a prayer; Then spread his wings of gilded blue, And on to the elfin court he flew; As ever ye saw a bubble rise, And shine with a thousand changing dies, Till, lessening far, through ether driven, It mingles with the hues of heaven; As, at the glimpse of morning pale, The lance-fly spreads his silken sail, And gleams with blendings soft and bright, Till lost in the shades of fading night; So rose from earth the lovely FaySo vanished, far in heaven away! Up, Fairy! quit thy chick-weed bower, The cricket has called the second hour, Twice again, and the lark will rise To ki,s the streaking of the skiesUp! thy charmed armor don, Tho l'lt need it ere the night be gone. His wings are wet around his breast, The plume hangs dripping from his crest, His eyes are blurred with the lightning's glare, And his ears are stunned with the tlunder's blart But he gave a shout, and his blade he drew, He thrust before and he struck behind, Till he pierced their cloudy bodies through, And gashed their shadowy limbs of wind; Howling the misty spectres flew, They rend the air with frightful cries, For he has gained the welkin blue, And the land of clouds beneath him i -es. - Re put his acorn helmet on; (t was plumed of the silk of the thistle-down; The corslet plate that guarded his breast Was once the wild bee's golden vest; His cloak, of a thousand mingled dies, Was formed of the wings of butterflies; His shield was the shell of a lady-bug queen, Studs of gold on a ground of green; And the quivering lance which he brandished br.ght, Was the sting of a wasp he had slain in fight. Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed; He bared his blade of the bent grass blue; He drove his spurs of the cockle-seed, And away like a glance of thought he flew, To skim the heavens, and follow far The fiery trail of the rocket-star. Up to the cope careering swit, In breathless motion fast, Fleet as the swallow cuts the i, Or the sea-roc rides the blast, The sapphire sheet of eve is shot, The sphered moon is pas t, Th e ea rth but seems a tiny b l ot On a sheet of azure cast. O! it was sweet, in the clear moonlight, To tread the staoy plain of even, To meet the thousand eyes of night, And feel the cooling breath of heaven! But the elfin made no stop or stay Till he came to the bank of the milky-way, Then he checked his courser's foot, And watched for the glimpse of the planet-shoot. The moth-fly, as he shot in air, Crept under the leaf, and hid her there; The katy-did forgot its lay, The prowling gnat fled fast away, The fell mosqueto checked his drone, And folded his wings till the Fay was gone, And the wily beetle dropped his head, And fell on the ground as if he were dead; They crouched them close in thie darksome shade, They quaked all o'er with awe and fear, For they had felt the blue-bent blade, And writhed at the prick of the elfin spear; Many a time, on a summer's night, When the sky was clear and the moon was bright, They had been roused from the haunted ground By the yelp and bay of the fairy hound; They had heard the tiny bugle-horn, They had heard the twang of the maize-silk string, When the vine-twig bows were tightly drawn, And the needle-shaft through air was borne, Feathered with down of the hum-bird's wing. And now they deemed the courier ouphe, Some hunter-sprite of the elfin ground; And they watclhel till they saw him mount the Breof That canopies the wor1lt aroun'i; Then glad they left t..:ir covert lair, AndI1 fieaked about in th-e T Aft'is o,, I I i i I i I I I i l i I! if i I 156 XXVJI. XXXT. XXVIII. XXV. XXIX. XXVI. XXX. Sudden along the snowy tide That swelled to meet their footsteps' faU, The sylphs of heaven were seen to glide, Attired in sunset's crimson pall; Arouiid the Fay they weave the dance, They skip before him on the plain, And one has taken his wasp-sting lance, And one upholds his bridle-rein; - With warblings wild they lead him on To where, through clouds of amber seen, Studded with stars, resplendent shone The palace of the sylphid queen. Its spiral columns, gleaming bright, Were streamers ofthe northern light; Its curtain's light and lovely flush Was ofthe morning's rosy blush, And the ceiling fair that rose aboon The white and feathery fleece of noon. i xxxr. I! But, O! how fair the shape that lay Beneath a rainbow benlin!z bright; if Sne seemed to the entranced -Fay i I The loveliest ofthe forms of li,-ht. THE CULPRIT FA Y. Rer mantle was the purple rolled At twilight in the west afar; 'Twas tied with threads of dawning glcid, And buttoned with a sparkling star. Her face was like the lily roon That veils the vestal planet's hue; Her eyes, two beamlets from the moon, Set floating in the welkin blue. Her hair is like the sunny beam, And the diamond gems which round it gleam Are the pure drops of dewy even That ne'er have left their native heaven. Borne afar on the wings of the blast, Northward away, he speeds him fast, And his courser follows the cloudy wain Till the hoof-strokes fall like pattering rain. The clouds roll baclkward as he flies, Each flickering star behind him lies, And he has reached the northern plain, And backed his fire-fly steed again, Ready to follow in its flight The streaming of the rocket-liglht. She raised her eyes to the wondering sprite, And they leaped with smiles, for well I ween Never before in the bowers of light Had the form of an earthly Fay been seen. Long she looked in his tiny face; Long with his butterfly cloak she played; She smoothed his wings of azure lace, And handled the tassel of his blade; And as he told in accen. low The story of his love and wo, She felt new pains in her bosom rise, And the tear-drop started in her eyes. And "0, sweet spirit of earth," she cried, "Return no more to your woodland height, But ever here with me abide In the land of everlasting light! Within the fleecy drift we'll lie, We'll hang upon the rainbow's rim; .And all the jewels of the sky Around thy brow shall brightly beam! And thou shalt bathe thee in the stream That rolls-its whitening foam aboon, And ride upon the lightning's gleam, And dance upon the orbed moon! We'll sit within the Pleiad ring, We'll rest on Orion's starry belt, . td I will bid my sylphs to sing The song that makes the dew-mist melt; Their harps are of the umber shade, That hides the blush of waking day, And every gleamy string is made Of silvery moonshine's lengthened ray; And thou shalt pillow on my breast, While heavenly breathing: float around, And, with the sylphs of ether blest, Forget the joys of fairy ground." The star is yet in the vault of heaven, But it rocks in the summer gale; And now'tis fitful and uneven, And now'tis deadly pale; And now'tis wrapped in sulphur-smoke, And quenched is its rayless beam, And now with a rattling thunder-stroke It bursts in flash and flame. As swift as the glance of the arrowy l ance That the storm-spirit flings from high, The star-shot flew o'er the welkin blue, As it fell from the sheeted sky. As swift as the wind in its trail behind The elfin gallops along, The fiends of the clouds are bellowing loud, But the sylphid charm is strong; He gallops unhurt in the shower of fire, While the cloud-fiends fly from the blaze, He watches each flake till its sparks expire, And rides in the light of its rays. But he drove his steed to the lightning's speed, And caught a glimmering spark; Then wheeled around to the fairy ground, And sped through the midnight dark. Ouphe and Goblin! Imp and Sprite! Elf of eve! and starry Fay! Ye that love the moon's soft light, Hither, hither wend your way; Twine ye in a jocund ring, Sing and trip it merrily, Hand to hand, and wing to wing, Round the wild witch-hazel tree. She was lovely and fair to see, And the elfin's heart beat fitfully; But lovelier far, and still more fair, The earthly form imprinted there; Naught he saw in the heavens above Was half so dear as his mortal love, 'For he thought upon her looks so meek, And he thought of the light flush on her cheelk; Never again might lie bask and lie On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye, But in his dreams her form to see, ro clasp her in his revery, ro think upon his virgin bride, Was worth all heaven, and earth beside. Hail the wanderer again With dance and song and lute and lyre, Pure his wing and strong his chain, And doubly bright his fairy fire. Twine ye in an airy round, Brush the dew and print the lea; Skip and gambol, hop and bound, Round the wild witch-hazel tree. The beetle guards our holy ground, He flies about the haunted place, And if mortal there be found, HIe hums in his ears and flaps his face; The leaf-harp sounds our roundelay, The owlet's eyes our lanterns be; Thus we sing, and dance, and play, Round the wild witch-hazel tree. But, hark! from tower on tree-top high, The sentry-elf his call has made: A streak is in the eastern sky, Shapes of moonlizht! flit and fade! The hill-tops leatin in rnoininiz's spring, The sky-larlk sha!;.s his waled wing, The day-lirnpse limmers on the lawn. 'Tlue c..ck h:ats rowsd, in l the Fa.vs are gone. XXXIV. " Lady," he cried, "I have sworn to-night, On the word of a fairy-knight, To do my sentence-task aright; My honor scarce is free from stain, I may not soil its snows again; Betide me weal, betide me wo, Its mandate must be answered now." Her bosom heaved with many a sigh, rihe tear was in her drooping eye; But shle led hiiil to the plalace-gate, And calle,l the syl,!is who hovered there, And bade themn fly and bring him straight Of cloudIs condensed a sable car. I I 157 -.-z With charin and spell she blessed it there, From all the fiendi of upper air; Then round him cast the shadowy shroud, And tied his steed behind the cloud; And pressed his hand as she bade him fly Far to the verge of the northern sky, For by its wane and wavering light There was a star would fall to-night. XXXV. XXXII. xxxvi. 0 0 XXXIII. L I L L I A , BY WILLIAM MACKWORTH PRAED. ADVERTISEMENT. THE reader is requested to believe that the following statement is literally true; because the writer is well — ware that the circumstances under which LILLIAN was composed are the only sources of its merits and the only apology for its faults. At a small party at Cambridge some malicious belles endeavored to confound their sonnetteering friends, by setting unintelligible and inexplicable subjects for the exercise of their poetic talents. Among many others the Thesis was given out which is the motto of LILLIAN: "A dragon's tail is flayed to warm A headless maiden's heart," and the following poem was an attempt to explain the riddle. The partiality with which it had been honored in manuscript, and the frequent application which have been made to the author for copies, must be his excuse for having a few impressions struck off for private circulation among his friends. It was written, however, with the sole view of amusing the ladies in whose circle the ide originated; and to them, with all due humility and devotion, it is inscribed. TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, October 26, 1822. "' A dragon's tail is flayed to warm A headless maiden's heart."-Miss -. " And he's cleckit this great muckle bird out o' this wee egg: he could wile the very flounders out o' the Frith." MR. SADDTITREE. CANTO I. And that, alas! he had ruined it, When on new-year's day, in a hungry fit, He swallowed a tough and a terrible bit Sir Lob in his brazen armor. Swift and light were his steps on the ground, Strong and smooth was his hide around, For the weapons which the peasants flung Ever unfelt or unheeded rung, Argow, and stone, and spear, As snow o'er Cynthia's window flits, Or raillery of twenty wits On a fool's unshrinking ear. THmERE was a dragon in Arthur's time, Wrhen dragons and griffins were voted "prime," Of monstrous reputation: Up and down, and far and wide, He roamed about in his scaly pride; And ever at morn and even-tide, He made such rivers of blood to run As shocked the sight of the blushing sun, And deluged half the nation. It was a pretty monster, too, With a crimson head, and a body blue, And- wings of a warm and delicate hue, Like the glow of a deep carnation; And the terrible tail that lay behind, Reached out so far as it twisted and twined, That a couple of dwarfs, of wondrous strength, Bore, when he travelled, its horrible length, Like a duke's at the coronation. His mouth hal lost one ivory tooth, Or the dragon had b('en in very sooth, No insignificant charmer; I 1. II. In many a battle the beast had been, Many a blow he had felt and given. Sir Digore came with a menacing mein, But he sent Sir Digore straight to heaven - Stiff and stour were the arms he wore, Iuii,e the swor,,l he was wont to clasl), But thie sword was little, the armor brittle, L.ocke(d in the coil of the dragon's grasp ^~ ~~~~LLIN 15q. And fondly clasp to her heart's embrace A living dragon's tail." The faery's form from his shuddering sight Flowed away in a stream of light. He came on Sir Florice of Sesseny Land, Pretty Sir Florice from over the sea, And smashed him all as he stepped on the sand, Cracking his head like a nut from the tree. No one till now, had found, I trow, Anything good in the scented youth, Who had taken much pains to be rid of his brains, Before they were sought by the dragon's tooth. Disconsolate that youth departed, Disconsolate and poor; And wended, chill and broken-hearted, To his cottage on the moor; Sadly and silently he knelt His lonely hearth beside; Alas! how desolat e he felt As he hid his face, and cried. The c radle where the babe was lai d Stood in its own dear nook, But long-how long!-he knelt, a nd prayed, And did not dare to lcok. He looked at last; his joy was there, And slumbering with that placid air Which only babes and angels wear. Over the cradle he leaned his headl; The cheek was warm, and the ipb was red; And he felt, he felt, as he saw her lie, A hope-which was a mockery. Tlhe babe unclosed her eye's pale lid; Why doth he start from the siglht it hid? He hath seen in the dim and fitful ray, That the light of the soul hath gone away,l Sigh nor prayer he uttered there, In mute and motionless despair, But he laid him down beside his child, And LILLIAN saw him die-and smiled. The mother! she had gone before; And in the cottage on the moor, With none to watch her, and caress, No arm to clasp, no voice to bless, The witless child grew up alone, And made all Nature's book tcir own. He came on the sheriff of Hereford, As he sat him down to his Sunday dinner; And the sheriff' he spoke but this brief word, "St. Francis be good to a corpulent sinner!" Fat was he, as a sheriff might be, From the crown of his head to the tip of his toe; But the sheriff was small, or nothing at all, When put in the jaws of the dragon foe. He came on the Abbot of Arnondale, As he kneeled him down to his morning devotion; But the dragon he shuddered, and turned his tail About, "with a short uneasy motion." Iron and steel, for an early meal, He stomached with ease, or the muse is a liar; But out of all question, he failed in digestion, If ever he ventured to swallow a friar! Monstrous brute!-his dread renown Made whispers and terrors in country and town; Nothing was babbled by boor or knight But tales of his civic appetite. At last, as after dinner he lay, Hid from the heat of the solar ray By boughs that had woven an arbor shady, He chanced to fall in with the headless lady. Headless! alae!'twas a piteous gibe; I'll drink Aganippe, and then describe. If, in the warm and passionate hour, When Reason sleeps in Fancey's bower, If thou hast ev er, esver fclt A dream of delicate beauty melt Into thine heart's reces, Seen by the soul, and seen by the mind, But indistinct in its loveliness, Adored, and not dcfield; A bright creation, a shladoixy ray, Fading and flitting in mist away, Nothing to *'tze on, and nothing to hear, But something to cheat the eAe and ear With a fond conception and joy of both, So that you might, that hour, be loath To change for some one's sweetest kiss Thy vision of iinendiiring bliss, Or lose some one's sweetest tone, The murmur thou di-inkest all aloneIf such a vision hath ever been thine, Thou hast a heart that may look on mine! Her father had been a stout yeoman, Fond of his jest, and fond of his can, But never over-wise; And once, when his cups had been many and deep, He met with a dragon fast asleep, 'Twas a faery in disguise. In a dragon's form she had ridden the storm, The realm of the sky invading; Sir Grahame's ship was stout and fast, But the faery came on the rushing blast, And shivered the sails, and shivered the mast, And down went the gallant ship, at last, With all the crew and lading. And the fay laughed out, to see the rout, As the last dim hope was fading; And this she had done, in a love of fun, And a love of masquerading. She lay that night in a sunny vale, And the yeoman found her sleeping; Fiercely he smote her glittering tail, But oh! his courage began to fail, When the fairy rose all weeping. , Thou hast lopped," she said, "beshrew thine hand The fairest foot in fairy-land! For, oh! the light of my sadaldenel theme 'ras like to naught but a ldoet's dream, Or the forms that come on the twilight's wing, Shaped by the soul's imr.aiginingz. Beautiful shade, with her tranquil air, And her thin white arm, and her flowing hair, And the light of her eye so coldly obscure, And the hble of her cheek so pale and pure! Reason and Thought she had never known, Her heart was as cold as a heart of stone; So you might guess from her eyes' dim rays, And her idiot laugh, and her vacant gaze. She wandered about all lone on the heather, She and thie wild heath-birl(s together; For LILLtAN seleom spoke or s miled, But she sand as sweet as a little child. i' Thou hast an infant in thine home! Never to her shall reason come For weeping or for wail, Till she shall ride with a fearless face On a liv:inz dra,on's scale, 159 LILLIAN. Ill. ix. IV. V. VI. X. Vil. XT. Vill. r)O THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Into her song her dreams would throng, Silly, and wild, and out of place; And yet that wild and roving song Entranced the soul in its desolate grace. And hence the story had ever run, That the fairest of dames was a headless one. He drew the flames of h,is nostrils in, He veiled his claws with their speckled skin, He curled his fangs in a hideous sm ile; And the song of the lady was sweet the while "Nonny Nonny! who shall tell Where the summer breezes dwell? Lightly and brightly they breathe and blow But whence they come and whither they go, Nonny Nonny! who rhall know? The pilgrim in his foreign weeds Would falter in his prayer; And the monk would pause with his half-told beads To breathe a blessing there; The knight would loose his vizor-clasp, And drop the rein from his nerveless grasp, And pass his hand across his brow With a sudden sigh, and a whispered vow, And marvel Flattery's tale was told, From a lip so young, to an ear so cold. She had seen her sLxteenth winter out When she met with the beast I was singing about: The dragon, I told you, had dined that day; So he gazed upon her as he lay Earnestly looking, and looking long, With his appetite weak, and his wonder strong. Silent he lay in his motionless coil; And the song of the lady was sweet the while A moment! and the dragon came Crouching down to the peerless dame, With his fierce red eye so fondly shining, And his terrible tail so meekly twining, And the scales on his huge limbs gleaming o'er Gayer than e ver they gleamed before. She had won his heart, while she ch armed fls ear, And LILLIAN smiled, and knew no fear. And see, she mounts between his wings; (Never a queen had a gaudier throne,) And fairy-like she sits and sings, Guiding the steed with a touch and a tone. Aloft, aloft in the clear blue ether, The dame and the dragon they soared together; He bore her away on the breath of the galeThe two little dwarfs held fast by the tail. "Nonny Nonny! I hear it float, Innocent bird, thy tremulous note: It c o mes from thy home in the eglantine, And I stay this idle song of mine, Nonny Nonny! to listen to thine! "Nonny Nonny! I LILLIAN sings The sweetest of all living things!' So Sir Launcelot averred; But surely Sir Launcelot never heard Nonny Nonny! the natural bird!" Fanny! a pretty group for drawing; My dragon like a war-horse pawing, My dwarfs in a fright, and my girl in an attitude, Patting the beast in her soulless gratitude. There; you may try it, if you will, While I drink my coffee, and nib my quill. The dragon he lay in mute amaze, Till something of kindness crept into his gaze; LIL LIAN. CANTO II. M!e that bould ieb tbe lobeliest ntaib, Atlust twon tde stoutest tnail, ffor toe rilber st!all neber be sound in the Deao e!ill tte rilb'en be mnaimnll in the tail. Re., Ditble nibble! tWe cat ann the ffibler! None but tDe tober can rea,m ue n! rtible: XIVI. TiE sun shone out on hill and grove; It was a glorious day, The lords and the ladies were making love, And the clowns were making hay; But the town of Brentford marlked with wonder A lightning in the sky, and thunder, And thinking ('twas a thinking town) Some prodigy was coming down, A mighty mob to Merlin went To learn the cause of this portent; And he, a wizard sage but comical, Looked through his glasses astronomical, And puzzled every foolish sconce By this oracular response: XVIII. How kind art thou, and oh! how mighty, Cupid! thou son of Aphrodite! By thy sole aid, in old romance, Heroes and heroines sing and dance; Of cane and rod there's little need; They never learn to write or read; Yet often, by thy sudden light, Enamored dames contrive to write; And often, in the hour of need, Enamored youths contrive to read. (I male a small digression here; I merely mean to make it clear That if Sir Eglamour had wit To real an, conAstrlte, bit by bit, All that the wizard had expressed, Anl start co)njetu res on the rest, XVII. "'Nob the slaier both not alas, W akaf ss Flings ec fear abtar, i03ocr bear. tle Tf)brlT n, tfitn viac, tre ~itil.':.; .are _ re lns? at e on e erare? Wfa1~~~~'I an tt,a. tF2-tB at THE MIRROR LIBRARY. ) I-)o in Xii. 11 Nonny Nonny! I hear vour tone, But I feel ye can not read mine own; And I lift my neck to your fond embraces, But who hath seen in your restingplaces. Nonny Nonny! your beautiful faces?" XIV. XV. Xiii. LILLIAN. 161 Cupid had sharpened his discerning, The little god of love and learning,) He revolved in his bed, what Merlin had said, Though Merlin had labored to scatter a veil on't; And found out the sense of the tail and the head, Th ough none of his neighbors could made head or tail ou't. The dragon came down when the morn shone bright And slept in the beam of the sun; Fatigued, no doubt, with his airy flight, As I with my jingling one. With such a monstrous adversary Sir Eglamour was far too weary To think of bandying knocks; He came on his foe as still as death, Walking on tiptoe, and holding his breath, And instead of drawing his sword from his sheath, He drew a pepper-box I Sir Eglamour was one o' the best Of Arthur's table round; He never set his spear iii rest, But a dozen went to the ground. Clear and warm as the lightning flame, His valor from his father came, His cheek was like his mother's; And his hazel eye more clearly shone Than any I ever have looked upon, Save Fanny's and two others! With his spur so bright, and his rein so light, And his steed so swift and ready, And his skilful sword, to wound or ward, And his spear so sure and steady; He bore him like a British knight From London to Penzance, Avenged all weeping women's slight, And made all giants dance. And he had travelled far from home, Had worn a mask at Venice, Had kissed the bishop's toe at Rome, And beat the French at tennis! Hence he had many a courtly play, And jeerings and gibes in plenty, And he wrote more rhymes in a single day That Byron or Bowles in twenty. Have you not seen a little kite Rushing awa y o n it s paper w ing, To mix with the wild wind's quarrelling? Up it soars with an arrowy flight, Till, weak and unsteady, Torn by the eddy, It dashes to earth from its hideous height. Such was the rise of the beast in his pain, Such was his falling to earth again; Upward he shot, but he saw not his path, Blinded with pepper, and b linded with wr ath; One struggle-one vain one-of pain and emotion I And he shot back again, " like a bird of the ocean 1I Long he lay, in a trance, that day, And alas! he did not wake before The cruel knight, with skill and might, ap Had lopped and flayed the tail he wore. He clasped to his side his sword of pride, His sword, whose native polish vied With maay a gory stain; Keen and bright as a meteor-light, But not so keen, and not so bright, As Moultrie's* jesting vein. And his shield he bound his arm around, His shield, whose dark and dingyT round Naught human could get through; Heavy and thick as a wall of brick, But not so heavy and not so thick As Robert's Review.t With a smile and a jest he set out on the quest, Clad in his stoutest mail, With his helm of the best, and his spear in the rest, To flay the dragon's tail. Twelve hours by the chimc- t lay im his slime. More utterly blind, I trowa Than a polypheme in the oldta tme, Or a politician now. He sped, as soon as he could see, To the Paynim bowers of Rosalie; For there the dragon had hope to crr.N By the tinkling rivulets ever pure, By the glowing sun, and fragrant gale, His wounded honor, and wounded tail! He hied him away to the perfumed spot The little dwarfs clung-where the tail s V* I The warrior travelled wearily, Many a league and many a mile; And the dragon sailed in the clear blue sky; And the song of the lady was sweet the while"My steed and I, my stee and I, On in the path of the winds we fly, And I chase the planets that wander at even, And bathe my hair in the dews of heaven! Beautiful stars, so thin and bright, Exquisite visions of vapor and light, I love ye all with a sister's love, And I rove with ye wherever ye rove, And I drink your changeless, endless song, The music ye make as ye wander along! Oh let me be, as one of ye, Floating for aye on your liquid sea; And I'll feast with you on the purest rain, To cool my weak and wildered brain, XXVIrl. 'The Rev. John Moultrie, who, in 1823 (when many manuscript epies of "Lillian" were in circulation), wrote some beautiful anrd pthetic lyrics, some of which appeared in Knight's Quarteri s Magazine. t My Grandmother's Review —the British." Don Juan. Roberts was the editor. —Vide Byron's celebrated letter to him. ILILLIAN. 161 And I'll give you the loveliest lock of my hair For a little spot in your realm of air I" XXII. XIX. XXIIL The pepper was as hot as flame, The box of wondrous size; He gazed one moment on the dame Then, with a sure and steady a'. Full in the dragon's tntculent phiz He flung the scorching powder-whiz I And darkened both his eyes! .KXIV. XX. XXV. XXI. xxvi. The damsel gazed on that young knight, With something of terror, but more of ddoti Much she admired the gauntlets he wore, Much the device that his buckler bore, Much the feathers that danced on his crest, But most the baldrick that shone on his brent. She thought the dragon's pilfered scale Was fairer far than the warrior's mail, And she lifted it up with her weak white Unconscious of its hidden charm, And round her throbbing bosom tied In mimickry of warlike pride. .Gope; — th.-, -,pell that bound her! The talisman bath touched her heart, And she leaps with a fearful and fawn-like As the -,hades of glamotiry depart 16 H IRRLBAY Strange thoughts are glimmering rcrand her Deeper and deeper her cheek is glowing, Quicker and quicker her breath is flowing, And her eye gleams out tom its long dark lashes, Fast and full, unnatural flashes; For nu-riedly and wild Doth reason pour her hidden treasures, Of human griefs, and human pleasures. Upon her new-found child. And "Oh!" she saith, " my spirit doth seem To have risen today from a pleasant dream; A long, long dream-but I feel it breaking! Painfully sweet is the throb of waking." And then she laughed, and wept again: While, gazing on her heart's first rain, Bound in his turn by a magic chain, The silent youth stood there: Never had either been so blest;You that are young may picture the rest, You that are young and fair. Never before, on this warm land, Came Love and Reason hand in hand. LIBRARY. And have you not lingered, lingered still, All unfettered in thought and will, A fair and cherished boy; Until you felt it pain to part From the wild creations of your art, Until your young and innocent heart Seemed bursting with its joy? And then, oh then, hath your waking eye Opened in all its ecstasy, And seen your mother leaning o'er you, The loved and loving one that bore you, Giving her own, her fond caress, And looking her eloquent tenderness? Was it not heaven to fly from the scene Where the heart in the vision of night had been, And drink, in one o'erflowing kiss, Your deep reality of bliss? Such was LILLIAN'S passionate madness, Such the calm of her waking gladness. Enough! my tale is all too long: Fair children, if the trifling song, That flows for you to-night, Hath stolen from you one gay laugh, Or given your quiet hearts to quaff One cup of young delight, Pay ye the rhymer for his toils In the coinage of your golden smiles, And treasure up his idle verse With the stories ye loved from the lips of your nabw When you were blest, in childhood's years, With the brightest hopes, and the lightest fears, Have you not wandered, in your dream, Where a greener glow was on the ground, And a clearer breath in the air around, And a purer life in the gay sunbeam, And a tremulous murmur in every tree, And a motionless sleep on the quiet sep * I 162 THE MIRROR XXIX. XXVIII. 4 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES, BY JOHlN KEATS. by the season? We feel thf plump, feathery bird min his nook, shivering in spite of his n atural household warmth, and staring out at the strange weather. The hare limping through the chill grass is very piteous, and the I silent flock" very patient; and how quiet and gentle, as well as winterly, are all these circumstances, and fit to open a quiet and gentle poem! The breath of the pilgrim, likened to " pious incense," completes them, and is a simile in admirable -keeping," as the painters call it; that is to say, is thoroughly harmonious in itself, and with all that is going on. The breath of the pilgrim is visible, so is that of a censer; his object is religious, and so is the use of the censer; the censer, after its fashion, may be said to pray, and its breath, like the pilgrim's, ascends to heaven. Young students of poetry nmy, in this image alone, see what imagination is, under one of its most poetical forms, and how thoroughlyit ", tells." There is no part of it unfitting. It is not applicable in one point, and the re verse in another. THE reader should give us three pearls, instead of three half-pence,* for this number of our publication, for it presents him with the whole of Mr. Keats's beautiful poem, entitled as above-to say nothing of our loving commentary. St. Agnes was a Roman virgin, who suffered martyrdoin in the reign of Diocletian. Her parents, a few days after her decease, are said to have had a vision of her, surrounded by angels, and attended by a white lamb, which afterward became sacred to her. In the Catholic church, formerly, the nuns used to bring a couple of lambs to her altar during mass. The superstition is (for we believe it is still to be found), that by taking certain measures of divination, damsels may get a sight of their future husbands in a dream. The ordinary process seemns to have been by fasting. Aubrey (as quoted in "Brand's Popular Antiquities") mentions another, which is, to take a row of pins, and pull them out one by one, saying a Pater-noster; after which, upon going to bed, the dream is sure to ensue. Brand quotes Ben Jonson: rI. "' And on sweet St. Agnes' night, Please you with the promised sight Some of husbands, some of lovers, Which an empty dream discovers." His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man. Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees. And back returneth, meager, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: The sculptured dead on each side seemed to freeze, Imprisoned in black purgatorial rails: Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. But another poet has now taken up the creed in good poetic earnest; and if the superstition should go out in every other respect, in his rich and loving pages it will live for ever. I. The genrme of this thought, or something like it, is m Dante, where he speaks of the figures that perform the part of sustaining colunins in architecture. Keats had read Dante in Mr. Cary's translation, for which he had a.great respect. He began to read him afterward in Italian, which language he was mastering with surprising quiLtness. A friend of ours has a copy of Ariosto, containing admiring marks of his pen. But the same thought may have originally struck one poe. as well as another. Perhaps there are few that have not felt something like it, in seeing the figures upon tombs. Here, however, for the first time, we believe, in English poetry, is it expressed, and with what feeling and elegance! Most wintry as well as penitential is the word " aching" in "icy hoods and mails," and imost felicitous the introduction of the Catholic idea in the wvord "purgatorial." The very color of the rail.q is made to assline a meaning, and to shadow forth e gloon! of t0le p)inishincnt "frnpi-ison'ed ir. tlack, purgatooral rails" ST. AGNES' EvE-Ah! b itter chill i t was; The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold: The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold; Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense,from a censer old, Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. * The price of the jour.nal in w!.'.ch the article first ap.reared. iI I What a romplete feeling of winter-time is here, together with an intimation of those Catholic elegancies, of which we are to have more in the poem! 11 The owl with all his feathers was a-cold.11 Could lie little selected an ima,,e inore warm and 11 coll-ifoi-t,,ti)llc;Iti itself, -in(l, tl,ierefore, bitter contradicted L6 -EMRRRLBAY Ii Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue Flattered to tears this aged man and poor; Bu; no; already had his death-bell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung: Hlis was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he, for his soul's reprieve; And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve. " Flattered to tears this aged man and poor." This "flattered" is exquisite. A true poet is by nature a metaphysician; far greater in general than metaphysicians professed. He feels instinctively what the others get at by long searching. In this word "flattered" is the whole theory of the secret of tears; which are the tributes, more or less worthy, of selfpity to self-love. Whenever we shed tears, we take pity on ourselves; and we feel, if we do not consciously say so, that we deserve to have the pity taken. In many cases, the pity is just, and the self-love not to be construed unhandsomely. In many others, it is the reverse; and this is the reason why selfish people are so often found among the tear-shedders, and why they seem even to shed them for others. They imagine themselves in the situation of the others, as indeed the most generous must, before they can sympathize; but the generous console as well as weep. Selfish tears are niggardly of everything but themselves. "Flattered to tears."' Yes, the poor old man was moved by the'sweet music to think that so sweet a thing was intended for his comfort as well as for others. He felt that the mysterious kindness of Heaven did not omit even his poor, Ad, sorry case in its numerous workings and visitations; and, as he wished to live longer, he began to think that his wish was to be attended to. He began to consider how much he had suffered wrongly or mysteriously-and how much better a man he was, with all his sins, than fate seemed to have taken him for. Hence he found himself deserving of tears and self-pity, and he shed them, and felt soothed by his poor, old, loving self. Not undeservedly either; for he was a pains-taking pilgrim, ased, patient, and humble, and willingly suffered cold and toil for the sake of something better than he could otherwise desenrve; and so the pity is not exclusively on his own side: we pity him too, and would fain see him well out of that cold chapel, gathered into a warmer place than a grave. But it was not to be. We must, therefore, console ourselves with knowing, that this icy endurance of his was the last, and that he soon found himself at the sunny gate of heaven. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline; The music, yearninig like a god in pain, She scarcely heard; her maiden eyes divine Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by-she heeded not at all; in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back retired; not cooled by high disdain. But she saw not; her heart was otherwhereShe sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. So, purposing each m om ent to retire, She lingered still. Meantime, across the mooes, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze, and worship all unseen, Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss-in sooth such thing, have been. He ventures in; let no buzzed whisper tell, All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel. For him those chambers held barbarian hordes. Hyena foemnen, and hot-blooded lords. Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage. Not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. Save one old beldams. weak in body and in soul. That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft, And so it chanced (for many a door was wide From hurry to and fro) soon up aloft The sil,er-snarling trumpets'gan to chide; The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: The carved anigels, ever eager-eyed, Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown black, and w;gs put cross-wise on their breasts. Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, To where he stood, hid from the torches' flame. Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland. He startled her; but soon she knew his face, And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand: Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race. -At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The blain, new stuffed, in youth, with triumphs gay Ot old romance. Those let us wish away, And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and winged St. Agnies' saintly care, ts she hadl heard old dames full many timnes declare. - Get hence! get hence! there's dwarfish Hildebrand, He had n fever late, and in the fit Ile cursial thee and thine, both hotu.se and lan(l: Theni thl,rtc's that old Lord Maurice,?Lot a whu i More tamefor his grazy hails-Alas, me I flit — i 164 TITE MIRROR LIBRARY. iir. VI. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visiops of delight; And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honeyed middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright; As, siipperlesa to bed they must retire, And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sidewise, but require Of heaven with ul)ward eyes for all that they desire. Vil. Vill. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short; The hallowed hour was near at hand; she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the thronged r6sort Of whisperers, in anger or in sport; 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn I Hood-winked with faery fancy; all amort, Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, And all the bliss to be before to-morrow more,. TX. X. IV. Xi. V. Xii. THE EVE OF STr. AGNES. Flit like a ghost away."-" Al, gossip dear, We're safe enough; here in this aim-chair sit, w And tell me how-"-" Good saints! not here! not here! Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." "I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," Quoth Porphyro: "Oh, may I ne'er find grace, When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, If one of her soft ringlets I displace, Or look with ruffian-passion in her face; Good Angela, believe me by these tears, Or I will, even in a moment's space, Awake with horrid shout my foeman's ears, And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves and bears." He followed through a lowly-arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; And as she muttered, " Well-a-well-a-day!" He found him in at little mnooddight-room, P:,ie, ltlticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. "Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, "Oi, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom WVhich none but secret Sisterhood may see, WVhen they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken churchy-ard thing, Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, Were never miss'd?" Thus plaining, doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; So woful and of such deep sorrowing, That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide or weal or wo; The poet does not make his Wo little moonlight room" comfortable, observe. The high taste of the exordium is kept up. All is still wintry. There is to be no comfort in the poem but what is given by love. All else may be willingly left to the cold walls. XIV. XIX. " St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve Yet men will murder upon holydays; Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, And be the liege-lord of all elves and fays To venture so: it fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro!-St. Agnes' Eve! God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plas This very night: good angels her deceive! But let me laugh awhile; I've mickle time to grieve." Which vas, to lead him in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespied, And win, perhaps, that night a peerless bride; While legioned fairies paced the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met, Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous debt. xv. What he means by Merlin's "monstrous debt," we can not say. Merlin, the famous enchanter, obtained King Uther his interview with the fair Iogerne; but though he was the son of a devil, and conversant with the race, we are aware of no debt that he owed them. Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Porphyro upon her face doth look, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone, Who keepeth closed a uwndrous riddle-book, .s spectacled she sits in chimney nook; But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, and Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. "r It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame; "All cates and dainties shall be stored there, Quickly on this feast-night; by the tambor-frame Her own lute thou wilt see; no time to spare, For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head; Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer The while: ah! thou must needs the lady wed; Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." He almost shed tears of sympathy, to think how his ',easure is exposed to the cold-and of delight and tride to think of her sleeping beauty, and her love for hinmself. This passage "asleep in the lap of legends old" is in the highest imaginative taste, fusing together the tangible and the spiritual, the real and the fanciful, the remote and the near. Madeline is asleep in her bed; but she is also asleep in accordance with the legends of the season; and therefore the bed becomes their lap as well as sleep's. The poet does not critically think of all this; he feels it: and thus should other young poets draw upon the prominent points of their feelings on a subject, sucking the essence out of them into analogous words, instead of beating about the bush for tlwughts, and, perhaps, getting very clever ones, but confused-not the best, nor any one better than another. Such, at least, is the difference between the truest poetry and the degrees beneath it. XXII. XVI. Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, Old Angelo was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware: With silver taper's light, and pious care, She turned, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; Shie comes, she conmes again, like ring-dove frayed and fled. Sudden a thought came, like afull-blown rose, Flushing his brow; and in his pained heart Made purple riot; then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame starts. "A cruel man, and impious, thou art: Sweet ladyl! let her pray, and sleep, and dream, Alone with her good angels, far apart F,om wicked men like thee. Go! go!-I deem 'rhou canst not, surely, be the same that thou dost seem." 16 = — 7 —-. XVII. Xiii. XVTTT. XX. XXI. So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear; The lovers endless minutes slowly passed, The dame returned and whispered in his ear To follow her; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silke7t, hushed, and chitste, Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain: His poor guide hurried back with agues in her bmin. 166 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. had felt-for he was also deeply in love; and extreme sensibility struggled in him with a great understanding. But our picture is not finished: Out went the taper as she hurried in; Its little smoke in pallid moonshine died; She closed the door, she panted all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide; Nor uttered syllable, or, wo betide! But to her heart her heart it-as voluble, Paining wuith eloquence her balmy side: ./s though a tongueless nightingale should swell Hfer throat itn vaiin, and die heart-stifled in her dell. Anon his heart revives; her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasped her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees; Half hidden, like a mrermtnaid in sea-weed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees I n fa ncy fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. is a verse in the taste of Chaucer, full of minute grace and truth. The smoke of the waxen taper seems almost as ethereal and fair as the mioonllighlt, and both suit each other and the heroine. But what a lovely ine is the seventh, about the heart: Howv true and cordial the "warmed jewels!" and what matter of faict also, made elegant, is the rustling downward of the attire; and the mixture of dress and undress, and dishevelled hair, likened to a " mer maid in sea-weed!" But the next stanza is perhaps the most exquisite in the poem. And the nightingale! how touching the simlnile! The hlieart a "tongueless nightingale," dying, iii that dell of the bosomn! WVhat thorough sweetness, and perfection of lovely imagery! How one delicacy is heaped upon another! But for a burst of richness, noiseless, colored, suddenly enriching the moonlight, as if a door of heaven were opened, read the following:-H Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, In sort of walkeful swoon, perplexed she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed Her soothed limbs, and soul, fatigued away, Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; Blissfully havened both from joy and pain; Clasped like a missal, where swart Paynims pray; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As THOUGH A ROSE SHOULD SHUT, AND BE A BUD AGAI.-. d casement high and triple-arched C.ere was, 311i garlanded fwithe curven i on oageries Offruits aid flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, .dnl diamnotwied with pan)es of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dies, ds are the tiger-mnoth's deep danmaisked wings; wlnd in the midst, among tholsand heral(dries, .dud TWILIGHT saints, and dim emnblazonings, AI shielded'scutcheon BLUSHED with blood of queens ant kings. Can the beautiful go beyond this? We never saw it. And how the imagery rises! Flown like a thoughtblissfully havened-clasped like a missal in a land of Pagans: that is to say, where Christian prayer-books must not be seen, and are, therefore, doubly cherished for the danger. And then, although nothing can surpass the preciousness of this idea, is the idea of the beautiful, crowning all Could all the pomp and graces of aristocracy, with Titian's and Raphael's aid to boot, go beyond the rich religion of this picture, with its " twilight saints," and its'scutcheons " blushing with the blood of queens?" But we must not stop the reader: Thus it is that poetry, in its intense sympathy with creation, may be said to create anew, rendering its words almost a.s s te e.,cts'.ey:ee,, and individually more lasting; the spiritual perpetuity putting them on a level (not to speak it profanely) with the fugitive forms of the sub stanc e. But we are to have more luxuries stil, presently. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands together pressed, .dnd on her silver cross soft amniethyst; .nd on her hair a glory like a saint: She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed Save uings, for heaven; Porphyro grew faint, She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. Soe tolen to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, And listened to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breathed himself; then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wild wilderness, And over the hushed carpet silent stept, And'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo! how fast she slept. _rhe lovely and innocent creature thus praying under the gorgeous painted window, completes the exceeding and unique beauty of this picture-one that will for ever stand by itself in poetry, as an addition to the stock. It would have struck a glow on the face of Shakspere himself. He might have put Imogen or Ophelia under such a shrine. How proper, as well as pretty, the heraldic term gules, considering the occasion! Red would not have been a fiftieth part so good. And with what elegant luxury he touches the " silver cross" with " amethyst," and the fair human hands with " rose color," the kin to their carnation The lover's growing "faint," is one of the few inequalities which are to be found in the later productions of this great but young anul ()Ver-s(,Iitive po et. [le had, at the time of writing Iis - oe Il;, tlse se,s h)f ,utirtal illness iln,;ir. andl he.,t':ls, wrote as he h Then, by the bedside, where the faded moon Made a dim silver twilight-soft he set A table, and, half-anguished, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: 0 for some drowsy Morphean amulet! The boisterous, midnight, festive, clarion, The kettle-drum, and far-lheard clarionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:The hall-ds,oo slttts again, and all the noise is -one. I 166 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. XXIII. XXVI. 11 Its little smol,-e i,.i pallid moonshine died,," 11 PainiDg with eloquence her balmy side." XXVIT. xxrv. "Blinded alike from sunshine and fr a. As though a 7-ose should shut, and be a bud again.?) XXV. XXVIII. XXIX. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. xxx. xxxvi. And still she slept an) a iue-lidded sleep In blanchedl linen, smoothi and lavendered, While he fiom forthli ti e closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd, With jellies soother than the creamy curd, ~ild lucet.sya-urs, lii,ct wilh ciumitnono: Manrna Ioid dsistes, in argosy transfeirred From Fez; and s)icel dainties, every one, F1'omn silkier Smnarcait to cedaired Lebanon. Beyond a mortal man impassioned far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star Seen'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odor with the violet Solution sweet. Meanwhile the frost wind blows Like love's alarumt, pattering the s harp sle et Against the window panes: St. Agnes' moon hath set. here is delicate modulation, and super-refined epi,uorean nicety! 'Tis dark; qui,ki pattereth the flaw-blown sleet. " This is no dream; my bride, my Madeline!" 'Tis dark; the iced gusts still rave and beat. " No dream, alas! alas! and wo is mine; Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine; Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;A dove, forlorn and lost, with sick unpruned wing." make us read the line delicately, and at the tip-end, as iT were, of one's tongue. These delicates he heaped with glowing hand On golden dishes, and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night, Filling the chilly room with perfume light. "' And now, my love, my seraph fair awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." ' My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped, and vermeil-died? Ah! silver shrine, here will I take my rest, After so many hours of toil and quest A famished pilgrim, saved by a miracle, Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest Saving of thy sweet self; if thou thinkst well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel." Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains:-'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream: The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies; It seemed he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; 6o mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies. With what a I)pretty wilfi conceit the costume of the poem is kept up in the third line about the shield. The poet knew when to introduce apparent trifles forbidden to those who are void of real passion, and who, feeling nothing intensely, can intensify nothing. cc Hark!'tis an elfin-storm from faery land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed; Arise-arise! the morning is at hand; The bloated wassailers will never heed:-. Let us away, my love, with happy speed; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to se — Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.' Awakening up, he took her hlollow lute Tumultuous-and, in chords that tenderest be, He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence called, "La belle dame sans mercy:" Close to her ear touching the melody; Wherewith disturbed she uttered a soft moan: He ceased-she panted quick-and suddenly HIer blue afirayed eyes wide open shone: Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door; The arras, rife with horseman, hawk, and hound, Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar: .dnd the loug carpets rose along the gusty floor. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: There was a painful change, that nigh expelled The blisses of her dream so pure and deep, At which fair Madeline began to weep, And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly. This is a slip of the memory, for there were hardly carpets in those days. But the truth of the painting makes amends, as in the unchronological pictures of old masters. "Ah, Porphyro!" said she, "but even now Thy voice was a sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tuneable with every sweetest vow, And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear; How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear; Oh! leave me not in this e ternal wo, For if thou diest, my love, I know got where to go." They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hal; Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, Where lay the porter in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side; The wakeful blood-hound rose and shook his lade, Byut his sagacious eye a n in mate o wns: By one, and one, the bolts full easy shide: The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; l he ke) turns, and t},c d nor upon its hinges groans. Madeline is half awake, and Porphyro reassures hera wfith living kind loolks, and an affectionate embrace. I i 167 XXX. XXXVI. XXXVII. 11 Luceiit syrtips, tiiict with cinnamon," XXXI. XXXVIII. XXXII. XXXIX. XXXIII. XL. XXXINI. XXXV. XLZ. THE MIRROR LIBRARY. characters. When the party was reassembled, two or three days afterward,'THE CULPRIT FAY' was read to them, nearly as it is now printed. " Drake placed a very modest estimate on his own produections, and it is believed that but a small portion of them have been preserved. When on his death-bed, a friend inquired of him what disposition he would have made with his poems-' 0, burn them,' he replied,'they are quite valueless.' Written copies of a number of them were, however, in circulation, and some had been incorrectly printed in the periodicals; and for this reason, Commodore Dekay, the husband of the daughter and only child of the deceased poet, published, in 1836, the single collection of them which has appeared. Drake was unassuming and benevolent in his manners and feelings, and he had an unfailing fountain of fine humor, which made him one of the most pleasant of companions." The three authors of these three works of genius, died alilke prematurely. Mr. Praed, author of LILLIAN, (in whose company the writer had the pleasure of passing some time at the country-seat of a mutual friend in Eng land), was in the plenitude of a brilliant political career, a member of parliament, and a man of fortune. He had o been not long married when he died. Like Drake, he set but' small value on his poetry. He kept it as a vein to a amuse his friends, and the accomplished lady who was his entertainer at the house just alluded to, had a large manuscript volume of his poetry, worthy of any reputation, which was rigorously banned from publication by the author. He was a man of very grave demeanor, rather above the middle height, of a consumptive habit, pale and thoughtful looking. His intimate friends were very few, and in all his character, he was concentrative and retiring. The irreproachable purity of his life, and the lofty character of his ambitions and pursuits, gave him a weight and hedged him about with a dignity which made his career looked upon with unusual interest, and his death more than ordinarily mournful. The history of KEATS is better known to the world than that of either of the others. His death is said to lie at the door of Lord Brougham-who wrote the criticism, in the agony of reading which Keats burst a blood-vessel. He had been an apothecary's boy, and the critic unfeelingly counselled him to "return to his gallipots." The writer visited his grave at Rome, and read there the epitaph he himself directed to be graven on the head-stone: " Here lies one whose name was written in water." It almost requires a poet to appreciate the unreachable delicacy of Keats's use of language. He plucks his epithets from the profoundest hidinga-places of meaning and association. He wrote with a nib iulevnitabk-its forked pursuit certain detection to the elusive, reluctant, indispensable best word. The sense of satisfaction aches while you read his poetry —so clear to the bottom of the capability of language drops his plummet word. The Italicised passages in the "Eve of St. Agnei" will be a glide to what we mean. St. Agnes was a Roman virgin who suffered martyrdom in the reign of Diocletian. Her parents, a few days after her decease, are said ~to have had a vision of her surrounded'by angels, and attended by a white lamb, which afterward became sacred to her. In the catholic church, for merly, the nuns used to bring a couple of lambs to her altar during mass. The superstition is, that by taking certaim w oefesures of dicination, on St. (fgnes' Eve, damsdls may get a sight of ttleirfurture bulsb!.mds t n M dream Keats's poem makes beautiful use of the superstition. And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the baron dreampt of many a wo, And all his warrior-guests, wit h shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, Were lone be-nightmared. Angzela the old Died palsy-twitched, with meager face deform: The beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye unsought-for, slept among his ashes cold. Here endeth the young and divine poet, but not the delight and gratitude of his readers; for, as he sings elsewhere N THE Rococo" is the quaint, but, in fact, mos t desc riptive nam e of a n u "Ex tra" now in pres s for the Mirror Libray." Those of your reader s who havte been lately in France will be fami liar with the term rococo. The etymology of it has been matter of no litt l e fruitless inquiry. It came into use about four or five years aigo, when it was the rame to look up costly and old-fashioned articles of jewellery and furniture. A valuable stone, for example, in a b eautiful but antique setting, was rococo. A beauty, who had the kind of face paint ed in the old pictures, alas rococo. A chair, or a table of car ved wood, costly o nce, but unfashionable for many a day, was rococo. Articles of vertu were looked up, and offered for sale with a view to the prevailing taste for rococo-highly-carved picture-frames, old but elaboratety-made trinkets, rich brocades, etc., etc.-things intrinsically beautiful and valuable, in short, but unmeritedly obsolete. " THE Rococo," published by the proprietors of the New Mirror, answers this description exactly. It comprises the three most exquisite and absolute creations of pure imagination (in my opinion) that have been produced since Shakspere —" LRLLTAN," by Praed; " THE CULPRIT FAY," by Drake; and " ST. AGNES' EVE," by Keats-all three of which have been overlaid and partially lost sight of in the torrent of new literature, but all three now to be had in fair type, price one shilling! The man who could read either of these three poems without feeling the chambers of his brain filled with intellectual incense-without feeling his eyes warm, his blood moved, and his inmost Lausing of novelty and melody deliciously ministered todoes not love poetry enough "to give a rose-tint to his russet cares." I declare, I think it is worth the outlay of a fever to get (by seclusion and depletion) the delicacy of nerve and perception to devour and relish, with intellectual nicety, these three subtly-compounded feasts of imagination. Of these three poems, "' THE CULPRIT FAY" is, by much, the most original in conception-though, in composition, it is far less artistic than " THE EVE OF ST. AGNES." The reader who feels patriotic on the subject of poetry will rejoice in the former poem, as being in its imagery and assoeations wholly American, as in its original design it is wholly unsuggested by any other poem. " It was composed," says his biography, " hastily among the Highlands of the Hriudson, in the summer of 1819. The author was walkin.with some friends on a warm moonlight evening, when one ,,f the partv remarked that it would be difficult to write a faerly poem, purely imaginative, wvithout the ai~l of human I i I ii i6s XLII. " A thing of beauty is a joy for ever." NOTES, BY N. P. WILLIS. THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. BY TH03OAS MOORE. Soul's decline toward darkness, and the reappearance of Spring as its return to life and light. Besides the chief spirits of the MIahometan heaven, such as Gabriel, the angel of Revelations, Israfil, by whom the last trumpet is to be sountlel, and Azrael, the angel of death, there were also a number of subaltern intelligences, of which tradition has preserved the names, appointed to preside over the different stages, or ascents, into which the celestial world was supposed to be divided.* Thus Kelail governs the fifth heaven; while Sadiel, the presiding spirit of the third, is also employed in steadying the motions of the earth, which would be in a constant state of agitation, if this angel did not keep his foot planted upon its orb.f Among other miraculous interpositions in favor of Ma homet, we find commemorated in the pages of the Koran the appearance of five thousand angels on his side at the battle of Bedr. The ancient Persians supposed that Ormuzd appointed thirty angels to preside successively over the days of the month, and twelve greater ones to assume the government of the months themselves; among whom Bahman (to whom Ormuzd committed the custody of all animals, ex cept man), was the greatest. Mihr, the angel of the 7th month, was also the spirit that watched over the aflairs of friendship and love; Chur had the care of the disk of the s un; Mah was agent for the concerns of the moon; Isphandarmaz (whom Cazvin calls the Spirit of the Earth) was the tutelar gen ius of good and v irtuous women, etC., etc. For all this the re ader fe may consult the 19th a nd 20tth chapters of Hyde de Relg. Vet. Persarimd, w here the names and attributes of these daily sand monthly angels are wenith much minuteness and eru dition explained. It appears, from e 3 esa h at the Ze nd-av esta, t hat the Persians had a certain office or prayer for every da y of the month (add ressed to the particular angel who presided over it), which they called the Siirouz6. The Celestial Hierarchy of the Syrian s, as de scribe d by Kircher, appe ar s to be t he most regularly gradu ated of an, of these systems. In the sphere of t he Moon they placenr the angels, in that of Mercury the archangels, Venus and the Sun contained the Principalities and the Power s; and lso on to t he summit of the planetary system, wkere, in the sphere of Saturn, the Thrones had their station. Above this was the habitation of' the Cherubim jn the sphere of the fixed stars: and still higher, in the region of those stars which are so distant as to be imperceptible, the Seraphim, we are told, the most perfect of all celestin! creatures, dwelt. The Sabeans also (as D'Herbelot tells us) had their classes of angels, to whom they prayed as mediators, or intercessors; and the Arabians worshipped female angels, whom they called Benad Hasche, or, Daughters of God. THE pastern story of the angel s Harut and Marut,* and eshe Rabbinic al fict ions of the loves of Uzziel and Shamcha zai,t are the only sources to which I need refer, for the origi n of the notion on which this Romance is founded. In addition to the fitness of the subject for poetry, it struck me also as ca pabl e of affording an allegorical medium, throu gh w hich might be shadowe d out (as I have endeavored to do in the following stories) the fall of the Soul from its original purityt-the loss of light and happines s which it suffers, in the pursuit of this world's perishable pleasures — and the punishments, both from conscience and divine justice, with which impurity, pride, and presumptuous inquiry into the awful secrets of Heaven, are'sure to be visited. The beautifil story of Cupid and Psyche owes its chief charm to this sort of "1 veiled meaning," and it has been my wish (however I may have failed in the attempt) to communicate to the following pages the same moral interest. Among the doctrines, or notions, derived by Plato from the East, one of the most natural and sublime is that which inculcates the pre-existence of the soul, and its gradual descent into this dark material world, from that region of spirit and light which it is supposed to have once inhabited, afnd to which, after a long lapse of purification and trial, it will return. 1This relief, under various symbolical forms, may be traced through almost all the Oriental theolog,ies. The Chaldeans represent the Soul as originally endowed with wings, which fall away when it sinks from its native element, and must be reproduced before it can hope to return. Some disciples of Zoroaster once inquired of him, " How the wincs of the Soul might be made to -row again?" "By sprinkling them," he replied, " with the Waters of Life." " But where are those WAraters to be found?" they asked. "In the Garden of God," replied Zoroaster. The mythology of the Persians has allegorized the same doctrine, in the historv of those genii of light who strayed from their dwellings in the stars, and obscured their o)-iginal nature by mixture with this material sphere; while the Egyptians, connecting it with the descent and ascent of the wln in the zodiac, considered Autumn as emblematic of the See note on page 3, Hyde de Relig. Vet. Persarurn, p. 272. t The account which Macrobius gives' of the downward journey of the Soul, through that gate of the zodiac which opens into the lower spheres, is a curious specimen of' the wil,l fancies passed for philosophy in ancient times. In the system of Manes, the luminous or spiritual principle owes its corruption, not to any evil tendency of its own, but to t violent inroad of the spirits of darkness, who, finding themselves in the ne.ighborhood of this pure light, and becomin g .assionatoly enamcred of its beauty, break the boundaries etween them, and take forcible possession of it.t 'n Fonrn. Sci,ioni,. cap. 12. r See a Treatise" De la Religion dles Perses." by the Abbe Fourher NM6rn.ires de l'Acaddien, tomn xxxi, p. 456. * "We adorned the lower heaven with lights. and placed therein a gua,rd of angels."-I-.oran, chap. xli. t See D'Iterbelot, pissi7n. I I I i i I I I i i I i I I I I I I I i PREFACE. HE MIRROR LIBRARY. THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. Still fair and glorious, he but shone Among those youths th' unheavenliest one - A creature, to whom light remained From Eden still, but altered, stained, And o'er whose brow not Love alone -A blight had, in his transit, cast, But other, earthlier joys had gone, And left their foot-prints as they passed. Sighing, as back through ages fl own, Like a tomb-searcher, Memory ran, Lifting each shroud that Time had thrown O'er buried hopes, he thus began: 'TWAS when the world was in its prime, When the fresh stars had just begun Their race of glory, and young Time Told his first birthtdays by the sun When, in the light of Nature's dawn Rejoicing, men and angels met* On the high hill and sunny lawnEre sorrow came, or Sin had drawn 'Twixt man and heaven her curtail: yet I When earth lay nearer to the skies Than in these days of crime and wo, And mortals saw, without surprise, In the mid-air, angelie eyes Gazing upon this world below. Alas, that Passion should profane, Even then, the morning of the earth! That, sadder still, the fatal stain Should fall on hearts of heavenly birthAnd that from Woman's love should falli So dark a stain, most sad of all! "'TwAS in a land, that far away Into the golden orient lies, Where INature knows not night's delay, But springs to meet her bridegroom, Day, Upon the threshold of the skies. One morn, on earthly mission sent,* And mid-way choosing where to light, I saw, from the blue element Oh beautiful, but f atal sight! One of earth's faires t w omankind, Half veiled from view, or rather shrined In the clear crystal of a brook; Which, while it hid no single gleam Of her young beauties, made them look More spirit-like, as they might seem Through the dim shadowing of a dream. Pausing in wonder I looked on, While, playfully around her breaking The waters, tlhat like diamonds shone She moved in light of her own making. At length, as from that airy height I gently lowered my breathless flight, The tremble of my wings all o'er . (For through each plume I felt the thrill) Startled her, as she reached the shore Of that small lake-her mirror stillAbove whose brink she stood, like snow When rosy with a sunset glow. Never shall I forget those eyes! The shame, the innocent surprise Of that bright face, when in the air Uplooking, she beheld me there, It seemed as if each thought, and look, And motion, were that minute chained Fast to the spot, such root she took: And-like a sunflower by a brook, With face upturned-so still remained! One evening, in that primal hour, On a hill's side, where hung the ray Of sunset, brightening rill and bower, Three noble youths conversing lay; And, as they looked, from time to time, To the far sky, where Daylight furled His radiant wing, their brows sublime Bespoke them of that distant worldSpirits, who once, in brotherhood Of faith and bliss, near ALLA stood, And o'er whose cheeks full oft had blown The wind that breathes from ALLA's throne,ft Creatures of light, such as still play, Like motes in sunshine, round the Lord, And through their infinite array Transmit each moment, night and day, The echo of his luminous word! (;f Heaven they spoke, and, still more oft, Of the bright eyes that charmed them thence; Till, yielding gradual to the soft And balmny evening,'s influence-e The silent breathing of the flowers The melting light that beamed above, As on their first, fond, erring hours, Each told the story of his love, The history of that hour unblest, When, like a bird, from its high nest Won down by fascinating eyes, For Woman's smile he lost the skies. The First who spoke was one, with look The least celestial of the threeA Spirit of light mould, that took The prints of earth most yieldingly; Who, even in heaven, was not of those Nearest the Throne,t but held a place Far off, among those shining rows That circle out through endless space, And o'er whose wings the light from Him In Heaven's centre falls most dim. In pity to the wond'ring maid, Though loath from such a vision turning, Downward I bent, beneath the shade Of my spread wings to hidle the burning Of glances, which-I well could feel Fr e, or me, for her, too warmly shone; But, ere I could again unsr al My restless eyes, or even steal One sidelong look, the maid was gone — Hid from me in the forest leaves, Sudden as when, in all her charms Of full-blown light, some cloud receives The Moon into his dusky arms. I The Mahometans believe, says D'Herbelot, that in that early period of the world. "les hommes n'eurent qu'une seule religion. et furent souvent visites des Anges, qui leur donnoient la main." t " To which will be joined the sound of the bells hanging on the trees, which will be put in motion by the wind proceeding from the Throne, so often as the Blessed wish for music." See Sale's KoIran, Prelim. Dissert t The ancient Persians supposed that this Throne was placed in the Sun, and that through the stars were distributed thle variou, classes of Angels that encircled it. Tlhe Basili;(ians supposed that there were three hundred and t$xty-fivNe orders of angels, " dont Ia perfection alloit en d'-. t,rnoissant, a moesure qu'ils s'e61oignoient de la premniere classe l'esprits places dans le lPemier ciel." See D?,pui.s, Orig. des ('eit,.. t:in. ii. p. 11 * It appears that, in most languages, the term employed for an angel means also a messenger. Firischteh, the Persian worel for angel, is derived (salts D'ilerbelot) from the verb Firischtin, to send. The Ilebrew,r term. too,.%elak, has the same signification. FIRST ANGEL'S STORY.. 'Tis not in words to tell the power, The despotism th,-it, from that hour, THE LOVES OF THF ANGE S. Had you but seen her look, when first From my mad lips th' avowal burst; Not angered-no-the feeling came From depths beyond mere anger's flameIt was a sorrow, calm as deep, A mournfulness that could not weep, So filled her heart was to the brink, So fixed and frozen with grief, to think That an-el natures-that even J, Whose love she clung to, as the tie Between her spirit and the skyShould fall thus headlong from the height Of all that heaven hath pure and bright t Passion held o'er me. Day and night I sought around each neighboring spot; And, in the chase of this sweet light, My task, and heaven, and all forgot; All, but the one, sole, haunting dream Of her I saw in that bright stream. Nor was it long, ere by her side I found myself, whole happy days, List'ning to words, whose music vied With our own Eden's seraph lays, When seraph lays are warmed by love, But, wanting that, far, far above! And looking into eyes where, blue And beautiful, like skies seen through The sleeping wave, for me there shone A heaven, more worshipped than my own. Oh what, while I could hear and see Such words and looks, was heaven to me? Though gross the air on earth I drew, 'Twas blessed, while she breathed it too; Though dark the flowers, though dim the sky, Love lent them light while she was nigh. Throughout creation I but knew Two separate worlds-the one, that small, Beloved, and consecrated spot Where LEA wuas-the other, all The dull, wide waste, where she was not! That very night -my heart had grow n Impatien t of its inward burning; The term t, too, of my stay was flown, And the bright Watchers ne ar bethe throne, Already, if a meteor shone Between them and this nether zone, Thought'twas their herald's wing returning Oft did the potent spell-word, given To Envoys hither from tl e skies, To be pronounced, when bacli to heaven It is their time or wish to rise, Come to my lips that fatal day; And once, too, was so nearly spoken, That my spread plumage in the ray And breeze of heaven began to play; When my heart failed-the spell was brokenThe word unfinished died away, And my checked plumes, ready to soar, Fell slack and lifeless as before. How could I leave a world which she, Or lost or won, made all to me? No matter where my wand'rings were, So there she looked, breathed, moved aboutWo, ruin, death, more sweet with her, Than Paradise itself, without! But vain mv suit, my madness vain; Though gladly, from her eyes to gain One earthly look, one stray desire, I would have torn the wings, that hungF Furled at my back, and o'er the Fire In GEHrt's* pit their fragments flung;'Twas hopeless all-pure antl unmoved She stood, as lilies in the light Of the hot noon but look more white; And though she loved me, deeply loved, 'Twas not as man, as mortal-no, Nothing of earth was in that glowShe loved me but as one, of race Angelic, from that r-idiant place She saw so oft in dreams-that heaven, To which her prayers at morn were sent, And on whose light she gazed at even, Wishing for wings, that she might go Out of this shadowy world below, To that fre, glorious element? But, to return-that v ery day A f ea st wa s held, where, full o f mirth, Aame-crowding thick as fl o we rs that play In summer winds-the you ng and gay And beautiful of this bright earth. And she was there, and'mid the young And beautiful stood first, alone; Though on her gentle brow still hung The shadow I that morn had thrownThe first, that ever.s!amne or we Had cast ca,pon i's verral snocw. My heart was maddened;-in the flush. Of the wild revel I gave way To all that frantic mirth-that rush Of desperate gayety, which they, Who never felt how pair's excess Can break out thus, think happiness! Sad mimicry of' mirth and life, Whose flashes come but from the strife Of inward passions-like the light Struck out bv clashing swords in fight. W'ell I remember by her side 5itting at rosy even-tide, When-turning to the star, whose head Looked out, as from a bridal bed, At that mute, blushing hour-she said, Oh! that it were my doom to be The Spirit of yon beauteous star, Dwelling up there in purity, Alone, as all such bright thing are; My sole employ to pray and shine. To light my center at the sun And cast. its fire toward the shrife Of liim in heaven, th' Eternal one!' Then, too, that juice of earth, the bane And blessing of man's heart and brainThat draught of sorcery,. which brings Phantoms of fair, forbidden tlhingsWhose drops, lilke those of rainbows, s.ile Upon the mists that circle man, Brightening not only Earth, the while, But grasping Heaven, too, in their span! Then first the fatal winecup rained Its dews of darkness through my lips,* ,o innocent the maid, so free From mortal taint in soul and frame, 'A'om'twas my crime-mmy destiny To love, ay, burn for, with a tiame, To which earth's wildest fires are tame. ~ be nanme given by the MTahometans to the infernal regitns, over which, they say, the angel Tabhek presides. Ey the seven gates of hell, mentioned in the Koran, the commentators understand seven different departments or wards, in which seven different sorts of sinners are to be punirhbd The first, called Gehennem, is for sinfid Mussulmans; the second, Ladha, for Christian offenders; the third, Hothama, is appointed for Jews; and the fourth and fifth. called Sair and Sacar, are destined to receive the Sabcans and the wor,hippers of fire; in the sixth, named Gehim, those pa:-a dins aud( idolaters who admit a plurality of gods are pla;ced; while into the abyss of the seventh, called Dcrlik Asfil, or the DI)eep,,~. the hvpocritica: cantems of all religions are throned. I* I have already mentioned that some of the circumstance of this story were suggested to me by the eastern legend of the two angels, Harut and Marut, as given by Mapiti, who says that the author of Taalim founds upon it the Mahometan prohibition of wine.t I have since found that MAlariti's ve rsion of the tale (which differs also from that of Di Prideaux, in his life of Mahomet), is taken from the French E?I. cyclop(:die, in whic h work, und(er the he-,d " Arot e't 51rttt.' tlhe reader will finid it. *Trhe italiarclarnush tells the fi, le d!i:Tve']v. I I 171 THE MIRROI The spell, the spell!h, speak it now, And I will bless thee!' she exclaimed Unknowing what I did, inflamed, And lost already, on her brow I stamped one burning kiss, and named The mystic word, till then ne'er told To living creature of earth's mould! Scarce was it said, when, quick as thought. Her lips from mine, like echo, caught The holy sound-her hands and eyes Were instant lifted to the skies, And thrice to heaven she spoke it out With that triumphant look Faith wearq When not a cloud of fear or doubt, A vapor from this vale of tears, Between her and her God appears! That very momenther whole frame All bright and glorified became, And at her back I saw unclose Two wings, magnificent as those That sparkle around ALLA's Throne, Whose plumes, as buoyantly she rose Above me, in the moonbeam shone With a pure light, which-trom its hue, Unknown upon this earth-I knew Was light from Eden, glist'ning through! Most holy vision! ne'er before Did augh t so radiant-since the day When EBLIS, in his downfall, bore The th ird of the br ight stars awayRise, in earth's beauty, to repair That loss of light and glory there I But did I tamely view her flight? Did not I, too, proclaim out thrice The powerful words th at were, that nightOh, even fo r heaven too much delight 1 Again to bring us, eyes to eyes, And soul to soul, in Paradise? I did-I spoke it o'er and o'er I prayed, I wept, but all in vain; For me the spell had power no more. There seemed around me some dark chahl Which still, as I essayed to soar, Baffled, alas! each wild endeavor: Dead lay my wings, as they have lain Since that sad hour, and will remain So wills th' offended God-for ever I Now hear the rest; our banquet done, I sought her in tii' accustomed bower, Where late we oft, when day was gone, And the world hushed, had met alone, At the same silent, moonlight hour. Her eyes, as usual, were upturned To her loved star, whose lustre burned Purer than ever on that night; While she, in looking, grew more bright, As though she borrowed of its light. There was a virtue in that scene, A spell of holiness around, Which, hold my burning brain not been Thus maddened, would have held me bound, As though I trod celestial ground. Even as it was, with soul all flame, And lips that burned in their own sighs, I stood to gaze, with awe and shameThe memory of Eden came Full o'er me when I saw those eyes; And though too well each glance of mine To the pale, shrinking maiden proved How far, alas! from aught divine, Aught worthy of so pure a shrine, Was the wild love with which I loved, Yet must she, too, have seen-oh yes, 'Tis soothing but to thivk she saw The deep, true, soul-felt tenderness, The homage of an Angel's awe To her, a mortal, whom pure love Then placed above him-far aboveAnd all that struggle to repress A sinful spirit's mad excess, Which worked within me at that hour, When, with a voice, where Passion shed All the deep sadness of her power, Her melancholy power-I said, 'Then be it so; if back to heaven I must unloved, unpitied fly, Without one blest memorial given To sooth me in that lonely sky; One look, like those the young and fond Give when they're parting-which would be, Even in remembrance, far beyond All heaven hith left of bliss for me! Oh, but to see that head recline A minute on this trembling arm, And those mild eyes look up to mine, Without a dread, a thought of harm! To meet, but once, the thrilling touch Of lips too purely fond to fear meOr, if that boon be all too much, Even thus to bring their fragrance near me! Nay, shrink not so-a look-a word Give them but kindly, and I fly; Already, see, my plumes have stirred, And tremble for their home on high. Thus be our parting-cheek to cheek One minute's lapse will be forgiven, And thou, the next, shalt hear me speak The spell that plumes my wing for heaven!'I, But soon that passing dream was gone; Further and further off she shone, Till lessened to a point, as small As are those specks that yonder burnThose vivid drops of light, that fall The last from Day's exhausted urn. And w hen at leng th she merged, afar, Into her own immortal star, And when at length my straining sight Had caught her wing's last fading ray, That minute from my soul the light Of heaven and love both passed away; And I forgot my home, my birth, Profaned my spirit, sunk my brow, And revelled in gross joys of earth, Till I became-what I am now!" While thus I spoke, the fearful maid, Of me, and of herself afraid, Had shrinking stood, like flowers beneath The scorchlina of the south-wind's breath: But when I namned-alas! too well, I -now recall, tho-ugh wildered thenInstantly, when I namel the spell, Her brow, her eyes uprose again, kn3, with an eagerness, that spolke rhe sudda:n light that o'er her broke, 172 Casting whate'er of li, To my lost so,il into And filling it with such Such fantasies and w As, in the absence of h Hatint us for ever-li That walk this earth, It was to yonder star I traced Her journey up th' illumined wastThat isle in the blue firmament, To which so oft her fancy went In wishes and in. dreams before, And which was now-such, Purity, Thy blest rewardrdained to be Her home of light for evermore! Once-or did I but fancy so? Even in her flight to that fair sphere 'Mid all her spirit's new-felt glow, A pitying look she turned below On him who stood in darkness here; Him whom, peaaps, if vain regret Can dwell in heaven, she pities yet; And oft, when looking to this dim And distant world,. remembers him. THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. The Spirit bowed his head in shame; A shamne, that of itself would tellWere there not even those breaks of flame, Celestial, through his clouded frame How grand the height from which he fell I That holy Shame, which ne'er forgets Th' unblenched renown it used to wear; Whose blush remains, when Virtue sets, To show her sunshine has been there. Youboth remember wel l the day, When unto Eden's new-made bowers, ALLA convoked the bright array Of his supreme angelic powers, To witness the one wonder yet, Beyond man, angel, star, or sun, He must achieve, ere he could set His seal upon the world, as doneTo see that last perfection rise, That crowning of creation's birth, When,'mid the worship and surprise Of circling angels, Woman's eyes First opened upon heaven and earth; And from their lids a thrill was sent, That through each living spirit went, Like first light through the firmament! Once only, while the tale he told, Were his eyes lifted to behold That happy stainless star, where she Dwelt in her bower of purity! One minute did he look, and then As though he felt some deadly pain From its sweet light through heart and brainShrunk back, and never looked again. Can you forget how gradual stole The fresh-awakened breath of soul Throughout her perfect form-which seemed To grow transparent, as there beamed That dawn of Mind within, and caught New loveliness from each new thought? Slow as o'er summer's seas we trace The progress of the noontide air, Dimpling its bright and silent face Each minute into so me n ew grace And varying heaven's reflections th ere-m Or, like the light of evening, stealing O'er some fair temple, which all day Hath slept in shadow, slow revealing Its several beauties, ray by ray, Till it shines out a thing to bless, All full of light and loveliness. Can you forget her blush when round Through Eden's lone, enchanted ground She looked, and saw, the sea-the skies — And heard the rush of many a wing, On high behests then vanishing; And saw the last few angel eyes, Still ling'ring —mine among the restReluctant leaving scenes so blest? From that miraculous hour, the fate Of this new, glorious Being dwelt For ever, with a spell-like weight, Upon my spirit-early, late, Whate'er I did, or dreamed or felt, The thought of what might yet befall That matchless creature mixed with all. Nor she alone, but her whole race Through ages yet to come-whate'er Of feminine, and fond, and fair, Should spring from that pure mind and face, All waked my soul's intensest care; Their forms, souls, feelings, still to me Creation's strangest mystery! Who was the Second Spirit? he With the proud front anl piercing glance Who seemed when viewing heaven's expanse, As though his far-sent eye could see On, on into th' Immensity Behind the veils of that blue sky, Where ALLA'S grandest secrets lie?His wings, the while, though day was gone, Flashing with many a various hue Of light they from themselves alone, Instinct with Eden's brightness, drew. 'Twas RutBI-once among the prime And flower of those bright creatures, named Spirits of Knowledae,* who o'er Time And Space and Thought an empire claimed, Second alone to Him, whose light Was, even to theirs, as day to night; 'Twixt whom and them was distance far And wide as would the journey be To reach from any island star The vague shores of Infinity! 'Twas RuBi, in whose mournful eye Slept the dim light of days gone by; WVhose voice, though sweet, fell on the ear Like echoes, in some silent place, When first awaked for many a year; And when he smiled, if o'er his face Smile ever shone,'twas like the grace Of moonlight rainbows, fair, but wan, The sunny life, the glory gone. Even o'er his pride, though still the same, A soft'ning shade from sorrow came; tnd though at times his spirit knew The kindlings of disdain and ire Short was the fitful glare they threwLike the last flashes, fierce but few, Seen through some noble pile on fire! It was my doom, even from the first, When witnessing the primal burst Of Nature's wonders, I saw rise Those bright creations in the skiesThose worlds instinct with life and light, Which man, remote, but sees by nightIt was my doom still to be haunted By some new wonder, some sublime And matchless work, that, for the time Held all my soul, enchained, enchanted, And left me not a thought, a dream, A word, but on that only theme! Such was the Angel, who now broke The silence that had come o'er all, When he, the Spirit that last spoke, Closed the sad hist'ry of his fall; And, while a sacred lustre, flown For many a day, relumed his cheekBeautiful, as in days of old; And not those eloquent lips alone But every feature seemed to speakThus his eventful story told: The wish to know-that endless thirst, Which even by asienching is awaked, And which becomes or blest or curst, As is the fount whereat'tis slakedStill urged me onward, with desire Insatiate, to explore, inquireWhate'er the wond(rous things might be, Thiat waked each new i!dolatry, Their cause, aimi, scutrce, wlhence-ever sprung_ * The Kerubiim, as the Mussulmans call them, are often aoined indiscriminately with the Asrafil or Seraphim, uinder one common name of Azazil, by which all spirits who apiroach near the throne of Alla are designated. I I 17.'j SECOND ANGEL'S grORY. 174 TilE MIRROR LIBRARY. To earth, to earth each thought was given, That in this half-lost soul had birth; Like some high mount, whose head's in heaven. While its whole shadow rests on earth! Oh what a vision were the stars, When first I saw them burn on high, Rolling along, like living cars Of light, for gods to journey by!* They were my heart's first passiondays And nights, unwearied, in their rays Have I hung floating, till each sense Seemed full of their bright influence. Innocent joy! alas, how much Of misery had I shunned below, Could I have still lived blest with such; Nor, proud and restless burned to know The knowledge that brinHs guilt and wo. Often —so much I loved to trace The secrets of this starry raceHave I at morn and evcning run Along the lines of radiance spun Like webs, between them and the sun, Untwistirg all the tangled ties Of light into their different diesThen fleetly winged I off, in quest Of those, the farthest, loneliest, That watch, like winking sentinels,O The void, beyond which Chaos dwells; And there, with noiseless plume, pursued Their track through that grand solitude, Asking intently all and each What soul within their radiance dwelt, And wishing their sweet light were speech, That they might tell me all they felt. Nor was it Love, even yet, that thralled My spirit in his burning lies; And less, still less -ould it be called That grosser fla e, round which Love fRies Nearer and nhear, t ill he diesNo, it was wonder,, ch as thrilled At all God's works my dazzled sense; The same rapt wonder, only filled With passion, more profound, intenseA vehement, but wandering fire, Which, though nor love, nor yet desireThough through all womankind it took Its range, as lawless lightnings run, Yet wanted but a touch, a look, To fix it burning upon Onie. Then, too, the ever-restless zeal, Th' insatiate curiosity To know how shapes, so fair, must feetTo look, but once, beneath the seal Of so much loveliness, and see What souls belonged to such bright eyes Whether, as sunbeams find their way Into the gem that hidden lies, Those looks could inward turn their ray, And ma ke the soul as b right as they: All this impelled my anxious chase, And still the more I saw and knew, Of Woman's fond, weak, conquering rae, Th' intenser still my wonder grew. Nay, oft so passionate my chase Of these resplendent heirs of space, Oft did I follow-lest a ray Should'scape me in the farthest nightSome pilgrim Comet, on his way To visit distant shrines of light, And well remember how I sutng Exultingly, when on my sight New worlds of stars, all fresh and acung, As if just born of darkness, sprung P I had beleld their First, their EvE, Born in that splendid Paradise, Which sprung there solely to receive The first light of her waking eyes. I h a d s een purest angels lean In wor ship o'her her from above; And man —oh yes, had envying seen Proud man possessed of' all her love. I saw their happiness, so brief, So exquisite-her error, too, That easy trust, that prompt belief In what the warm heart wishes true; That faith in words, when kindly said, By which the whole fond sex is ledMingled with-what I durst not blame, For'tis my own-that zeal to know, Sad, fatal zeal, so sure of wo; Which, though from heaven all pure it came, Yet stained, misused, brought sin and shame On her, on me, on all below! Such was my pure ambition then, My sinless transport, night and morn; Ere yet this newer world of men, And that most fair of stars was born Which I, infatal hour saw rise Among the flowers of Paradise! Thenceforth my nature all was changed, My heart, soul, senses, turned below; And he, who but so lately ranged Yon wonderful expanse, where glow Worlds upon worlds-yet found his mind Even in that luminous range confinedNow blest the humblest, meanest sod Of the dark earth where Woman trod! In vain my former idols glistened From their far thrones; in vain these ears To the once-thrilling music listened, That hymned around my favorite spheres I had seen this; had seen Man, armed, As his soul is, with strength and sense, By her first words to ruin charmed; His vaunted reason's cold defence, Like an ice-barrier in the ray Of melting summer, smiled away. Nay, stranger yet, spite of all this Though by her counsels taught to err, Though driven from Paradise for her, (And with her-that, at least, was bliss), Had I not heard him, ere he crost The threshold of that earthly heaven, Which by her wildering smile he lost So quickly was the wrong forgiven I Had I not heart him, as he prest The frail, fond trembler to a breast Which she had doomed to sin and strife, Call her-even then-his Life! his Life Yes, such the love-taught name, the first, That ruined Man to Woman gave, * "C'est un fait indubitable que la plupart des anciens phil. sophes, soit Chaldeers, soit Grecs, nous ont donne les astres flomme animes, et ont soutenu que les astres, qui nous eclairent, n'etoient que ou les chars, ou mime les navires, des Intelligences qui les conduisoient. Pour les Chars, cela se lit partout; on n'a qu'ouvrir Pline, St. Clement," &c., &c.-Me. moire Historique, sur le Sabiisme, par M. FOURMONT. A be'ief tbht the stars are eith.er sprits o: the vehicles of spirits, was common to all the religions and heresies of the Past. Kircher has given the names and stations of the seven archangels, who were by the Cabala of the Jews distributed through the planets. t According to the cosmogony of the ancient Persians, there were four stars set as sentinels in the four quarters of the ~eavens, to watch over the other fixed stars, and superintend he planets in their course. The names of these four sentinel .tars are, according to the Boiiidesh, Taschter, for the east; ::,',vis, for the west; Venand, fi,r the soulth;,,,,d II-aftorang, tstr the no(,rth. * Chavah, or, as it is in Arabic, ITfavah (the name by whfct Adam called thie woman after their transgression), means t' Life." 174 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Their inmost powers, as thou,-h for me Existence on that knowledge hung. THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. I i Even in his outcast hour, when curst By her fond witchery, with that worst And earliest boon of love, the grave I Slie, who brought death into the worl(l, There stood before him, with the light Of their lost Paradise still bright Upon those sunny locks, that curled Down her white shoulders to her feetSo beautiful in form, so sweet In heart and voice, as to redeem The loss, the death of all things dear, Except herself-and make it seem Life, endless Life, while she was near I Could I help wondering at a creature, Thus circled round with spells so strong-T One, to whose ev'ry thought, word, feature, In joy and wo, through right and wrong, Such sweet omnipotence Heaven gave, To bless or ruin, curse or save? Enough to make even them more fairBut'twas the Mind, outshining clear Through her whole frame-the soul, still near, To l ight each charm, y et ind ependent Of what it lighted, as the sun That shines on flowers, would be resplendent Were there no flowers to shine upon'Twas this, all this, in one combined Th' unnumbered looks and arts that form The glory of young woman-kind, Taken, in their perfection, warm, Ere time had chilled a single charm, And stamped with such a seal of Mind, As gave to beauties, that might be Too sensual else, too unrefined, The impress of Divinity. Nor did the marvel cease with her New Eves in all her daughters came, As strong to charm, as weak to err, As sure of man through praise and blame, Whate'er they brought him, pride or shame, He still th' unreasoning worshipper, And they, throughout all time, the same, Enchantresses of soul and frame Into whose hands, from first to last, This world with all its destinies, Devotedly by Heaven seems cast, To save or ruin, as they please! Oh,'tis not to be told how long,, How restlessly I sighed to find Some one, from out that witching throng, Some abstract of the form and mind Of the whole matchless sex, from which In my own arms beheld, possest, I might learn all the powers to witch, To warm, and (if my fate unblest Would have it) ruin, of the rest! Into whose inward soul and sense I might descend, as doth the bee Into the flower's deep heart, and thence Rifle, in all its purity, The prime, the quintessence, the whole Of wondrous Woman's frame and soul! 'Twas this-a union, which the hand Of Nature kept for her alone, Of everything most playful, bland, Voluptuous, spiritual, grand, In angel-natures and her ownOh this it wa s that d rew me nigh One, who seemed kin to heaven as 1, A bright twin-sister from on highOne, in whose love, I felt, were given The mixed delights of either sphere, All that the spirit seeks in heaven, And all the senses burn for here. At length, my burning wish, my prayer-T (For suc-oh what will tongues not dare, When hearts go wrong?-this lip preferred)At length my ominous prayer was heardBut whether heard in heaven or hell, Listen-and thou wilt know too well. From the first hour she caught my sight, I never left her-day and night Hovering unseen around her way, And'mid her loneliest musings near, I soon could track each thought that lay, Gleaming within her heart, as clear As pebbles within brooks appear; And there, among the countless things That keep young hearts for ever glowing, Vague wishes, fond imaginings, Love-dreams, as yet no object knowingLight, winged hopes, that come when bid, And rainbow joys that end in weeping; And passions, among pure thoughts hid, Like serpents under flowerets sleeping: 'Mong all these feelings-felt where'er Young hearts are beating-I saw there Proud thoughts, aspirings high-beyond Whate'er yet dwelt in soul so fondGlimpses of glory, far away Into the bright, vague future given; And fancies, free and grand, whose play, Like that of eaglets, is near heaven! With this, too-what a soul and heart To fall beneath the tempter's art!A zeal for knowledge, such as ne'er Enshrined itself in form so fair, Since that first, fatal hour, when Eve, With every fruit of Eden blest, Save one alone-rather than leave That one unreached, lost all the rest. There was a maid, of all who move Like visions o'er this orb, most fit To be a bright young angel's love, Herself so bright, so exquisite! The pride, too, of her step, as light Along th' unconscious earth she went, Seemed that of one, born with a right To walk some heavenlier element, And tread in places where her feet A star at every step should meet. 'Twas not alone that loveliness By which the wildered sense is caughtOf lips, whose very breath could bless; Of playful blushes, that seemed naught But luminous escapes of thought; Of eyes that, when by anger stirred, Were fire itself, but, at a word Of tenderness, all soft became As thoug,h they coud, like the sun's bird, Dissolve away in their own flameOf form, as pliant as the shoots Of a young tree, in vernal flower; Yet round and glowing as the fruits, That drop fioin it in summer's hour; 'Twas not alone this loveliness That falls to loveliest woman's shabCmr Though, even here, her form could spare From its own beauty's rich exceA THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 1 7 -,-i Had we-but hold-hear every part Of our sad tale-spite of the pain Remembrance gives, when the fixed dart Is stirred thus in the wound againHear every step, so full of bliss, And yet so ruinous, that led Down to the last, dark precipice, Where perished both-the fallen, the dead I It was in dreams that fij-st I stole, Wich gei-itle mastery o'er'.ier n, —'.ndIn that rich twilierht of the soul, When reason's beam, half hid behind The clouds of' sleep, obscurely gilds Each shadowy shape the Fancy buildq'Twas then, bv that soft light, I brought Va!,-ue, glimmery visions to her view;Catches of radiance, lost When caught, Bri-ht I,-tl)vrinths. to nriiibt, Ar(-l vist,-i,-, witii r,-o 1),-,t,iway tlirou,,-n T'HE MIRROR LIBRARY. Dwellings of bliss, that opening shone, Then closed, dissolved, and left no trace-W All that, in short, could templ)t Hope on, But give her wing no resting-place; Myself the while, with brow, as yet, Pure as the young moon's coronet, Through every dream still in her sight, Th' enchaiiter of eachl mocking scene, Who gave the hope, then brought the blight, Who said,'Behold, yon world of light,' Then sulden dropt a veil between! At length, whlen I p)erceived each thought,s Waking oi sleeping, fixed en naught But these illusive scenes, and meThe phantom, who thus came and wen' In half revealments only meant To madden curiosityWhen by such various arts I found Her fancy to its lti-ost wound, One night-'twas in a holy spot, Which she for prayer ha.d chose-a grot Of purest marnble, built below Her garden beds, through which a glow From lamps invisible then stole, Brightly pervading all the placeLike that mysterious light, the soul, Itself unseen, sheds through the face. There, at her altar, while she knelt, And all that woman ever felt, When God and man both claimed her sighsEvery warm thought, that ever dwelt, Like summer clouds,'twixt earth and skies, Too pure to fall, too gross to rise, Spoke in her gestures, tones, and eyesThen, as the mystic light's soft ray Grew softer still, as though its ray Was breathed from her, I heard her say: Till, startled by the br eathing, nigh, Of lips, that e choed b ack her sigh, Sudden her brow again she raised: And there, just lighted on the shrine, Beheld me-n ot as I had blazed Around he r, full of light divine, In her late dreams, but softened down Into more mortal grace;-my crown Of flowers, too radiant for this world, Left hanging on yon starry steep; My wings shut up, like banners furled, When Peace hath put their pomp to sleep Or like autumnal clouds, that keep Their lightnings sheathed, rather than mar The dawning hour of some young star; And nothing left, but what beseemed Thl' accessible, though glorious mate Of mortal woman-whose eyes beamed Back upon hers, as passionate; Whose ready heart brought flame for flame, Whose sin, whose madness was the same; And whose soul lost, in that one hour, For her and for her love-oh more Of heaven's light than even the power Of heaven itself could now restore I Wonderful Spirit, who dost make Slumber so lovely that it seems No longer life to live awake, Since heaven itself descends in dreams, The Spirit here Stopped in his utterance, as if words Gave way beneath the wild career & Of his then rushing thoughtslike chords, Midway in some enthusiast's song, Breaking beneath a touch too strong; While the clenched hand upon the brow Told how remembrance throbbed there now! But soon'twas o'er-tha t casual blaze From the sunk fire of other daysThat relic of a flame, whose burning Had been too fierce to be relumed, Soon passed away, and the youth, turning To his bright listeners, thus resumed: Why do I ever lose thee? why, When on thy realms and thee I gaze, Still drops that veil, which I could die, Oh gladly, but one hour to raise? Long ere such miracles as thou And thine came o'er my thoughts, a thirst For light was in this soul, which now Thy looks have into passion nursed. Th ere's nothing bright above, below, In sky-earth-ocean, that this breast, Doth not intensely burn to know, And thee, thee, thee, o'er all the rest! "Days, months elapsed, and though what most On earth I sighed for was mine, allYet-was I happy? God, thou know'st, Howe'er they smile, and feign, and boast, What happiness is theirs, who fall! Twas bitterest anguish-made more keen - Even by the love, the bliss, between Whose throbs it came, like gleams of hell In agonizing croswlight given Athwart the glimpses, they who dwell In purgatory* catch of heaven I Th en come, oh Spirit, from behind The curtains of thy radiant home, rI thou wouldst be as angel stirned, Or loved and clasped as mortal, come! Bring all thy dazzling wonders here, That I may, waking, know and see; Or waft me hence to thy own sphere Thy heaven or-ay, even that with thee I * Called by the Mussulmans Al Araf-a sort of wall or pma tition which, according to the 7th chapter of the Koran, sep rates hell from paradise, and where they, who have not merits sufficient to gain them immediate admittance into heaven are supposed to stand for a certain period, alternately tanta lized and tormented by the sights that arre on either side presented to them. Manes, who borrowed in many instances from the Platonists placed his plirgatories, or places of purification in the Sun and IMoon.-lBeaus(obre, liv. iii., chap. 8. By those ethereal wines, whose way Lies throughl an element, so fraught With living Mn that, ts they play, Ther every movement is a thought! I .,76 By that bright, wreathed hair, between Whose sunny clusters the sweet wind Of Paradise so late hath been, And left its fragrant soul behind! By those impassioned eyes, that m'elt Their light into the inmost heart: Like sunset in the waters, felt As molten fire through every part I do implore thee, oh most bright And worshipped Spirit, shine but o'er My waking, wondering eyes this night, This one blest night-I ask no more.-' Exhausted, breathless, as she said These burning words, her languid head Upon the altar's steps she cast, As if that brain-throb were its last I Oh idol of my dreams, whate'er Thy nature be-human, divine, Or but half heavenlytill too fair, Too heavenly to be ever mine! And yet, that hour!". Demon or God, who hold'st thi,- book Of knowledge spread beneath thine eye, Give me, with thee, but one bri,-ht look Into its leaves, and let me die! THE LOVES OF THIE ANGELS. The only feelini that to me Seemed joy-or ralthler niy sole rest Fromr achling mi:ery —was to see Sy young, o proui, blooming ILILIS blest. She, the fitir fountain of all ill To my lost seoll-whom -et its thirst Feri-iily pante(d after still, And founl the clharme fresh as at firstTo see her happy-to refle ct Whaitever beams still round me played Of former pride, of glory awreckedl, On her, nmy Moon, w hose light I made, And whose soul worshipped even my shadeThis was, I own, enjoyment-thisA My sole, last linaerin glinmpse of bliss. And proud she was, fair creature!-proud, Bey-ond what even most queenly stirs In woman's heart, nor would lhave bowed That beautifiul young brow of hers To aught beneath the First above, So high she deemed her Chlerub's love! But not alone the wonders found Through Nature's realm-th' unveiled, material, Visible glories, that abound, Through all her vast, enchanted ground But whatsoe'er unseen, ethereal, Dwells far away from human sense, Wrapped in its own intelligence T he mystery of that Fountain-hea d, From which all vital spirit r uns, All breath of Life, wihere'er tis spread Through men or angels, flowers or sunsThe workings of th' Al mighty Mind, When first o'er Chaos he designed The outlines of t his w orld; and through That f epth o f darkness-ilie the bow, Called out of rain-clouds, hue by hue-t Saw the grand, gradual picture grow; The covenant wt ith human kind By ALLA rnade+-the chains of Fate He round himself.an(i them hath twined, Till his hi gh tmske lhe consummateh Till good fi-omn evil, love from hate, Shall be worrked out through sin and pain, Arid Fate shall loose her iron chain, Anid all be fr-ee, be briglit again! SuchI wsrere the (deep-(drawn mysteries, Arid s(omne, ev-en more obscure, profound, And wilderini to the mind than these, Which-fair as woma,n's thought could sound, Or a fallen, outlawed spirit reachShe dared to ]earn, and I to teach. Till-filled with such unearttly lore, And niingling the pure light it brings With much that fancy had, before, Shed in false, teinted glimmeringsTh' enthusiast girl spoke out, as one Inspired, among her own dark race, Who from their ancient shrines would run, Leaving their holy rites undone, To gaze upon her holier face. And, though but wild the things she spoke, Yet,'mid that play of error's smoke Into fair shapes by fancy curled, Some gleams of pure religion brokeGlimpses, that have not yet awoke, But startled the still-dreaming world! Oh, many a truth, remote, sublime, Which Heaven would from the minds of men Have kept concealed, till its own time, Stole out in these revealments thenRevealments dim, that have forerun, By aged,'he great Sealing One! Like that imperfect dawn, or light~ F,scaping from the Zodiac's signs, Which makes the doubtful east half bright, Before the real morning shines! Thus did some moons of bliss go by Of bliss to her, who saw but love And knowledge throughout earth and sky; To whose enamored soul and eye, I seemed-as is the sun on high The light of all belo~w, above Then, too, that passion, hourly growing Stronger and stronger-to which even Her love, at times, gave way —of knowing Everything strange in earth and heaven; Not only all that, full revealed, Th' eternal ALLA loves to show, But all that He hath wisely sealed In darkness, for man not to knowEven this desire, alas! ill-starred And fatal as it was, I sought To feed each minute, and unbarred Such realms of wondler on her thought, As ne'er, till then, had let their light Escape on any mortal's sight! In the deep earth-beneath the sea Through caves of fire-through wilds of airWherever sleeping Mystery Had spread her curtain, we were thereLove still beside us, as we went, At home in each new element, And sure of worship everywhere! Then first was Nature taught to lay The wealth of all her kingdoms down At woman's worshipped feet, and say, Bright creature, this is all thine own!' Then first were diamonds, from the nights Of earth's deep centre brouzht to light, And made to grace the conquering way Of proud young, beauty with their ray. Then, too, the pearl from out its shell Unsightly, in the sunless sea, (As'twere a spirit, forced to dwell In form unlovsely) wa s set free, And round the neck of woman threw A light it lent and borrowed too. For never did this maid —whate'er Th' ambition of the hour-forget Her sex's pride in being fair; Nor that adornment, tasteful, rare, Which makes the mighty magnet, set In Woman's form, more mighty yet. Nor was there aught within the range Of my swif wing in sea or air,' Of beautiful, or grand, or strange, That, quicely as her wish could change, I dil not seek, with such fond care, * I am aware that this happy saying of Lord Albemarele' loses much of its grace and playfulness, by being put into the mouth of anv but a human lover. t According to Whitehurst's theory, the mention of rainbows by an antediluvian angel is an anachronism; as he says, "1 There was no rain before the flood, and consequently no rainbow, which accounts for the novelty of this sight after the Delti,-e.11 t For the terms of this compact, of which the angels were supposed to be witnesses, see the chapter of the Koran, entitled Al Araf, andl the article "1 Adam" in D'Herbelot. 11 In aeknowledg,nab trte authority of the great Prophets who Iha precle(d Vir.l, MTahomet represented his own mission as tlh fil',l a - se,,' or consummation of them all. l TIt,e Zo Tiae',ight. *;' Quelques gnomes desireux de devenir immortels, avoient voulu gagner les bonnes graces des nos filles, et leur avoient apporte des pierreries dont ils sont gardiens naturels: et ces I auteurs ont cru, s'appuyans sur le livre d'Enoch mal-entendu, que c'6toient des pieges que les anges amoureux," &c., &c.- Comte de GC(ibalis. As the fiction of the loves of angels with women gave birth to the fanciful wcrld of sylphs and gnomes, so we owe to it also the invention of those beautiful Genii and Peris, which embellish so mudcl the mythology of the Fast; for in the fabulous histories of Caltiimarath, of Thainutlralt, &c., these spir- itual creatures are always represented as the descendants of Path, and called the Bani A1lg-'nn, or children of Giann. I 17-i That when I've seen her look above At some bright star admiringly, I've said, I Nay, look not there, my love,41 Alas, I can not give it thee!' i7 THE MIRROR LIBRARY The spirit of sea, and land, and air, Whose influence, felt everywhere, Spread from its centre, her own heart, Even to the world's extremest part; While through that world her reinless mind Had now careered so fast and far, That earth itself seemed left behind, And her proud fancy, uneonfined, Already saw Reaven's gates ajar! And those wings fitrled, whose open light For mortal gaze were else too brightI first had stood before her sight, And found myself-oh, ecstasy, Which even in pain I ne'er forgetWorshipped as only God should be, And loved as never man was yet! In that same garden were we now, Thoughtfully side by side reclining, Her eyes turned upward, and her brow With its own silent fancies shining. Happy enthusiast! still, oh stillSpite of my own heart's mortal chlill, Spite of that double-fronted sorrow, Which looks at once before and back, Beholds the yesterday, the morrow, And sees both comfortless, both blackSpite of all this, I could have still In her delight forgot all ill; Or, if pain woztld not be forgot, At least have borne and murmured not. When thoughts of an offended Heaven, Of sinfulness, which I-even I, While down its steep most headlong drivenWell knew could never be forgiven, Came o'er me with an agony Beyond all reach of mortal woA torture kept for those who know, Know every thing, and-worst of allKnow and love Virtue while they fall! Even then, her presence had the power To sooth, to warm-nay, even to bless — If ever bliss could graft its flower, On stemin so full of bitternessEven then her glorious smile to me Broug,ht warmth and radiance, if not balm; Like m onlight o'er a troubled sea Brigi tening the storm it can not calm. It txt an evening b righ t an d still As ever blushed on wave or bower, Snmiling friom heaven, as if naught ill Could happen in so sweet an hour. Yet, I rempember, both grew sad In looking at that light-even she, Of heart so fiesh, and brow so glad, Felt the still hour's solemnity, And thought she saw, in that repose, The death-hour not alone of light, But of this whole {air world-the close Of all things beautiful and brightThe last, grand sunset, in whose ray Nature herself died calm away! ' I had, last night, a dream of thee, Resembling those divine ones, given, Like preludes to sweet minstrelsey, Before thou cam'st thyself from heaven. Oft, too, when that disheartening fear, Which all who love, beneath yon sky, Feel, when they gaze on what is dear The dreadful thought that it must die! That desolating thought, which comes Into men's happiest hours and homes; Whose melancholy boding flings Death's shadow o'er the brightest things, Sicklies the infant's bloom, and spreads The grave beneath youting lovers' heads! This fear, so sad to all-to me Most fcull of sadness, from the thought That I must still live on,* when she Would, like the snow that on the sea Fell yesterday, in vain be sought; That Heaven to me this final seal Of all earth's sorrow would deny, And I eternally must feel The death-pang, without power to die! Even this, her fond endearments-fond As ever cherished the sweet bond 'Twixt heart and heart-could charm away; Before her look no clouds would stay, Or, if they did, their gloom was gone, Their darkness put a glory on! But'tis not,'tis not for the wrong, The guilty, to be happy long; And she, too, now, had sunk within The shadow of her tempter's sin, Too deep for even Omnipotence To snatch the fated victim thence! The same rich wreath was o n th y brow, Dazzling as if of starlight made; And these wings, lying darkly now, Like meteors round thee flashed and playeo. Thou stoodst all bright, as in those dreams, As if just wafted from above; Mingling earth's warmth with heaven's beam4 A creature to adore and love. Suddel I fe lt th ee draw me near To thy pure heart, where, fondly placed, I seemed witihin the atmosphere Of that exhaling light embraced; Listen, and, if a tear there be Left in your hearts, weep it for me. 'Twas on the evening of a day, Which we in love had dreamed away; In that same garden, where —-the pride Of seraph splendor laid aside, Thinkst thou, were LTrLIs in thy place, A creatur ofy on lofty skies, She wouild' havre hid one sin!le grace One glory from her lover's eyes? * Pococke, however, gives it as the opinion of the Mahom. an doetors, that all souls, not only of men and of animals, li'ing either on land or in the sea, but of the angels alo, must Qecessar'ly taste of death. I iII II Ii 178 THE MIRROR LIBRARY At length, as tbough some livelier thougle. Had suddenly l,er faicy caught, Slie turnd upon me her dark eyes, D'Iated into that full shape They took in joy, reproach, surprise, As'twere to let more soul escape, And, playfully as on my head Her white hand rested, smiled and said: And felt, methought, thl ethereal flame Pass from thy purer soul to mine; Till-oli, too blissful-I became, Lilie thee, all spirit, all divine I Say, wliy did dre,-tm so blest come o'er me, If, now I w,,ike,'tis faded, gone? V,hen will my Clierub shine before me Tlyiis raditnt, -,is in heaven he shone? AVIien sliali r, waking, be allo-wed To gaze upon those perfect charms, And el.-tsl) tbee once, without a cloud, A chill of earth, within these arms? Oh what a pride to say, this, this Is my own Angel-all divine, And pure, and dazzling as he is, And fresh from heaven-he's mines he's miue 'o, iio-tlien, iC tlioii lov'st like me, Sl,iiiie otit, yoiing in the blaze THE LOVES OF'FIlE ANGELS. Of thy most proud divinity, Nor think thlou'lt wound this mortal gaze. Too long and oft I've looked upon Those ardent eyes, intense even thusToo near the stars themselves have gone, Tl'o fear aught grand or luminous. Then doubt me notch, whlo can say Bit that this dreanm many nyet come true, Anti my blest spirit drink thy ray, Till it l'ecomes a'.! lieavenly t(;o? Let me thii oi 0e bu,t feel the flame Of those si)nca,!t winil, the very pride \Will change imy nature, and this frame By the Iimere touch be dleified!' Thus having-as, alas, deceived By my sin's blindness, I believed No cause for dread, and those dark eyes Now fixed upon me, eagerly As though'l th' unlocking of the skies Then waited but a sign from meHow could I pause? how even let fall A word, a whisper that could stir, In her proud heart a doubt, that all I brought from heaven belongced to her. Slow from her side I rose, while she Arose, too, muittely, tremblingly. PBut not with fear-all hope and pride, She waited for the awful boon, Bilie p,-iestesses, at eventide, W~atching the rise of the fill moon, Whose light, when once its orb hath shone, 'Twill madden them to look upon! Thi,s sioke the maid, as one not used o 1 bb ealirth or heaven refused As Co e, ail.ho knew Iher inflitnce o'er All creitures, whatsoe'er they were, A,il, though to heaven she couldi not soar, At least would bring down heaven to her. Lfittle d(i,l shle, als, or I Even I, whose soul, but half-way yet [,,imecr'ed in siln's obscurity WVas as the eartli whliereon we lie, O'er half whose disk the sun is set Little (lid we fi-resee the fate, The dreadful-how can it be told? Each pain, such anguish to relate Is o'er again to feel, behold! But, chargel as'tis, Iny heart must speak Its sorrow out, or it will break! Some dark misgivings had, I own, Passed for a moment through my breast Fears of some danger, vague, unknown, To one, or both-something unblest To happen from this proud request. But soon these boding fancies fled; Nor saw I aught that could forbid My full revealment, save the dread Of that first dazzle, when, unhid, Such light should burst upon a lid Ne'er tried in heaven; and even this glare She might by love's own nursing care, Be, like you — eddyes, taught to bear. For well I klnier, the lustre shed From cherub wings, when proudliest spread, WNras, in its nature, lambent, pure, And innocent as is the light Fhlie glow-worm hangs out to allure Her mate to her green bower at night. Oft had I in the mid-air, swept Throuah clouds in which the lightning slept, As in its lair, ready to spring, Yet waked it not-though from mv wing A thousan(d sparks fell zlittering! Oft too when round me from above The feathered snow, in all its whiteness, Fell like the inoultings of heaven's Dove-4' So harmless, though-so full of brightness, Was my brow's wreath, that it would shake From off its flowers each downy flake A s d e lica te, untmelted, fair, And cool as tney had lighted there. Of all my glories, the bright crown, Which, when I last from heaven came down, Was left behind me, in yon star That shines from out those clouds afar Where, relic sa(l,'tis treasured yet, The downfallen angel's coronet! Of all my glories, this alone Was wanting: but th' illumin'd brow, The sun-bri,ht locks, the eyes that now Had love's spell added to their own, And poured a light till then unknown; Th' unfolded wings, that, in their play, Shed sparkles bright as ALLA's throne; All I could bring of heaven's array, Of that rich panoply of charms A Cherub moves in, on the day Of his best pomp, I now put on; And, proud that in her eves I shone Thus glorious, glided to her arms; Which still (though, at a sight so splendid, Her dazzled brow had, instantly, Sunk on her breast) were wide extended To clasp the form she durst not see!* Great Heaven! how could thy vengeance ligb !So bitterly on one so bright? How could the hand, that gave such charms, Blast them again in love's own arms? Scarce had I touched her shrinking frame When-oh most horrible! I felt That every spark of that pure flame Pure, while among the stars I dwelt Was now, by my transgressions, turned Into gross, earthly fire, which burned, Burned all it touched, as fast as eye Could follow the fierce, ravening flashes; Till there-oh God, I still ask why Such doom was hers? I saw her lie Blackening within my arms to ashes! That brow, a glory but to seem Those lips, whose touch was what the first Fr esh cup of immortality Is to a new-made angel's thirst! Those clasping arms, within whose round My heart's horizon-the whole bound Of its hope, proslect, heaven was found! Which, eve:- n this dread moment, fond As when they first were round me caste Loosed not in death the fatal bond, But, burning, held me to the last! All, all, that, but that morn, had seemed As if Love's self there breathed and beamed Nar ever w ith LrLrs-had I not Around her sleep all radiant beamed, I The Dove, or pigeon which attended Mahomet as his Fa- My heart's horizon-the wh ole bound 'nilirr, and was frequently seen to whisper Of its hope, prose, heaver, was found! f I recollect right, one of that select number of animals (inltludi,;ng also the ant of Solomon, the dog of the Seven Sleep- ers, &c.), which were thought by the Prophet worthy of ad- As when the first were round me cast m'ssion into Paradise. Loosed not in death the fatal bond, ' rhe MIoslems have a tradition that Mahomet was saved But burning held me to the last (wheli he hid himself in a cave in Mount Shur) by his pursu All, all, that, but that morn, had seemed As if Love's self there breateadbeee ers finding the mouth of the cave covered by a spider's web, As if Love's self there breathed and beamed ait a iest bulIt by two pigeons at the entrance. w;itht two eggs intblr-'Aen in it, whi!}, made them think no one could(l hav e en- bl t.er,d it. In consequnteeof hsthis, Iaomtnin1. Moh ammed rsays Sale,]thoughaprophet,wasnt e his. followe rs to loo's upon pigeons as sacred, and( never to'ill to bear the sight of Gabriel, when he appeared in his proper a pid.tier " —f,decrt Universal History, vol. i. form, muchI less would tne's be able to si,wort it, i i 11 ii I i I 9 .Httng o'er her slumbers, nor for,-ot l'o kiss her eyelids, as she dreamed? And vet, at morn, from that repose, Hd she not waked, unscathed and bright, As doth the pure, unconscious rose, Though by the firefly kissed all night. THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Now, parched and black, before me lay, Withering in agony away; And mine, oh misery! mine the flame, From which this desolation came; I, the curst spirit, whose caress Had blasted all that loveliness! Played in those plumes, that never more To their lost home in heaven must soar, Breathed inwardly the voiceless prayer, Unheard by all but Mercy's earAnd which if Mercy did Slot hear, Oh, God would?iot be what this bright And glorious univers? of his, This world of beauty, goodness, light, And endless love, proclainms he is! Not long they knelt, when, from a wood That crowned that airy solitude, They heard a low, uncertain sound, As from a lute, that just had found Some hapl)y theme, and murmured round The new-borrn fancy, with fond tone, Scarce thinking aught so sweet its own! Till soon a voice, that matched as well Tlhat gentle instrument, as suits The sea-air toin (,cean-slhell (So kin its spirit to the lute's), Tremblingly followed the soft strain, Interpreting,, its joy, its pain, And lending the light wings of words To many a thought, that else had lain Unfledged antl mute among the chords. 'Twas maddening! but now hear even worseHad death, death only, been the curse I brought upon her-lihad the doom But ended here, when her young bloom Lay in the dust-and did the spirit No part of that fell curse inherit, 'Twere not so dreadful-but, come nearToo shocking'tis for earth to hearJust when her eyes, in fading, took Their last, keen, agonized farewell, And l ook ed in mine with-o h, that look! Great v engeful Power, whate'er the hell Thou mpyst to human souls assign, The memory of that look is mine! In her last struggle, on my brow Her ashy lips a kiss imprest, So withering!-I feel it now'Twas fire-but fire, even more unblest Than was my own, and like that flame, The angels shudder but to name, Hell's everlasting element! Deep, deep it pierced into my brain, Madd'ning and torturing as it went; And here-mark here, the brand, the stain It left upon my front-burnt in By that last kiss of love and sinA brand, which all the pomp and pride Of a fallen Spirit can not hide! All started at the sound-but chief The third youn< A ngel, in whose face, Though failed like the others, grief Ha( leit a gentler, holier trace; As if, even yet, through pain and ill, Hope had not fled him-as if still Her precious pearl, in sorrow's cup, Unmelted at the bottom lay, To shine again, when, all drunk up, The bitterness should pass away. Chiefly did he, though in his eyes There shone more pleasure than surprise, Turn to the wood, from whence that sound Of solitary sweetness broke; Then, listening, look delighted round To his bright peers, while thus it spoke"Come, pray with me, my seraph love, My angel-lord, come pray with me; In vain to-night my lip hath strove To send one holy prayer aboveThe knee may bend, the lip may move, But pray I can not, without'thee' I've fed the altar in my bower With droppings from the incense-tree; I've sheltered it from wind and shower, But dim it burns the livelong hour, As if, like me, it had no power Of life or lustre, without thee! But is it thus, dread Providence Can it, indeed, be thus, that she, Who (but for one proud, fond offence) Had honored heaven itself, should be Now doomed-I can not speak it-no, Merciful ATLLA!'tis not soNever could lips divine have said The fiat of a fate so dread.' And yet, that look-so deeply fraught With more than anguish, with despairThat new, fierce fire, resembling naught In heaven or earth-this scorch I bear!Oh-for the first time that these knees Have bent before thee since my fall, Great Power, if ever thy decrees Thou couldst for prayer like mine recall, Pardon that spirit, and on me, On me, who taught her pride to err, Shed out each drop of agony Thy burning vial keeps for her! See, too, where low beside me kneel Two other outcasts, who, though gone And lost themselves, yet dare to feel And pray for that poor mortal one. Alas! too well, too well they knowI The pain, the penitence, the wo That Passion brings upon the best, The wisest, and the loveliest. Oh, who is to be saved, if such Bright, erring souls are not forgiven; So loath they wander, and so much Their very wand'rings lean toward heaven W Again, I cry, Just Power, transfer That creature's sufferings all to me Mine, mine the guilt, the torment be, ro save one minute's pain to her, Let nine last all eternity!" The song had ceased when, from the wood Which, sweeping down that airy height, Reached the lone spot whereon they stood There suddenly shone out a light From a clear lamp, wlich, as it blazed Across the brow of one, who raised Its flame aloft (as if to throw The light upon that grouip below), Displayed two eyees, sparkling between The dusky leaves, such as are seen By fancy only, in those flees, That haunt a ipoet's walk at even, Lookin- from out their leafy places Upon his dreams of love and heaven. He paused, and to the earth bent down His throbbing head; while they, who felt That agony as'twere their own, Those angel youths, beside him knelt, And, in the night's still silence there, While mournfully each wand'ring air I I I 180 A boat at midnight sent alone To drift upou the moonless sea, A lute, whose leading enord is gone, A wounded bird, that hath but one Imperfect wing to soar upon, Are like what I am, without tbee! Then neler, my spirit-love, divide, In life or death, tfiyself from me; But when a-ain, in sunny pride, Thou walkst through Eden, let me glide, A prostrate shadow, by thy side Oh happier thus than without thee!91, THE LOVES OF THE ANGELS. 'Twas but a moment-the blush, brought O'er all her features at the thought Of being seen thus, late, alone, By any but the eyes she sought, Had scarcely for an instant shone Through the dark leaves when she was goneGone, like a meteor that o'erhead Sudidenly shines, and, ere we've said, "Behold, how beautiful!"-'tis fled. Their rank, their honors, far above Even those to high-broewed Cherubs given, Though know in g all;-so much doth love Transcend all Knowledge, even in heaven! 'Mong these was ZARAPH once-and none E'er felt affection's holy fire, Or yearned towar d th' Eternal One, With half such longing, deep desire. Love was to his im passion ed soul Not, as with others, a mere part Of its existence, but the whol e The very life-breath of his heart! Oft, when from ALLA'S lifted br ow A lustre came, too bright to bear, And all the seraph ranks would bow, To shade their dazzled sight, nor dare To look upon tli' effulgence there Th' Spi' it's eves would court the blaze (Stich pride he in adoring took), And rather lose, in that one gaze, The power of looking, than not look! Then, too, when angel voices sung The mercy of their God, and strung Their harps to hail, with welcome sweet, That moment, watched for by all eyes, When some repentant sinner's feet First touched the threshold of the skies, Oh then how clearly did the voice Of ZARAPH above all rejoice! Love was in every buoyant tone Such love, as only could belong To the blest angels, and alone Could, even from angels, bring such song I Yet, ere she went, the words, " I come, I come, my NAAIA," reached her ear, In that kind voice, familiar, dear, Which tells of confidence, of home Of habit, that hath drawn hearts near, Till they grow oie-.of ftitlh sincere, And all that Love most loves to hear; k rp 3ic, I eatl'ng o" the * ast, TRe pre-ent, and tile tire to he, Where Hope and Memory, to the last, Lengthen out life's true harmony! Nor long did hlie, whom call so kind Summoned away, remain behind; Nor di d t her e need much time to tell What they-alas! more fallen than he From happiness and heaven —knew well His gentler love's short history! Thus did it run-not as he told The tale himself, but as'tis graved Upon the tablets that, of old, By SFTH* were from the deluge saved, All written over with sublime And sadd'ning legends of th' unblest, But glorious Spirits of that time, And this young Angel's'mong the rest. Alas, that it should e'er have been In heaven as'tis too often here, Where nothing fond or bi)right is seen, But it hath pain and peril near; Where right and wrong so close resemble, That what we take ibfor virtue's thrill Is often the first downward tremble Of the heart's balance unto ill; Where Love hath not a shrine so pure, So holy, but the serpent, Sin, In moments, even the most secure, Beneath his altar may glide in! AMONG. the Spirits, of pure flame, That in th' eternal heavens abideCircles of light, that from the same Unclouded centre sweeping wide, Carry its beams on every sideLike spheres of air that waft around The undulations of rich sound, Till the far-circling radiance be Diflused into infinity! First and immediate near the Throne Of ALLA,F as if most his own, The Seraphs stands-this burning sign Traced on their banner, "Love divine!" So was it with that Angel-such The charm, that sloped his fall along, From good to ill, fro m loving much, Too easy lapse, to loving wrong. Even so that amorous Spirit, bound By beauty's spell, where'er'twas found, From the bright things above the moon Down to earth's beaming eyes descended T'ill love for the Creator soon In passion for the creature ended. Seth is a favorite personage among the Orientals, and acts a conspicuous part in many of their most extravagant romances. The Syrians pretended to have a Testament of this Patriarch in their possession, in which was explained the whole theology of angels, their different orders, &c., &c. The Curds, too (as Hyde mentions in his Appendix), have a book, which contains all the rites of their religion, and which they call Sohuph Sheit, or the Book of Seth. In the same manner that Seth and Cham are supposed to have preserved these memorials of antediluvian knowledge, Xixuthrus is said in Chaldean fable to have deposited in Siparis, the city of the Sun, those monuments of science which he had saved out of the waters of a deluge.-See Jablonski's learned remarks upon these columns or tablets of Seth, which he supposes to be the same with the pillars of Mercury, or the Egyptian Thoth.-Pantheon. Egypt., lib. v., cap. 5. t The Musstimans, says DlHerbelot, apply the general name, M.ocarreboun, to all those spirits " qui approchent le plus pras le Tr,ne." Of this number are Mikail and Gebrail. ; The *,ratplhim, or Spirits of D)ivine l,ove. ThlereX a?~,':~))rs to are. aTnr,,ni wr:ters on the Past, as well as a,n'i t he (r -otlq itheemselves. con(isidfrihle indecision with r,gtric to( the r-p,ctio cl;mq fc grtph m and C oherubim to tple i t. rm':;; the v'eti;l o!r.lrcl y. the derivation w hich ilyl ass eels to t1, u-or~ (Yhe:',lt seems to (Tetermitie :beC prced?no:'~ i.. fiver of th:at ordles d-ing ray, Thought'twas a voice f.:ll out the wave, An echo, that some sea-nym vh gave To Ecten's distant harmiony, Heard faint and s,w.eet beneath the sea! And, though the Spirit had transgressed Had, from his station'mong the blest Won down by woman's smile, allowed Terrestrial passion to breathe o'er The mirror of his heart, and cloud God's ilmage, there so bright beforeYet never did that Power look down On error with a brow so mild; Never did Justice wear a frown, Through which so gently Mercy smiled. For hunmble was their love-with awe And trembling like some treasure kept, That was not theirs by holy lawWhose beauty with remorse they saw, And o'er whose preciousness thev wept. Humnility, that lor, sweet root, From whiichl all lheavlenly virtues shoot, Was il the hearts of bl(th-but most In l.iact,s hc-i,-t, by whom alone Those charms foi which a heaven was lost, Seemed all iinivalued and unklniiown; And when her seraph's eyes she caught, And hid hers glowing on his breast, Even blisstw s h umbled by the thoughit " Whrat claim have I t o be so blest r " S till less could iai,l, so meek, have nursed Desire of linowle,,Ige-that vaiii thirst, With which the sex hath all been cursed, From luckless EvE to hel, who near The Tabernacle stole to hear The secrets of the angels:* no — '~o love as her own Seraph loved, With Faith, the same through bliss and wo — Faith, that, were even its light removed, Could, like the dial, fixed remain. And wait till it shone out again; With Patience that, though often bowed By the rude storm, can rise anew; And Hope that, even fioln Evil's cloud, Sees sunny Good half breaking through I This deep, relying Love, worth more In heaven than all a Cherub's loreThis Faith, more sure than aught beside, Was the sole joy, ambition, pride Of her fond heart-tth' unreasoning scope Of all its views, above, below, So true she felt it that to hope, To trust, is happier than to knotw. Quickly, however, to its source, Tracing that music's melting course, He saw, upon the golden sand Of the seashore, a mai len stand, Before whose feet th' exlt)ii ", waves Flung their last offering with a sigh-i As, in the East, exhausted slaves Lay down the far-brou,"t gift, and dieAnd, while her lute hung by her, hushed, As if uneq(ual to the tide Of song, that from her lips still gushed, She raised, like one beatified, Those eyes, whose light seemed rather gisen To be adored than to adoreSuch eyes, as may haive looked from heaven, But ne'er were raised to it before? Oh Love, Religion, Music- all That's left of Eden upon earthThe only blessings, since the fall Of our weak souls, that still recall A trace of their high, glorious birthHow kindred are the dreams you bring! How Love, though unto earth so prone, Delights to take Religion's wing, When time or grief hath stained his own! How near to Love's beguiling brink, Too oft, entranced Religion lies! While Music, Music is the link They both still hold by to the skies, The language of their native sphere, Which they had else forgotten here. A nd thus in humibleness they trod, Abashed, but pure before their God; Nor e'er did earth behold a sight So meekly beautiful as they, When, with the altar's holy light Full on their brows, they knelt to pray, Hand within hand, and side by side, Two links of love, awhile untied From the great chain above, but fast Holding together to the last!Two fallen Splendors,t from that tree, Which buds with such eternally,t How then could ZARAPH fail to feel That moment's witcheries?-one, so fair, Breathing out music, that might steal Heaven from itself, and rapt in prayer That seraphs might be proud to share! Oh, he did feel it, all too well With warmth, that far too dearly costNor knew he, when at last he fell, To which attraction, t wwhich spell, Love, Music, or Devotion, most His soul in that sweet hour was lost. * Sara. tf An allusion to the Sephiroths, or Splendors of the Jewish Cabbala, represented as a tree, of which God is the crown or summit. The Sephiroths are the higher orders of emanative beings in the strange and incomprehensible svstem of the Jewish Cabbala. They are called by various names, Pity, Beauty, etc., etc.; and their influences are supposed to act through certain canals, which communicate with each other. B The reader may judge of the rationality of this Jewish system by the following explanation of part of the machinery: -" Les canaux qui sortent de la Misericorde et de la Force, et qui vont aboutir a la Beaute, sont charges d'un grand nombre d'Anges. I1 y en a trente-cinq sur le canal de la Miseri. corde, qui recompensert et qui courounent la vertu des Saints," etc., etc.-For a concise acco4int of the Cabalist&;c Philosophy, see Enfie(ld's very useful comnpendium of Brucker. ' On les repir sente qlch.ulqefi sous la, figure d'uln arbre ... l'Ensoph qil'on met atu.d(essius e l'arbre Sethiri'tiqua , ies Sple.deurs dlivins, est l'dnfini -L'tliestoire des Juia. st" A.. 11. I It Les Egyptiens disent que la Musique est Savtr de RLelitpon' —.Voya,es de Pythagore, tom. i., p. 422. i I I I. , i I, i I: I i i ii I 182 Svreet was the hour, though dearly won, And pure, as aught of earth could be, For then first did the gloriov-s sun Before religion's altar -;ee Two heart-s in wedlock's golden tie Self-pledged, in love to live and die. Blest union! by that Angel wove, And woi-thv from such hands to come; -%fe, sole asyium, in which Love, When fallen or exiled from above, In this dark world can final -t ho,-ne. a ANGELS-THE SYLI,PH'S BALI Shaken to earth, yet Keeping all Their light and freshness in the fall. Their only punishment (as wrong, However sweet, must bear its brand), Fheir only (loom w as this-that, long As the green earth and ocean stand, They both shall wander here-the same, Throughout all tirme, in heart anl frameStill looking to that gonal sublime, Whose light remote, bit sure, they see; Pilgrims of Love, whose way is Time, Whose home is in Ete( nity! Subject, the while, to all the strife, True Love encouliters in this lifeThe wishes, hopes, he breathes in vain; The chill, that turns his warmest sighs To earthly vapor, ere they rise; The doubt hlie feeds oin, and the pain That in his very sweetness lies: Still worse, th' illusions that betray His footsteps to their shining brink; That tempt him, on his desert way Tirough the bleak world, to bend and drink, Where nothing meets his lips, alas!But he again must sighing pass On to that far-off home of peace, In which alone his thirst will cease. H ome she was t aken to his Mine A Palace, paved with diamonds allAnd, proud as Lady Gnome to shine, Sent out her tickets for a Ball. All this they bear, but, not the less, Have moments rich in happinessBlest meetings, after many a day Of widowhood past far away, When the loved face again is seen Close, close, with not a tear betweenConfidings frank, without control, Poured mutually from soul to soul; As free from any fear or doubt As is that light from chill or stain, The sun into the stars sheds out, To be by them shed back again!That happy rrminglement of hearts, Where, changed as chymic compounds are, Each with its own existence parts, To find a new one, happier far! Such are their joys-and, crowning all, That blessed hope of the bright hour, When, happy and no more to fall, Their spirits shall, with freshened power, Rise up rewarded for their trust In Him, from whom all goodness spings, And, shaking off earth's soiling dust From their emancipated wings, Wandler for ever through those skies Of radiance, where Love never dies! Glow-worms, that round the tiny dishes, Like little lighthouses, were set up! And pretty phosphorescent fishes, That by their own gay light were eat up. In what lone region of the earth These Pilgrims now may roam or dwell, God and the Angels, who look forth To watch their steps, alone can tell. But shoulds we, in our wanderings, Meet a young pair, whose beauty wants But the ad(ornament of bright wins, To look like heaven's inhabitantsWho shine where'er they tread, and yet Ape humble in their earthly lot, As is the wayside violet, That shines unseen, and were it not For its sweet breath, would be forgotWhose hearts, in every thought, are one, Whose voices utter the same willsAnswering, as Echo doth some tone Of fairy music'mong the hills, So like itself, we seek in vain Which is the echo, which the stiai.t — Whose piety is love, whose love, Though close as'twere their souls' embrace, Is not of earth, but from above Like two fair mirrors, face to face, Whose light, from one to th' other thrown, Is heaven's reflection, not their ownShould we e'er meet with aught so pure, So perfect l,ore, we may be sure But others disapproved thi s pla n, And, by his flame though somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman, In such a dangerous place to light it. However, the re he was- and d ancing With the fair Sylplh, light as a feather; They looked like two fresh sunbeams, glancing. At daybreak, down to earth together. THE LOVES OF THE I I S.,-; 'Tis ZARAPH and his bride we s"; And call voung lovers round, to view The pilgrim pair, as they pursue Their pathway toward eternity. THE SYLPHIS BALL. A SyLpij, as bright as ever sported Her figure through the fields of air, By an old swarthy Gnome was courted, And, strange to say, be won t,e fw. The annals of the ol(lest witch A pair so sorted could not show, But how refuse?-the Gnome was rich, The Rothschild of the world below; And Sylphs, lilie other pretty creatures, Are told, betimes, they must consider Love as an auctioneer of features, Who knocls them down to the best bidder. The lower world, of co,-irse, was there, And all the best; but c)f the itl)per The sprinkling was but sliy and rare, A few old Sylphids, who loved supper. As none yet knew the wondrous Lamp Of DAVY, that renowned Aladdin, And the Gnome's Halls exhaled a damp, Which accidents from fire were bad in; The chambers were supplied with light By many strange but safe devices; Large fire-flies, such as shine at night Among the Orient's flowers and spices; Musical flint-mills-swiftly played By elfin hands-that, flashing round, Like certain fire-eyed minstrel maids, Gave out, at once, both light and sound. Bologna stones, that drink the sun; And water from that Indian sea, Whose waves at night like wild-fire run Corked up in crystal carefully. I.iMong the few guests from Ether, came That wicked Sylph, whom Love we call: My Lady knew him but by name, My Lord, her husband, not at all. Some prudent Gnomes, Itis said, apprized That he was coming, aztd, no doubt, Alarmed about his touch, advised He should, by all means, be kept out. And all had gone off safe and %Nel!, But for that 1,1,-tguy torc!i, whose li,ht, ThoLigh not yet Iiindle(I-wlio could tell How scon, how (levilislilv, it 7iiight? IT~lL M'I~i~OR L~l~l~AR_ _ __ _ _~ To check young Genius' pr o ud careiv, The slaves, who now his throne invaded, Made Criticism his prime Vizier, And from that hoiir his glories faded. 1~~~~~~~.4 And so it -h,anc(d-whlichl, in those dark And fireless lhalls, wVas quite amazing; Did we not know how small a spark Can set the torch of Love a-blazing. Whether it came (when close entangled In the gay waltz) from her bright eyes, Or from the lucciole, that spangled Her locks of jet-is all surmise; His most heroic deeds-the same, That dazzled, when spontaneous actionsNow, done by law, seemed cold and tame, And shorn of all their first attractions. But certain'tis th' ethereal girl Did drop a spark, at some odd turning, Which, by the waltz's windy whirl, ' {as fanned up into actual burning. If he but stirred to take the ail, Instant, the Viz: 3 ('- no' at. ", Good Lord, your..ghn ss cn L go theie Bless me, your Highness can't do that." Oh for that Lamp's metallic gauze, That cuirtai.n of protecting wire, Which DAvY delicately draws Around illicit, dangerous fire! If, loving pomp, hie chose to buy Rich jewels for his diadem, " The taste was bad, the price was high A flower were simpler than a gem." The wall he sets'twixt Flame and Air, (Likle that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,) Thluough whose small holes this dangerous pair May see each other, but not kiss.* To please them if he took to flowers' What trifling, what unmeaning things! Fit for a woman's toilet hours, But not at all the style for Kings." At first the torch looked rather bluely, A sign, they say, that no good bodedThen quick the gas became unruly, And, crack! the ball-room all exploded. If, f ond of his domestic sphere, He played no more the rambling comet" A dull, good sort of a man,'twas clear, But, as for great or brave, far from it." Sylphs, Gnomes, and fiddlers, mixed together, With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces, Like butterflies in stormy weather, Were blown-legs, wings, and tails-to pieces! Did h e then look o'er distant oceans, For realms more worthy to enthrone him? " Saint Aristotle, what wild notions! Serve a' ne exeat regno' on him." While,'mid these victims of the torch, The Sylph, alas! too, bore her partFound lying, with a livid scorch, As if from lightning, o'er her heart! At length, their last and worst to do, They round him placed a guard of watchmen Reviewers, knaves in brown, or blue Turned up with yellow-chiefly Scotchmen; "Well done"-a laughing Goblin said Escaping from this gaseous strifeA l'Tis not the first t im e Love hao made A blow-up in connubial litf!" To dog his footsteps all about, Like those in Longwood's prison-grounds, W ho at Napoleon's heels ro de out, For fear the Conqueror should break bounds. Oh for some Champion of his power, Some Ultra spirit, to set free, As erst in Shakspere's sovereign hour, The thunders of his Royalty! GENTUS AND CRITICISM. To vindicate his ancient line, The first, the true, the only one, Of Rig ht, eternal and divine, That rules beneath the blessed sun. " Scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur."-SENEcA. OF old, the Sultan Genius reigned, As Nature meant, supreme, alone; With mind unchecked, and hands unchained, His views, his conquests were his own. But power like his, that digs its grave With its own sceptre, could not last; So Genius' self became the slave Of laws that Genius' self had passed. FROM THE FRENCH. WITH women and apples both Paris and Adam Made mischief enough in their day:God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear mnadar Depends not on us, the same way. For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple, The world would have doubly to rue thee; Like Adam, I'd gladly take from thee the apple, Like Paris, at one give it to thee. As Jove, who forged the chain of Fate, Was, ever after, doomed to wear it; His nods, his struggles all too late " Qui semel jussit, semper paret." a -u-" Partique dede re Ocula quisque suc, non pervenientia contra.'>OVID. I I I i I I Tied down in Legislation's school, Afraid of even his own ambition, His very victories were by rule, And he was great but by permission, 0 0 IMITATION. Til]E ANaEL OF TtiE WO RLDI. BY RefT. G E OIGE ('R OLY. It came at last. It came with trumpet's sounding, It came with thunders of the atabal, And warrior shouts, and Arab charger's bounding, The SACRED STANDARD crown'd Medina's wall! From palace-roof, and minaret's golden ball, Ten thousand emerald banners floated free, Beneath, like sunbeams, through the gateway tall, The Emirs led the ir steel-mail'd c h ivalry, Anid the whole city rang with sports and soldier glee. THrRF.'s gory on thy mountains, proud Bengal, When on their temples bursts the morning sun! There's glory on thy marble-towered wall, Proud Ispahan, beneath his burning noon! There's gltiry —when his golden course is done, Proud Istamboul, upon thy waters blue! But fall'n Damascnus, in e ws l thine sas beauty's throne, In morn, and noon, and evening's purple dew, Of all from Ocean's marge to mighty Himmalu. East of the city stands a lofty mount, Its brow with lightning delved and rent in sunder; And through the fragments rolls a little fount, Whose channel bears the blast of fire and thunder! And there has many a pilgrim come to wonder; For there are flowers unnumber'd blossoming, With but the bare and calcined marble under; Yet in all Asia no such colours spring, No perfumes rich as in that mountain's rocky ring. This was the eve o f eves, the end o f war, Beginning of dominion, first of time! When, swifter than the shooting of a star, Mohammed saw the Vision's pomps sublime! Swept o'er the rainbow'd sea-the fiery clime, Heard from the throne its will in thunders roll'd; Then glancing on our world of woe and crime, Saw from Arabia's sands his banner's fold Wave o'er the brighten'd globe its sacred conquering gold. And some who pray'd the night out on the hill, Have said they heard,-unless it was their dream, Or the mere murmur of the babbling rill, Just as the morn-star shot its first slant beam, A sound of music, such as they might deem The song of spirits-that would sometimes sail Close to their ear, a deep, delicious stream, Then sweep away, and die with a low wail; rhen come again, and thus, till LUCIFER was pale. The sun was slowly sinking to the West, Pavil'on'd with a thousand glorious dyes; The turtle-doves were win4ing to the nest, Along the mountain's soft declivities; The fresher breath of flowers began to rise. Like incense, to that sweet departing sun; Faint as the hum of bees the city's cries: A moment, and the lingering disk was gone; Then were the Angels' task on earth's dim orbit done. And some, but bolder still, had dared to turn That soil of mystery for hidden gold; But saw strange, stifling blazes round them burn, And died!-by few that venturous tale was told. And wealth was found; yet, as the pilgrims hold, Though it was glorious on the mountain's brow, Brought to the plain it crumbled into mould, The diamonds melted in the hand like snow; So none molest that spot for gem? or ingots now, Oft had he gazed upon that lovely vale, But never gazed with gladness such as now; When on Damascus' roofs and turrets pale He saw the solemn sunlight's fainter glow, With joy he heard the Imaun's voices flow Like breath of silver trumpets on the air; The vintagers' sweet song, the camels' low, As home they stalked from pasture, pair by pair, Flinging their shadows tall in the steep sunset glare. But one, and ever after, round the hill - He stray'd:-they said a meteor scorch'd his sight; Blind, mad, a warning of Heaven's fearful will. 'Twas on the sacred evening of "The Flight," His spade turn'd up a shaft of marble white, Fragment of some kiosk, the chapiter A crystal circle, but at morn's first light Rich forms began within it to appear, ceptred and wing'd, and then, it sank in water clear. Yet once upon that guarded mount, no foot But of the Moslem true might press a flower, And of them none, butt with some solemn suit Beyor.d man's help, might venture near the bower: !'or, in its shade, in beauty and in power, For judgment sat the A-NGEL OF THE WORLD: SenTt by the propheta t ill the destined hour That saw in dust Arabia's idols hurl'd, ZVen to the skit s again his wing should be unfurl'd. The Angel's flashing eyes were on the vault, That now with lamps of diamond all was hung, His mighty wings like tissues heavenly-wrought Upon the bosom of the air were hung. The solemn hymn's last harmonies werctsung, The sun was couching on the distant zone. , Farewell" was breathing on the Angel's tongues, He glanced below. There s tood a suppliant on e! The impatient Angel sank, in wrath, upon his throrn Then at his sceptre's wave a rush of plumes Shook the thick dew-drops from the roses' dyes; And, as embodying of their waked perfumes, A crowd of lovely forms, with lightning eyes, And flower-croA,n'd hair, and cheeks of Paradise, Circled the bower of beauty on the win — - And all the grove was rich with symphonies Of seemitig flute, and born, and golden string, That slowly rose, and o'ei- the Mount hung hovering L8'EMRO LIBRARY Yet all was quickly soothed,-" this labour past, His coronet of teibold light was won." His l!anc againi upon the form was cast, T'al iO'v sci'd( d-in, on the dazzling sto(leI; Hie bade it rise anid spezal. The solernn' tone Of Eartihs l,i's l Sori g niill ed joy with fear, As s,ii:Tter a.les of rose by litv htniS t, coe;wh re As the niglt-utti n il the desert di-ear; }tis voice seeii'd sudden life to tiidat all' ii sul)pliant's ear. W'oe to the heart that lets thee once intrude, Victim of visions that life's purpose steal, Till the whole struggling nature lies subdued. Bleeding with wounds the grave alone musit heal. Proud Angel, was it thine that mortal woe to feel? Still knelt the pilgrim, cover'd with her veil, Btt all her beauty living on his e ye; Still hyacint h the c lustering ringlets fell Wreathing her forehead's polish'd ivory; Her cheek unseen still wore the rose-bud's dye; She sigh'd; he heard the sigh beside him swell, He glanced around-no spirit hover'd iiigh Touch'd the fall'n flower, and blushing, sigh'd cc farewell e What sound has stunn'd his ear? A sudden thunder-peail He look'd on heaven,'twas calm, but in the vale A creeping mist had girt the mountain round, Making the golden minarets glimmer pale; It scaled the mount,-the feeble day was drowii'd. The sky was w ith its livid hue embrown'd, But soon the vapours grew a circling sea, Reflecting lovely from its blue profound Mountain, and crimson cloud, add blossom'd tree; Another heaven and earth in bright tranquillity. And on its bosom swam a small chaloupe, That like a wild swan sported on the tide. The silken sail that canopied its poop Show'd one that look'd an Houri in her pride; Anon came spurring tip the mountain's side A warrior Moslem all in glittering mail, That to his country's doubtful battle hied. " He saw the form, he heard the tempter's tale, And answered with his own: for beauty will prevail The foirm arose-the face e as in a ve il, The voice was low, and often check'd with sighs; The tale it utter d was a simple tale; ,, A vowv to close a dyilyg parent's eyes, And brotughIit its wearv steps irom T'ripolis; The Arab in the Svrianii mountains lay, The caravan was made the robber's prize, The pilgrii's little wealth was swept awnay, Maiii's Iel) nas vain." Here sauk the voice in soft decay. c And this is Earth!" the Angel frowning said; Siid fiom the grouniid he took a matchless gem, ',n( flung it to the mourner, then outspread His pinions, like the lightning's rushin-g beam. The pilgrims started al the diamrnond's gleam, Glanced up in prayer, then, bending near the throne, Shed the quick tears that from the bosom stream Andl tried to speak, but tears were there alone; l'he pitying Angel said, "Be happy and begone." The weeper raised the veil; a ruby lip First dawn'd: then glow'd the young cheek's deeper hue, Yet delicate as roses when they dip Their odorous blossoms in the morning dew. Then beam'd the eyes, twin stars of living blue; Half shaded by the curls of glossy hair, That turn'd to golden as the light wind threw Their clusters in the Western golden glare, Yet wa-. her blue eye dim, for tears were standing there. He look'd upon her, and her hurried gaze Sought from his glance sweet refuge on the ground; But o'er her cheek of beauty rush'd a blaze; And, as the soul had felt some sudden wound, Her bosom heaved above its silken bound. He looked again; the cheek was deadly pale; The bosom sank with one long sigh profound; Yet still one lily hand upheld her veil, And still one press'd her heart-that sigh told all its tale. But now in storm uprose the vast mirage; Where sits she now who tempted him to roam? How shall the skiffwith that wild sea engage! In vain the quivering helm is turn'd to home Dark'ning above the piles of tumbling foam, Rushes a shape of woe, and through the roar Peals in the warrior's ear a voice of doom. Down plunges the chaloupe.-The storm is o'er Heavy and slow the corpse rolls onward to the shore. The Angel's heart was smote-bbut that touch'd flower, Now opening, breathed such fragrance subtly sweet, He felt it strangely chain him to the bower. He dared not then that pilgrimi's eye to meet, But gazed upon the small unsandal'd feet, Shining like silver on the floor of rose; At length he raised his glance;-the veil's light net Had floated backward from her pencil'd brows, Her eye was fix'd on Heaven, in sad, sublime repose. She stoop'd, and from the thicket pluck'd a flower, And fondiy kiss'd, and then with feeble hand She laid it on the footstool of the bower; Such was the ancient custom of the land. Her sighs were richer than the rose they fann'd; The breezes swept it to the Angel's feet; Yet even that swieet sigiht boon,'twas Heaven's command, He must not touch, from her though doubly sweet, No earthly gift must stain that hallow'd judgment-seat. Still lay the flower upon the splendid spot, The Pilgrim turn'd away, as smote with shame; Her eve a glance of self-upbraiding shot; 'Twas in his soul, a shaft of living flame. Then bow'd the humble one, and bless'd his name, Cross'd her white arms, and slowly bade farewell. A sudden faintness o'er the Angel came; The voice rose sweet and solemn as a spell, She bow'd her face to earth, and o'er it dropped her vt Ne. Beauty, what art thou, that thy slightest gaze Can make the spirit from its centre roll; Its whole long course, a sad and shadowy maze? Thou midnight or thou noontide of the soul; One glorious vision lighting up the whole Of the wide world; or one deep, wild desire, By day and night consuming, sad and sole; Ti pre e ll Hope, Prde, Genius, na y, till Love's own fire, Desert the weary heart, a cold and mouldering pyre. A simple Syrian lyre wa s on her-breast, And on her crimson lip was murmuring A village strain, that in the day's sweet rest Is heard in Araby round many a spring, When down the twilight vales the maidens bring The flocks to some old patriarchal well; Or where beneath the palms some desert-king Lies, with his tribe arodnd him as they fell! The thunder burst again; a long, deep, crashing peal. The Angel heard it not; as round the ranze Of the blue hill-tops roar'd the volley on, Uttering its voice with wild, Terial charge; Now sinking in a deep and distant rmoan, Like the last echo of a host o'erthrowiin; Then rushing with new vengeance down again, Shooting the fiery flash and thunder-stone, Till flamed, like funeral pyres, the mountain chain The Angel heard it not; its wisdom all was vain. He heard not even the strain, though it had changed From the calm sweetness of'he holy hymn. His thoughts from depth to depth unconscious ranged, Y et all within was dizzy, strange, an d din; A mist seem'd spreading betw een heaven and him; He sat absorb'd in drearns-;l searchin~ tone Came on his ear, oh howv her dark eyes swin Who breathed that echo of a heart undone, The song of early joys, delicious, dear. aitd gone! Enchanted sleep, yet full of deadly dreams; Companionship divine, stern solitude; Thou serpent, colour'd with the brightest gleams That e'er hid poison, making hearts thy food; 186 TIIE MIRROR LIBRARY. THE MIRROR LIBRARY. That wings with fiery speed, recoil'd, sprang, rolld; Before them nwaned the inoooh's ascetidi,':4 phase, The clouds above thern shra,!'k tile ret(ld',ing ftlo: On iusli'd the giant coh1lsijIs blai,ze onl I)t;-7ze The sacrilegious died, wral)p'd il the burstin,,g haze. Again it changed. —Eut, non'twes wild and grand, The praise of heaits that scorni the world's control, Disdaining all but Love's delicious band, The chain of gold and flowers, the tie of soul Again strange!,aleness o'er her beauty stole, She glanced above, then stoop'd her glowing eye, Blue as the star that glitter'd by the pole; One #ear-drop gleam'd, she dash'd it quickly by, And d,'opp'd the lyre, and turn'd-as if she turn'd to die. The night-breeze from the mountains had begun; And as it wing'd among the clouds of even, Where, like a routed king, the Sultan Sun Still struggled on the fiery verge of heaven; Their volumes in ten thousand shapes were driven; Spreading away in boundless palace halls, Whose lights fcom gold aind emerald lamps were given; Or airy citadels and battled walls; Or sunk in valleys sweet, with silver waterfalls. But, for those sights of heaven the Angel's heart Was all unsettled: and a bitter sigh Burst from his burning lip, and with a start He cast upon the earth his conscious eye. The whole horizon from that sumnmit high Spread out in vision, from the pallid line Where old Palmyra's pomps in ruin lie, Gilding the Arab sands, to where supine ['he western lustre tinged thy spires, lost Palestine! Yet, loveliest of the vision was the vale That sloped beneath his own imperial bowers; Sheeted with colours like an Indian mail, A tapestry sweet of all sun-painted flowers, Balsam, and clove, and jasmines scented showers, And the red glory of the Persian rose, Spreading in league on league around the towers, Where, loved of Heaven, and hated of its foes, .he Queen of Cities shines, in calm and proud repose. And still he gazed-and saw not that the eve Was fading into night. A sudden thought Struck to his dreaming heart, that made it heave; Was he not there in Paradise?-that spot, Was it not lovely as the lofty vault That rose above him? In his native skies, Could he be happy till his soul forgot, Oh! how forget, the being whom his eyes Loved as their light of light? He heard a tempest rise And every bud round pe destal and plinth, As fell the evening, turn'd a living genm. Lighte d i ts purpl e lamp the hyacinth, The d ah lia pour'd its thousand -colour'd gleam, A ruby torch the wond'ring eye might deem Hung on the brow of some niight-watching tower, Where upwards climb'd the broad magnolia's stem. An urn of lovely~lustre every flower, Burning before the king of that illumined bower. And nestling in that arbour's leafy twine, From cedar's top to violet's lowly bell, Were birds, now hush'd, of plumage all divine, That, as the quivering radiance on them fell, Shot back such hues as stain the orient shell, Touching the deep, green shades with light from eyes Jacinth, and jet, and blazing carbuncle, And gold-dropt coronets, and wings of dyes Bathed in the living streams of their own Paradise. The Angel knew the warning of that storm; But saw the shudd'ring Minstrel's step draw near, And felt the -whole deep witchery of' her form; Her sigh was music's echo to his ear; Ile loved-and what has love to do with fear? Now night had droop'd on earth her raven wing, Blut in the arbour all was splendour clear; And, like twin spirits in its charmed ring, Shone that sweet child of earth and that star-diadem'd king For, whether'twas the light's unusual glow, Or that some dazzling change had on her come; Her look, though lovely still, was loftier now, Her tender cheek was flush'd with brighter bloom; Yet in her azure eyebeam gathlier'd gloom, Like evening' os louds acro s s its owith blme star, Then would a sudden flash its depths illume; And wore she but the wing and gemm'd tiar, She seem'd instinct with might to make the clouds her car Was it a dream? the vale at once was bare, And o'er it hung a broad and sulphurous cloud: The soil grew red and rifted with its glare; Down to their roots the mountain cedars bow'd; Along the ground a rapid vapour flow'd, Yellow and pale, thick seam'd with streaks of flame. Before it sprang the vulture from the shroud; The lion bounded from it scared and tame; Behind it, dark'ning heaven, the mighty wirlwind came. She slowly raised her arm, that, bright as snow, Gleamn'd like a rising meteor through the air, Shedding white lustre on her turban'd brow; And gazed on heaven, as wrapt in solemn prayer; She still look'd woman, yet more proudly fair; A nd as she stood and poin ted t o t he sky, With that fix'd look of loveliness and care, The Angel thought, and check'd it with a sigh, He sawsoe Spirit falle n from immortality. The silent prayer was done; and now she moved Faint to his footstool, and, upon her knee, Besorught her lord, if in his heaven they loved, That, as she never more his face must see, She there might pled-,ge her heart's fidelity. Then turn'd, and pluck'd a cluster from the vine, And o'er a chalice waved it, with a sigh, Then stoop'd the crystal cup bet'o,e the shrine. In wrath the Angel rose-the guilty draught was wine! She stood; she shrank; she totter'd. Down he sprang, Clasp'd with one hand her waist, with one upheld The vase-his ears with giddy mrmirnrurs rang; His eye upon her dying cheek rwas s)ell'd; Up to the br in the driatught of evil swN-ell'd Like liquid rose, its odoii) toue-h'd his brain; Ile knewv his ruin, but his soul was quiell'd; He shudder'd-gazed upon her cheek again, Press'd her pale lip, and to the last that cup did drain Like a long tulip bed, across the plain A caravan approach'd the evening well, A long, deep mass of turban, plume, and vane; And lovely came its distant, solemn swell Of s,ng, and pilgrim-horn, and camel-bell. The sandy ocean rose before their eye, In thunder on their bending host it fell Ten thousand lips sent up one fearful cry; ]he sound was still'd at once, beneath its wave they lie. But, taro escaped, that up the mountain sprung, And those the dead men's treasure downvwrds drew; One, with slow steps; but beautiful and young Was she, who round his neck her white arms threw Away the tomb of sand like vapour flew. There, naked lay the costly caravan, A league of piles of silk and gems that threw A rainbow light, and mid them stiff and wan, Stietch'd by ris camel's flank, their transient master, man. The statelier wand'rer from the height was won, And cap and sash soon gleam'd with plunder'd gold. But, now the Desert rose, in pillars dun, Glowing with fire like iron in the mould, 187 The Angel sat enthroned %vitliln a Of alabaster rais(d on Cul-taiii'd %vitli tissues of,,,o For spirits wove the x,,-eb of bl(,sso'i-r)s I)r'ght, Woof of all flowers that dr'ril ti.-e n,.oriiiiig light, And ",ith their beautv figured all the stone In characters of rnisterv aiid niii4ht, A more than niortl guard around the throne, That in their tender shade one glorious diamond shoae I ~~~ THE MIRROR LIBRARY.~~~~~~~~~~~ Th' enchantress smiled, as still in some sweet dream, Then w%aken'd in a long, delicious sigh, And on the bending spirit fix'd the beamn Of her deep, dewy, melancholy eye. The undone Angel gave no more reply Than hiding his pale forehead in the hair That floated on her neck of ivory, And breathless pressing, with her ringlets fair, From his bright eyes the tears of passion and despair. Beyond the p)ower of his vindictive king. Slave to her slightest wordl, he raised his plume. For life or death, he reck'd not w hiclt, to spring; Nay,* to confront the thunder and the gloom. She wildly kiss'd his hand, and sanlk, as il a -omb. The Angel sooth'd her, "No! let Justice vreak Its wrath upon them both, or him alone." A flush of love's pure crimnson lit her cheek; She whisper'd, and his stoop'd ear drank the tone With mad delight; " Oh, there is one way, one, To save us both. Are there not mighty words, Graved on th e magnet-th rone w her e S olomon Sits ever guarded by the genii swords, To give thy servant wings, like her resplendent Lords?" The heaven was one blue cope, inlaid with gems Thick as the concave of a diamond mine, But from the north now fly pale, phosphor beams, That o'er the mount their quivering net entwine; The smallest stars through that sweet lustre shine Then, like a routed host, its streamers fly: Then, from the moony horizontal line A surge, of sudden glory floods the sky, O ceb ~f dur-)l. wax es, aid m,i teA L.zvlli But wilder wonder smote their shrinking eyes: A vapour plunged upon te vale from heaven, Then, darkly gathering, tower'd of mountain size; From its high crater column'd smokes were driven; It heaved within, as if pent flames had striven With mighty winds to burst their prison hold, Till all the cloud-volcano's bulk was riven With angry light, that seem'd in cataracts roll'd, Silver, and sanguine steel, and streams of molten gold. But still its draught was fever in his blood. He caught the upward, humble, weeping gleam Of woman's eye, by passion all subdued; He sigh'd, and at his sigh he saw it beam: Oh! the sweet frenzy of a lover's dream! A moment's lingering, and they both must die. The lightning round them shot a broader stream; He felt her clasp his feet in agony; He spoke the " Words of might",-the thunder gave reply Then echoed on the winds a hollow roar, An earthquake groan, that told convulsion near: Out rush'd the burthen of its burning core, Myriads of fiery globes, as day-light clear. The sky was fill'd with flashing sphere on sphere, Shooting straight upward to the ienith's crown. The stars were blasted in that splendour drear, The land beneath in wild distinctness shone, P'rom Syria's yellow sands to Libanus' sumrmit-stone The storm is on the embattled clouds receding, The purple streamers wander pale and thin, But o'er the pole a fiercer flame is spreading, Wheel within wheel of fire, a.nd far within Revolves a stooping splendour crystalline. A throne;-but who the sitter on that throne! The Angel knew the punisher of sin. Check'd on his lip the self-upbraiding groan, And clasp'd his dying love, and joy'd to be undone. Away! away! the sky is one black cloud, Sh ooting its lightnings down in s pire on spire. Around the mou nt its cano p y i s bow'd, A fiery vault upraise d o n pillar'd f ire; The stars like lamp s along its roof expire; But through its centre bursts an o rb of rays The Angel knew the Avenger i n his ire! The hill-top smoked beneath the s.too pi ng blaze, The culprits dared not there their guilty glances raise. And words were utter'd from that whirling sphere, That mortal sense might never hear and live. They pierced like arrows through the Angel's ear; He bow'd his head;'twas vain to fly or strive. Down comes the final wrath: the thunders give The doubled peal, —the rains in cataracts sweep, Broad bars of fire the sheeted deluge rive; The mountain summits to the valley leap, Pavilion, garden, grove, smoke up one ruin'd heap. The storm stands still! a mometit's pause of terrort All dungeon-dark!-Again the lightnings yawn, Shewing the earth as in a quivering mirror. The prostrate Angel felt but that the one, Whose love had lost him Paradise, was gone: He dared not see her corpse!-he closed his eyes; A voice burst o'er him, solemn as the tone Of the last trump,-he glanced upon the skies, He saw, what shook his soul with terror, shame, surprise And once,'twas but a moment, on her cheek He gave a glance, then sank his hurried eye, And press'd it closer on her dazzling neck. Yet, even in that swift gaze, he could espy A look that made his heart's blood backwards fly. Was it a dream? there echoed in his ear A stinging tone-a laugh of mockery! It was a dream-it must be. Oh! that fear, When the heart longs to know, what it is death to hear. He glanced again-her eye was upwards still, Fix'd on the stooping of that burn ing car; But through his bosom shot an arrowy thrill, To see its solemn, stern, unearthly glare; She stood a statue of sublime despair, But on her lip sat scorn.-His spirit froze, His footstep reel'd,-his warm lip gasp'd for air; She felt his throb,-and o'er him stoopld wi th brows As evening sweet, and kiss'd him with a lip of rose. The Minstrel stood before him; two broad plumes Spread from her shoulders on the burthen'd air; Her face was glorious still, but love's young blooms Had vanish'd for the hue of bold despair; A fiery circle crown'd her sable hair; And, as she look'd upon her prostrate prize, Her eyeballs shot around a me teor glare, Her form tower'd up at once to giant size, 'Twas EBLIS! king of Hell's relentless sovereignties. The tempter spoke-" Spirit, thou mightst have stood, But thou hast fall'n a weak and willing slave. Now were thy feeble heart our serpents' food, Thy bed our burning ocean's sleepless wave, But haughty Heaven controls the power it gave. Ye t art thou doom'd to wander from tlPy sphe re, Till the last trumpet reaches to the grave; Till the Sun rolls the grand concluding year; Till Earth is Paradise; then shall thy crime be clew" Again she was all beauty, and they stood Still fonder clasp'd, and gazing with the eye Of famine, gazing on the poison'd food That it must feed on, or abstaining die. There was between them now nor tear nor sigh; Theirs was the deep communion of the soul; Passions absorbing, bitter luxury; What was to them or heaven or earth, the whole Was in that fatal spot, where they stood sad, and sole. The minstrel first shook off the silent trance; And in a voice sweet as the murmuring Of summer streams beneath the moonlight's g lance, Besougirht the desperate one to spread the wing I. I i i THE MIRROR LIBRARI. lss This was the sin of sins! the first, last crime, In earth and heaven, unnamed, unnameable; This'rom'liS tTone -)f light, belore 311 tim, ilak- - mituei Et)l -,'oi-glite,t, tL;-,t fel'.. I-le tarte(i oack.'-" lhat iirg'd'Jim t,) reb,l What led that soft seducer to his b6wer? Could she have laid upon his soiil that spell, Young, lovely, fond; yet but an earthly flower?' But for that fatal cup, he had been free that hour. THE MIRROR LIBRARY. I (). The Angel listen'd,-risen upon one knee, Resolved to hear the deadliest undismay'd His star-dropt plume hung round him droopingly, His brow, like marble, on his hand was staid. Still through the auburn locks' o'erhanging shade His face shone beautiful; hlie heard his ban; Then came the words of mercy, sternly said; He p lunged within his ha s his hands his visage wan, And the first wild, sweet tears from his heart-pulses ran. The Giant grasp'd him as he fell to earth, And his black vanes upon the air were flung, A tabernacle dark;-and shouts of inirth Mingled with shriekiugs thlroLugh the tempest s;v H is aim around thve waniting aTe rgl tere cing. Then on the clouid.s he dar-ted with a groa.n'; A moment o'er the mount of ruin hrung, Thenburst through space, like the rod comet's clone, Leaving his track on heaven a burning, endless zone. THE STORY OF RIMINI. CANTO I. THE COMING TO FETCH THE BRIDE FROM RAVENNA. THE sun is up, and'tis a m,:m of May Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay, A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen, Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green; For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night, Have left a sparkling welcome for the light, And there's a crystal clearness all about; The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out; A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze; The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees; And when you listen, you may hear a coil Of bubbling springs about the grassier soil; And all the scene in short,-sky, earth, and sea, Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly And hark! the approaching trumpets, with a star t On the smooth wind come dancing to the heart. A moment's hush succeeds; and from the walls, Firm and at once, a silver answer calls. Then press the crowd; and all, who best can striv e In shuffling struggle, tow'rd the palace drive, Where baluster'd and broad, of marble fair, Its portico commands the public square; For there Duke Guido is to hold his state With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate:But the full place rejects the invading tide; And after a rude heave from side to side, With angry faces turned, and feet regained, The peaceful press with order is maintained, Leaving the path-ways only for the crowd, The space within for the procession proud. 'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing:The birds to the delicious time are singing, arting with freaks and snatches up and down, here the light woods go seaward from the town; While happy faces, striking through the green Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen; And the far ships, lifting their sails of white Like joyful hands, come up with scatter'd light, Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day, And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay. For in this manner is the square set out:- The sides, path-deep, are crowded round about, And faced with guards, who keep the road entire; And opposite to these a brilliant quire Of knights and ladies hold the central spot, Seated in groups upon a grassy plot; The seats with boughs are shaded from above Of early trees transplanted from a grove, And in the midst, fresh whistling through the scene A lightsome fountain starts from out the green, Clear and compact, till, at its height o'er-run, It shakes its loosening silver in the sun. And well may all who can, come crowding there, If peace returning, and processions rare, And to crown all, a marriage in the spring Can set enjoying fancies on the wing; For on this sparkling day, Ravenna's pride, The daughter of their prince, becomes a bride, A bride, to ransom an exhausted land: And he, whose victories have obtained her hand, Has taken with the dawn, so flies report, His promised journey to the expecting court, With hasting pomp, and squires of high degree, The bold Giovanni, lord of Rimini. There, talking with the ladies, you may see, As in some nest of faery poetrv y, Some of the finest warrior s of the court,Baptist, and Hugo of the p rinc el y port, And Azo, and Obizo, and the grace Of frank Esmeriald with his open face, And Felix the Fine Arm, and hilie wh, well Repays h av his lavish ho nors, Lionel, Besides a host of spirits, nursed in glory, Fit for sweet woman'3 love and for the poet's story There too, in thickest of the bright-eyed throng Stands the young father of Italian song, Guy Cavalcainti, of a knightlv race; The poet looks out in his earnest face; He with the pheasaiit's pllltrle —there-bending now Something he speaks around him ws ith a bow, And all the listening looks, with nods and flushes, Break round him into smlles and sparkling blushes. Another start of trumpets, sowith rel)lv; And o'er the gate a sudden canopy Of snowy white disparts its draperied shade, And Guido issues with the princely maid, And sits;-the courtiers fall on either side; But every look is fixed upon the bride, Who pensive comes at first, and hardly hears The enormous shout that springs as she appearsi Till, as she views the coun.less gaze below, And faces that with gratefi.-nage glow, Already in the streets the stir grows loud Of joy increasing and a bustling crowd. With feet and voice the gathering hum contends, Yearns the deep talk, the ready laugh ascends: Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite, And shouts from mere exuberance of delight, And armed bands, making important way, Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday, And nodding neighbors, greeting as they run, And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun. With heaved-out tapestry the windows glow, By lovely faces brought, that come and go; Till, the work smoothed, and all the street attired, They take their seats, with upward gaze admired; Some looking down, some forwards or aside, Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied, Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow; ut all with smiles prepared, and garlands green, And all in fluttering talk, impatient for the scene. THE MIRROR LIBRARY. I f li i i I ;I i 190 TilE MIRROR LIBRARY. A horne to leave, and husband yet to see, Fade in the warmtlis of that great charity; And hard it is, she thinks, to have no will; But not to bless these thousands, harder still: With that, a keen and quivering glance of tears Scarce moves ner patient mouth, and disappears; A smile is underneath, and breaks away, And round she looks and breathes, as best befits the day What need I tell of lovely lips and eyes, A perfect wvaist, arid bosom's balmy rise? There's not in all that crowvd a gallant being, Whom if his heart were whole, and rank agreeinc,. It would not fire to twice of what he is, To clasp her to his heart, and call her his. While thus with tip-toe looks the people gaze, Another shout the neighb'ring quarters raise: The-train are in the town, and gathering near, With noise cf cavalry, and trumpets clear; A princely music, unbedinned with drums; The mi,lity brass seems opening as it comes; And i. w it fills, and now it shakes the air, And noe it bursts into the sounding square; .'t whlic- the crowd with such a shout rejoice, Fich thinks he's deafen'd with his neighbor's voice. Ihen, with a long-drawn breath, the clangors die; the palace trumpets give a last reply, And clatteiing hoofs succeed, with stately stir O)f snortings proud and clinking furniture. It seems as if the harnessed war were near; But in their garb of peace the train appear, Their swiords alone reserved, but idly hung, And the chains freed by which their shields were slung First come the trumpeters, clad all in white Except the breast, which wears a scutcheon bright. By four and four they ride, on horses grey; And as they sit along their easy way, To the steed's motion yielding as they go, Each plants his trumpet on his saddle-bow. The heralds next appear, in vests attired Of stiffening gold with radiant colors fired; And then the pursuivants, who wait on these, All dressed in painted richness to the knees: Each rides a dappled horse, and bears a shield, Charged with three heads upon a golden field.' Twelve ranks of squires come after, twelve in one, With forked pennons lifted in the sun, WVhich tell, as they look backward in the wind, The bearings of the knights that ride behind. Their steeds are ruddy bay; and every squire His master's color shows in his attire. W ith various earnestness the crowd admire Horseman and horse, the motion and the attire. Solme watch, as they go by, the riders' faces Looking compcstIre, and their knightly graces; The life, the carelessness, the sudden heed, The body curving to the rearing steed, The patting hand, that best persuades the check, And makes the quarrel up with a proud neck, The travell'd hues of some, the bloom of those, And scars, the keepsakes of admiring foes. Others the horses and their pride explore, Their jauntiness behind and strength before; The flowing back, firm chest, and fetlocks clean, The branching veins ridging the glossy lean, The mane hung sleekly, the projecting eye That to the stander near looks awfully, The finished head, in its compactness free, Small, and o'erarching to the lifted knee, The start and snatch, as if they felt the comb, With mouths that fling about the creamy foam, The snorting turbulence, the nod, the champing, The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping. And now the Pri ncess, pale an d with fixed eye, Perceives the last of those precursors nigb, Each rank uncovering, as they pass in state, Both to the courtly fountain and the gate. And then a second interval succeeds Of stately length, and then a troop of steeds Milkwhite and unattired, Arabian bred, Each by a blooming boy lightsomely led: In every limb is seen their faultless race; But sprightly malice glances in the face; They doubt their masters in a foreign place: Slender their spotless shapes, and meet the sight With freshness, after all those colors bright: And as with easy pitch their steps they bear, The very ease seems something to beware: The yielding head has still a wilful air. These for a princely present are divined, And show the giver is not far behind. The talk increases now, and now advance, Space after space, with many a sprightly prance, The pages of the court, in rows of three; Of white and crimson is their livery. Space after space,-and still th e train appear,A fervid whisper fills the general earAh-yes-no-'tis not he-but'tis the squires Wh o g o before him whe n his pomp requires;And now his huntsman shows the le ssening train Now the squire-carver, and the chamberlain,And now his banner comes, and now his shield Borne by the squire that waits him to the field. And then an interval,-a lordly space;A pin-drop silence strikes o'er all the place; The princess, from a distance, scarcely knows Which way to look; her color comes and goes, And, with an impulse and affection free, She lays her hand upon her father's knee, Who looks upon her with a labored smile, Gathering it up into his own the while, When some one's voice, as if it knew not how To check itself, exclaims, s" The prince! now-now!' And on a milik-white courser, like the air, A glorious figure springs into the square, TJp, with a burst of thunder, goes the shout, And rolls the trembling walls and peopled roofs about These lpast, and at a lordly distance, come The knights themselves, and fill the quickening lhum,ni The floter of Rimini. Apart they ride, Six in;t rov, and w ith a various pride; But all as fresh as fancy could desire, All slha)es of gallantry on steeds of fire. Differing in colors is the knight's array, The horses, black and chesnut, roan and bay;The horsemen, crimson vested, purple, and white,All but the scarlet cloak for every knight, Which thronvn apart, and hanging loose behind, Rests on the steed, and ruffles in the wind. Instead of helm, in draperies they appear Of folded cloth, depending by the ear: And the steeds also make a mantled show; The golden bits keep wrangling as,they go: With gold the bridles glance against the sun; And the rich horse-cloths, ample every one, Which, from the saddle-bow, dress half the steed, Are some of them all thick with golden thread: Others have spots, on grounds of difl'erent hue, As burning stars upon a cloth of blce; Or purple smearings, with a velvet light, Rich from the zlarv yellow thickening bright; Or a spring ogreen, powdered with April posies; Or flush vermilion, set with silver roses: But all go sweeping back, and seem to dress The forward march with loitering stateliness. Never was nobler finish of fine sight; 'Twas like the coming of a shape of light; And every iovely gazer, with a start, Felt the quick pleasure smite across her heart. The princess, who at first could scarcely see, Though looking still that way from dignity, Gathers new courage as the praise goes round, And bends her eyes to learn what thdv have tound And see,-his horse obeys the check unseen; And with an air'twixt ardent and serene, Letting a fall of curls about his brow, He takes his cap off with a gallant bow; Theii for another and a deafening shout, 190 THE MIRROR LIBRARY. v I Tha anns of the Malatesta family. THE MIRROR LIBRARY. And scarfs are waved, and flowers come fluttering out, And, shaken by the noise, the reeling air Sweeps with a giddy whirl among the fair, And whisks their garments, and their shining hair. With busy interchange of wonder glows The cros, d, and loves his bravery as hlie goes,But on his shape the gentler sight attends, Moves as he passes,-as he bends him, bends,Watches his air, his gesture, and his face, And thinks it never saw such mnianly grace, So fine are his bare throat, and curls of black,So lightsomely dropt in, his lordly backHis thigh so fitted for the tilt or dance, So heaped with strength, and turned with elegance; But above all, so meaning is his look, Full, and as readable as open book; And such true gallantry the sex descries In the frank lifting of his cordial eyes. Little gallant, and had a sort (4f cioua Hanging fbr ever on his col,Id address, Which he misto(,k tor sovere-ign matlitiess But more of this hereatter. (,uid(lo knriew The parinice's faults; and he was conscious too, That sirweet as was his daughteri, and,)rel)ared To do her duty, where al)peal was barred, She h ad a setse (t rriae, jst a f;t wiee; And where the match loolied ill fi)r liarmony, Might pauise lowith fir,ivness, anid ref'use to strike A chord her own sweet muiisic so titilike. The old inani th ]eru e, ekindenoug,l at heart, Yet f(,,)d, fro rn habit, ~,t' i:~tri>uu;utd alrt, And little si'Itf(.r s..:tiirncits like these, Which seemed to him llere maiden;,iceties Had thougtlt at otn(ce t(, (-r.ititv the pride Of his stern neighbor, ard se cure the bride, By telling hind, thet it, as lie }Ji(t heard, Busy ine was just thier,'twas but a fiord, And he mig,ht sfend a;jd -ed I( t )' ( third, Only thie (dulue tljus itrtier iiiist pr,eicsme, For both thieir satkes,-thit still a 1iiri(e must com, The bride meantime was to](], arid sot unmrsoved, To look for one no sootier seen than loved; And when Giovanni, struck with wh-l,at he thought Mere p~roof hono Isis trtiumphalt: hadi was sought, Dispatched the w-islied-for i,'ince, who A-as a creature Formed in the very, poetry of niatuir,2, The effect was perfect, and the f;uture wife Caught in the elaborate snar-e, p)erhaps for lif, His haughty steed, who seems by turns to be Vexed and made proud by that cool mastery, Shakes at his bit, and rolls his eyes with care, Reaching with stately step at the fine air; And now and then, sideling his restless pace, Drops with his hinder legs, and shifts his place, And feels through all his frame a fiery thrill: The princely rider on his back sits still, And looks where'er he likes, and sways him at his will. Surprise, relief, a joy scarce understood, Something perhaps of very gratitude, And fifty feelings, undefin'd and new, Dance through the bride, and flush her faded hue Could I but once," she thinks, " securely place A trust for the contents on such a case, And know the spirit that should fill that dwelling, This chance of mine would hardly be compelling." Just then, the stranger, coming slowly round By the clear fountain and the brilliant ground, And bending, as he goes, with frequent thanks, Beckons a follower to him from the ranks, And loosening, as he speaks, from its light hold, A dropping jewel with its chain of gold, Sends it, in token he had loved him long, To the young father of Italian song: The youth smiles up, and with a lowly grace Bending his lifted eyes and blushing face, Looks after his new friend, who, scarcely gone In the wide turning, nods and passes on. This is sufficient for the destined bride; She took an interest first, but now a pride: And as the prince comes riding to the place, Baring his head, and raising his fine face, She meets his fll obeisance with an eye Of self-permission and sweet gravity; fie looks with touched respect, and gazes, and goes by. CANTO II. THE BRIDE'S JOURNEY TO RIMINI. PAss we the followers, and their closing state The court was entered by a hinder gate; T'he duke and princess had retired before, Joined by the knights and ladies at the door; But something seemed amiss, and there ensued Deep talk among the spreading multitude, Who stood in groups, or paced the measured street, Filling with earnest hum the noontide heat; Nor ceased the wonder, as the day increased, And brought no symptoms of a bridal feast, Ni, mass, no tilt, no largess for the crowd, Nthling to answer that procession proud; But a blank look, as if no court had been, Silence without and secrecy within; And nothing heard by listening at the walls, But now and then a bustling through the halls, Or the dim organ roused at gathering intervals. One shock there was, however, to sustain, Which nigh restohe(i her to hle rself again. Sh e s aw, when all tweoe housed, id Guiido's fance A look of lies1trely surprise take place; A little whisperinga f ollowed tor a while, And then'twas told her with an easy smile, That Prince Giovanni, to his great chagrin, Had been delayed by something unforeseen, But rather than defer his day of bliss (If his fair ruler toolk it not amiss) Had sent his brother Paulo in hi;s 6iead; "Who," said old Guido, atwith a nod(ling head, "May well be said to represent his brother, For when you see the one, you lknowv the other." By this time Paulo joined them wvhiere they stood, And seeing her in some uneasy mood, Changed the mere cold respects his brother sent To such a strain of cordial compliment, And paid them with an air so frank and bright, As to a friend appreciated at sight, That air in short which sets you at your ease, Without implying your perplexities, That what with the surprise in every way, The hurry of the time, the appointed day, The very shame, which now appeared increased, Of begging leave to have her hand released, And above all, those tones, and smiles, and looks, Which seemed to realize the dreams of books, And helped her genial fancy to conclude That fruit of such a stock must all be good, She knew no longer how she could oppose: Quick were the marriage-rights; and at the close, The proxy, turning midst the general hush, Kissed her meek lips, betwixt a rosy blush. The rest however still were lociring on, Careless and mute, and scarce the noise was gone. When riding from the gate with banners reared. Again the morning visitors appeared. The prince was in his place; and in a car, The truth was this:-The bridegroom had not come, Buit sent his brother, proxy in his room. A lofty spirit the former was, and proud, 191 At last, about the vesper hour, a score Of trumpets issued from the 1)alace door, The banners of their brass with favors tied, And with a blast proclaimed the wedded bride. But not a word the sullen silence broke, T'll something of a gift the herald spoke, And with a ba- of money issiiing out, Scattered the ready harvest round about; Then burst the mob irito a jovial c'rv, And largess! largess! claps against the sky, And bold Giovaniii's name, the lord of Rimini. I'J TH IRRlIBAY Before him, glistening like a farewell star, Sate the dear lady with her brimming eyes; And off thev set, through doubtful looks and cries; For some too shrewdly guessed, and some were vexed At the dull day, and some the whole perplexed; And all great pity thought it to divide Two that seemed made for bridegroom and for bride. Ev'n she, whose heart this strange, abrupt event Had cross'd and sear'd with burning wonderment Could scarce, at times, a starting cry forbear At leaving her own home and native air; Till passing now the limits of the town, And on the last few gazers looking down, She saw by the road-side an aged throng, Who wanting power to bustle with the strong, Had learnt their gracious mistress was to go, And gathered there, an unconcerted show; Bending they stood, with their old forehead's bare, And the winds fingered with their reverend hair. Farewell! farewell, my friends! she would have cried, But in her throat the leaping accents died, And, waving with her hand a vain adieu, She dropt her veil, and backwarder withdrew, And let the kindly tears their own good course pursue L To scour thme spae nd giv e the win d s a charge, Or pulling tight the bridles, as they pass, Dip their warm mouths into the freshening grass. iBut soon in easy rankc, from glade to glade, Proceed they, coasting underneath the shade, Some baling to the cool their placid brows, Some looking upward through the glimmering beughs, Or peering grave through inward-opening places, An.d half prepared for glimpse of shadowy faces. Various the trees and passing foliag,e here, Wild pear, and oak, and dusky juniper, With briony between in trails of white, And ivy, and the suckle's streaky light, And moss, warm gleaming with a sudden mark, Like growths of sunshine left upon the bark, And still the pine, long-haired, and dark, and tall, In lordly right, predominant o'er all. Much they admire that old religious tree With shaft above the rest up-shooting free, And shaking, when its dark locks feel the wind, Its wealthy fruit with rough Mosaic rind. At noisy intervals, the living cloud Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud Like a wild people at a stranger's coming; Then hushing paths succeed, wvith insects humming, Or ring-dove, that repeats his pensive plea, Or s tartled gull up-screaming tow ards the s ea. But scarce their eyes encounter living thing, Save, now and then, a goat loose wandering, Or a few cattle, looking up aslant With sleepy eyes and meek mouths ruminant; Or once, a plodding woodmand, old and bent, Passing with half indifferent wonderment, Yet turning, at the last, to look once more; Then feels his trembling staff, and onward as before So ride they pleased,-till now the couching sun Levels his final look through shadows dun; And the clear moon, with meek o'er-lifted face, Seems come to look into the silvering place. Then first the bride waked up, for then was heard, Sole voice, the poet's and the lover's bird, Preluding first, as if the sounds were cast For the dear leaves about her, till at last With floods of rapture, in a perfect shower, She vents her heart on the delicious hour. Lightly the horsemen go, as if they'd ride A velvet path, and hear no voice beside: A placid hope assures the breath-sus)ending bride So ride they in delight through beam and shade;Till many a rill now passed, and many a glade, They quit the piny labyrinths, and soon Emerge into the full and day-like moon: Chilling it seems; and pushing steed on steed, They start them freshly with a homeward speed. Then well-known fields they pass, and straggling cob Boy-storied trees, and love-remember'd spots, And turning last a sudden corner, see The moon-lit towers of slumbering Bimini The marble bridge comes heaving forth below With a long gleam; and nearer as they go, They see the still Marecchia, cold and bright, Sleeping along with face against the light. A hollow trample now,-a fall of chains,The bride has entered,-inot a voice remairs;Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains. It was a lovely evening, fit to close A lovely day, and brilliant in repose. Warm, but not dim, a glow was in the air; The softened breeze came smoothing here and there; And every tree, in passing, one by one, Gleamed out with twinkles of the golden sun: For leafy was the road, with tall array, On either side, of mulberry and bay, And distant snatches of blue hills between; And there the alder was with its bright green, And the broad chestnut, and the poplar's shoot, That like a feather waves from head to foot, With, ever and anon, majestic pines; And still from tree to tree, the early vines Hung garlanding the way in amber lines. Nor long the princess kept her from the view Of that dear scenery with its parting hue: For sitting now, calm from the gush of tears, With dreaming eye fixed down, and half-shut ears, Heari-ng, yet hearing not, the fervent sound Of hoofs thick reckoning and the wheel's moist round, A call of " slower!" from the farther part Of the check'd riders, woke her with a start; And looking up again, half sigh, half stare, She lifts her veil, and feels the freshening air. 'Tis down a hill they go, gentle indeed, And such, as with a bold and playful speed Another time they would have scorned to measure; But now they take with them a lovely treasure, And feel they should consult her gentle pleasure. And now with thicker shades the pines appear; The noise of hoofs grows duller on the ear; And quitting suddenly their gravelly toil, The wheels go spinning o'er a sandy soil. Here first the silence of the country seems To comne about her with its listening dreams, And full of anxious thoughts, half freed from pain, In downward musing she relapsed again, Leaving the others, who had passed that way In careless spirits of the early day, To look about, and mark the reverend scene, For awful tales renowned, and everlasting green. A heavy spot the forest looks at first, To one -rim shade condemned, and sandy thirst, Or only coequered, here and there, with bushes Dusty and sharp, or plashy pools with rushes, About whose sides the swarming insects fry, Opening with noisome din, as they go by. But entering more and more they quit the sand At once and strike upon a grassy land, From which the trees, as from a carpet, rise In knolls and clumps, with rich varieties. A mnoment's trouble find the knights to rein Their horses in, which, feeling turf again, Thrill, and curvet, and long to be at large i I I I I I i It i: I i I THE MIRROR LIBRARY. ID2 CANTO 111. THE FATAL PASSTON. Now why rnost I disturb a dream of bliss, And bring cold sorrow'twixt the wedded kis,,,,? How mar the face of beauty, and disclose The weeping days that with the morning rose, And bring the bitter disappointment iD,The holy-cheat, the virtue-bidding sin,The shock, that told this lovelv, trusting heart, That she had given, beyond ali power to part, Her hope, belief, love, passio'n, to one brother, Possession, (oh, the misery!) to another! T From this complexion in the reigning brother His younger birth perhaps had saved the other. Borni to a lioniage less gratuitous, He learned to wi.'l a nobler for his house; And both from habit and a genial heart, Without mii(-is trouble of the reasoning art, Found this the wisdom and the sovereign good To be, and make, as happy as he could. Not that he s~awN, or thought he saw, beyond His gener-al age, and could not be as fond Of wars and creeds as any of his race, But most he loved 3. happy human face; And wheresoe'er his fine, frank eyes were thrown, He struck the looks he swished for, with his own. So what but service leaped where'er he went I Was there a tilt-day or a tournament,For welcome grace there rode not such another, Nor yet for strength, except his lordly brother. Was there a court-day, or a feast, or dance, Or minstrelsy with roving plumes from France, Or summer party to the greenwood shade, With lutes prepared, and cloth on herbage lBid, And ladies' laughter coming through the air,He was the readiest and the blithest there; And made the time so exquisitely pass With stories told with elbow on the grass, Or touched the music in his turn so finely, That all he did, they thought, was done divinely Some likeness.-,as there'tw,,ixt the two,-an air At times, a cheeki, a color of the hair, A tone, wheni sim)ea!kiu l of iidifferent things; Nor, bv the scale (tf wi.)an nlmeasurings, Wuuld,you a- iIoe peolia), than that the one Was more roblst, thit otlier finclier spun; That of t%l% t-(, (i-a.pi was the graver, Paul,) th lie iif, an thl, more in ilavor. Some tastes there were indeed, that would prefer Giova:,ni's countein aice as the martialler; And'twas a soldier's truly, if an eye Ardent and cool at once, drawn-back and high, An eagle's nose and a determined lip, tvere the best mirtks of manly soldiership. Paulo's vwas fashioned in a different mould, And surely the more fine: for though'twas hold, Wlhen boldness was required, and could put on A glowing frown as if an angel shone, Yet there was nothing in it one might call A stamp exclusive or professional, No courtier's face, and yet its smile was ready, No scholar's, yet its look was deep and steady, No sol(lier's, for its power was all of mind, Too true for violence, and too refined. The very nose, lightly yet firmly wrought, Showed taste; the forehead a clear-spirited thought; Wisdom looked sweet and inward from his eye; And round his mouth was sensibility: It was' a face, in short, seemed made to show How far the genuine flesh and blood could go; A morning glass of unaffected nature, Something, that baffled looks of loftier feature, The visage of a glorious human creature. If any points there were, at which they came Nearer together,'twas in knightly fame, And all accomplishments that art may know, Hunting, atnd princely hawking, and the bow, The rush together in the bright-eyed list, Fore-thoughted( chess, the riddle rarely missed, Alid the decision of still knottier points, WVith knife in hand, of boar and peacock joints,-T Things, that might shake the fame that Tristan got, And bring a doubt on perfect Launcelot.* But leave we knightho od to the former part; The tale I tell is of the human heart. The worst of Prince Giovanni, as his bride Too quicklv found, was an ill-temper'd pride. Bold, handsome, able (if he chose) to please, Punctual and right in common offices, He lost the sight of conduct's only worth, The scattering, smiles on this uneasy earth, And on the strength of virtues of small weight, Claimed tow'rds himself the exercise of great. He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours;He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours, And then, if pleased to cheer himself a space, Look for the immediate rapture in your face, Arec wonder that a cloud could still be there, How small soever, when his own was fair. Ye, such is conscience,-so designed to keep Stern, central watch, though all things else go sleep, And so much knowledge of one's self there lies Cored, after all, in our complacencies, That no suspicion would have touched him more, Than that of wanntif on the generous score: He would have whlelmed you with a weight of scorn, Been proud at eve, inflexible at morn, In short, ill-temypred for a week to come, And all to strike that desperate error dumb. Taste had he, in a word, for high-turned merit, But not the patience, nor the genial spirit And so he mnde,'twixt virtue and defect, A sort of fierce deaond on your respect, Which, if assisted by his high degree, It gave him in some eves a dignity, And struck a meaner deference in the many, Left him at last unloveable with any. The lovely stranger could not fail to see Too soon this difference, more es pe cially As her consent, too light ly n ow, she t hought, With hopes far different had been strangely bought, And-manv a time the pain of that neglect Would strike in blushes o'er her self-respect: But since the ill was cureless, she applied With busy vir tue to resume her pride, And hoped to value her submissive heart On playinig well a patriot daughter's part,. Trying her new-found duties to prefer To what a father might have owed to her. The very day too when her first surprise Was full, kind tears had come into her eyes On finding, by his care, her private room Furnished, like magic, from her own at home; The very books and all transported there, The leafy tapestry, and the crimson chair, The lute, the glass that told the shedding hours, The little urn of silver for the flowers, The frame for broidering, with a piece half done, And the white falcon, basking in the sun, Who, when he sawv her, sidled on his stand, And twined his neck against her trembling hand But what had touched her nearest, was the thought, That if'twere destined for her to be brought To a sweet mother's bed, the joy would be Giovanni's too, and his her family:He seemed alreadv father of her child, And on the nestling pledge in patient thought she smlld Yet then a pang would cross her, and the red In either downward cheek startle and spread, To think that he, wvho was to have such part In joys like these, had never shared her heart; But then she chased it with a sigh austere; And did she chance, at times like these, to hear Her husband's footstep, she would haste the more, And with a double sInile open the door, And hope his dav had worn a happy face; Ask how his soldiers pleased him, or the chase, Or what new court had sent to win his sovereign grace. The prince, at this, would bend on her an eye Cordial enough, and kiss her tenderly; Nor, to say truth, was he in general slow To accept attentions, flattering to bestow; But then meantime he took no generous pains,. By mutual pleasing, to secure his gains; He entered not, in turn, in her delights, Her books, her flowers, her taste for rural sights; Nay scarcely her sweet sin,ing min_ed he, Unless his pride was roused bv company; Or when to please him, after martial play, She strained her lute to some old fiery lay * The two famous knights of the Round Table, great huntsmen, and ofcourse great carvera Boars and peacocks, served up whole, the lat ter with the feathers oti, were eminent dishes with the knights of old, and must have called forth all the exercise of this accomplishment. II I I THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 193 194~~ ~ ~ ~ TEMRORLBAY Of fierce Orlando, or of Ferumbras, Or Ryan's cloak, or how by the red grass In battle you might know where Richard wasO Yet all the while, no doubt, however stern Or cold at times, he thought he loved in turn, And that the joy he took in her sweet ways, The pride he felt when she excited pIraise, In short, the enjoyment of his own good pleasure, WVas thanks enough, and passion beyond measure. She, had she loved him, might have thought so too: For what will love's exalting not go through, Till long neglect, and utter selfishness, Shame the fond pride it takes in its distress? But ill prepared was she, in her hard lot, ro fancy merit where she found it not,She, who had been beguiled,-she, who was made Within a gentle bosom to be laid,To bless and to be blessed,-to be heart-bare To one who found his bettered likeness there,To think for ever with him, like a bride,-O To haunt his eye, like taste personified,To double his delight, to share his sorrow, And like a morning beam, to wake him every morrow. 'Tis true thought he, one being more there was, Who miglit meantime have Nearyv l.otrs to pass, One weaker too to bear them, —ai:d for wXhom?No matter;-he could not rev erse' her doom; And so he sighed and smniled, as if one thought Of paltering could suppose that Ile was to be caught Yet if she loved him, common gratitude, If not, a sense of what was fair acid g,)od, Besides his new relationship anti right, Would make him wish to please her all he might And as to thinkin —where could be the lmarm, If to his heart he kept its s ecret c harm? Tli wisl,ed not to he;mselt anot er's blessin dr, Bt t then, he tligit honsolt for rAt po, 3essin; And glorious things there were, which but t o s et And not admire, wer ere mere stupidity: He might as well object to his own eyes For loving to behold the fields and skies, His neighbor's grove, or story-painted hall; 'Twas but the taste for what was natural; Only his fav'rite thought was lovel ie st of them all. Concluding thus and happier that he knew His ground so well, near and more near he drew, And, sanctioned by his brother's manner, spent ~ Hours by her side, as happy as well-meant. He read with her, he rode, he train'd her hawk, He spent still evenings in delightful talk, While she sat busy at her broidery frame; Or touched the lute with her, and when they came To some fine part, prepared her for the pleasure, And then with double smile stole on the measure Then at the tournament,-who there but she Made him more gallant still than formerly, Couch o'er his tightened lance with double force, Pass like the wind, sweeping down man and horse, And franklier then than ever, midst the shout And dancing trumpets ride, uncovered, round about? His brother only, more than hitherto, He would avoid, or sooner let subdue, Partly from something strange unfelt before, Partly because Giovanni sometimes wore A knot his bride had worked him, green and gold: For in all things with nature did she hold; And while'twas being worked, her fancy was Of sunbeams mingling with a tuft of grass. Francesca from herself but ill could hide What pleasure now was added to her side, How placidly, yet fast, the days flew on Thus link'd in white and loving unison, And how the chair he sat in, and the room, Began to look, when he had failed to come. But as she better knew the cause than he, She seemed to have the more necessity For strugglin, hard, and rouising all her pride; And so she did at first; she even tried To feel a sort of anger at his care: But these extremes brought but a kind despair; And then she only spoke more sweetly to him, And found her failing eyes give looks that melted thrs' him Giovanni too, who felt relieved indeed To see another to his place succeed, Or rather fillin,, up some trifling hours, Better spent elsewl.ere, and beneath his powers, Left the new tie to ~-t'engthen dlay by day, Talked less and less, and longer kept away, Secure in his self-love andl sense of right, That he was welcome mnost, comne when he might And doulbtles~s, they, inl their still finler sense, W~ith added c, re repaid this confidence, Turningr their thoughts from his abuse of it, To wnhat on their ownl parts wsas graceful andl was fit. Ah nlows, ye gentlle pair,~nows think awhile, Now, awhile vue still canl ttlilnk, anti still can smnile; Now^, whI-ile volar ~cnr~se ml he;ll'ts have not been grieved Perhaps wsith somet~i,~~ not to be retrieved, And ye have still, within, the p~owser of gladness, From self resentmenat free, and retrospective madness! So did they think-but partly fi'om delay, Partly from fancied ignorance of the way, Paulo, meantime, who ever since the day He saw her sweet looks bending o'er his way, Had stored them up, unconsciously, as graces By which to judge all other forms and faces, Had learnt, I know not how, the secret snare, Which gave her up, that evening, to his care. Some babbler, may-be, of old Guido's court, Or foolish friend had told him, half in sport: But to his heart the fatal flattery went; And grave he grew, and inwardly intent, And ran back, in his mind, with sudden spring, Look, gesture, smile, speech, silence, every thing, E'en what before had seemed indifference, And read themi over in another sense. Then would he blush with sudden self-disdain, To think how fanciful he was, and vain; And with half angry, half regretful sigh, Tossing his chin, and.feigning a free eye, Breathe off, as'twere, the idle tale, and look About him for his falcon or his book, Scorning that ever he should entertain One thought that in the end might give his brother pai.r This start however came so often round,So often fell he in deep thought, and found Occasion to renew his carelessness, Yet every time the power grown less and less, That by degrees, half wearied, half inclined, To the sweet struggling image he resigned; And merely, as he thought, to make the best Of what by force would come about his breast, Began to bend down his admiring eyes On all her touching looks and qualities, Turning their shapely sweetness every way, Till'twas his food and habit day by day, And she became companion of his thought; Silence her gentleness before him brought, Society her serne, reading her books, Music her voice, every sweet thing her looks, Which sometimes seemed, when he sat fixed awhile, 'ro steal beneath his eyes with upward smile And did he stroll into some lonely place, Under the tress, upon the thick soft grass, How charming, would he think, to see her here! How heightened then, and perfect would appear The two divinest things in earthly lot, A lovely woman in a rural spot! Thus daily went he on, gathering sweet pain Trigterto~t rmhsaueo t Thus daily went he on, gathering sweet pain About his fancy, till it thrilled again: And if his brother's image, less and less, Startled him up from his new idleness, Twas not-he fancied,-that he reasoned worse, Or felt less scorn of,a?ong, but the reverse. That one should think of injuring another, Or trenching on his peace,-this too a bra-her,And all from selfishness and pure weak wi., To him seemed marvellous and impossible THE MIRROR LIBRARY. t94 1'HE MIRROR LIBRARY. 19[)~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And most trom feeling the bare contemplation, t Give them fresh need of mutual consolation, Th - scarcelv tried to see each other less, Ann lid but meet with deeper tenderness, Living, from day to day, as they were used, Only " ith graver thougats, and smiles reduced, And sio.h more frequent, which, when one would heave, The other longed to start up and receive. For whether some suspicion now had crossed Giovanni's mind, or whether he had lost More of his temp)er lately, he would treat His wife with p)etty scorns, and starts of heat, Anil, to L is ow i omissions l,roudly blind, O'e. look the pa. ns she took o mak him kind, .Ad yet be angry, if he thought them less; Lle found reproaches in her meek distress, Forcing her silent tears, and then resenting Then almost angrier grown from half repenting, And, hinting at the last, that some there were i Better perhaps than he, and tastefuller, And these, for what he knew,-he little cared, Might please her, and be pleased, though he despaired. Then would he quit the room, and half disdain HIimself for being in so harsh a strain, And venting thus his temper on a woman; Yet not the more for that changed he in common, Or tookl more pains to please her, and be near:-A What! should he truckle to a woman's tear. At times like these the princess tried to shun The face of Paulo as too kind a one; And shutting up her tears with final sigh, Would walk into the air, and see the sky, And teel about her all the garden green, Atnd hear the birds that shot the covert boughs between. A noble range it was, of many a rood, Walled round with trees, and ending in a wood: Indeed the whole was leafy; and it had A winding stream about it, clear and glad, That danced from shade to shade, and on its way Seemed smiling with delight to feel the day. There was the pouting rose, both red and white, [he flamy heart's-ease, flushed with purple light, Blush —hiding strawberry, sunny-colored box, Hyacinth, handsome with its clustering locks, The lady lily, looking gently down, Pure lavender, to lay in bridal gown, [he daisy, lovely on both sides,-in short, All the sweet cups to which the bees resort, With plots of grass, and perfumed walks between Of citron, hones suckle, and jessamirne, With orange, w hose warm leaves so finely suit, And look as if they shade a golden fruit; And midst the flowers, turfed round beneath a shade Of circling pines, a babbling fountain played, And'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright, Which through the darksome tops glimmer'd with show'ring light. So inow you walked beside an odorous bed Of gorgeous hues, white, azure, golden, red; And now turned off into a leafy walk, Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk; And now pursued the stream, and as you trod Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod, Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet, And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet; And then perhaps you entered upon shades, Pillowed with dells and uplands'twixt the glades, Through which the distant palace, now and then, Looked lordly forth with many-windowed ken; At land of trees, which reaching round about, In shady blessing stretched their old arms out, With soots of sunny opening, and with nooks, To lie and read in, sloping into brooks, Where at her drink you started the slim deer, Retreating lightly with a lovely fear. And all about, the birds kept leafy house, Anol sung and sparkled in and out the boughs; And all about, a lovely sky of blue Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laughed through; And here and there, in every part, were seats, Some in the open walks, X m'e in retreats; With bowerinl leaves o'erhead, to which the eye Looked up) half' sweetly and half awfully, Places of Nestling green, for poets made, Where, I hen the sunshine struck a yellow shade, The riggte( t runks, to inward peeping sight, Thronged in dark pillars up the gold reen light. But'twixt the wood and flowery walks, halfway, And formed of both, the loveliest portion lay, A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground: It was a shallow dell, set in a mound Of sl,ping shrubs, that mounted by degrees, The birch arid poplar mixed w ith heavier trees; Frc m under which, sent through a marble spout, Betwixt the dark wet green, a rill gushed out, Whose low sweet talking seemed as if it said Something eternal to that happy shade. The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers Heaped towards the centre, and with citron bowers And in the midst of all, clustered with bay And myrtle, and just gleaming to the day, Lurked a pavilion,-a delicious sight, Small, marble, well-proportioned, mellowy white, With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled,-but no more, And a young orange either side the door. The door was to the wood, forward, and square, The rest was domed at top, and circular; And through the dome the only light came in, Tinged, as it entered, with the vine-leaves thin. It was a beauteous piece of ancient skill, Spared from the rage of war, and perfect still; By some supposed the work of fairy hands, Famed for luxurious taste, and choice of landrs Alcina, or Morgana,-who from fights And errant fame enveigled amorous knights, And lived with them in a long round of blisses, Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kisses. But'twas a temple, as its sculpture told, Built to the Nymphs that haunted there of old; For o'er the door was caved a sacrifice By girls and shepherds brought, with reverend eyes Of sylvan drinks and food, simple and swveet, And goats with struggling horns and planted feet. And round about, ran on a line wivh this In like relief, a world of Pagan bliss, That showed, in various scenes, the nymphs themselve.s Some by the water-side on bowery shelves Leaning at will,-some in the water sportinlg With sides half swelling forth, and lo(-okis of courting, Some in a flowery dell, hearing a swain Play on his pipe, till the hills ring again, Some tving up their long moist hair,-some sleep~' Under the trees, with fauns and satyrs p)eeping, Or sidelong-eyed, pretending not to see The latter in the brakes come creelpiiigly, While from their careless urns, lying aside In the long grass, the straggling waters slide Never, be sure, before or since wAas seen A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green. All the green garden, flower-bed, shade, and plot Francesca loved, but most of all this spot. Whenever she walked forth, wherever went, About the grounds, to this at last she bent: Here she had brought a lute and a few books' Here should she lie for hours, with- gratefil looks Thanking at heart the sunshine anld the leaves, The vernal rain-drops counting fr om the eaves, And all that promising, calrn smile wse see In nature's face, when wie look pantiently.. Then would she think of heaven; a,~d you might Sewr Sometimes when every thing w as }hushed and clear, Her gentle voice from out those shades emerging, Singing the evening anthem to the Virgin. The gardeners an~d the rest, wrho served the place, .And blest whenever they beheldl her face, Knelt when they hleard it, bowsing and uncovered~ And felt (as Ihiey read[ As thus they sat, ai-t fit xx l!~ loalis o! fl'eart Their color change, theyi- ('aloe',,loll tie part Where fond Genieuri, lowit li!,or Fraen long nhrst, Smiled upon)o1 LIaIIu1celo t kissed her first: That touch, at last. tliri,,h ev ers firiec slid(; And Paulo tlurne, scai rI e l,: iwing w"lat lie did, Only he felt hle COrid no inore dissemble, And kissed her, mouth to llaoUl,, all in a tremble. Sad were those hearts, arnd swmetet was that long kiss: Sacred be love from sight-, whate'er it is. The world was all forgot. the struggle o'er, Desperate the joy,-That day thev read no more. The princess came to her accustomed bower To get her, if she could, a soothing hour, Trving, as she was used, to leave her cares Without, aniid slumberously enjoy the airs, And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light The vifies let in, and all that hushing sight Of closing wood seen through the opening door, And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er, And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more. She tried, as usual, for the trial's sake, For even that diminished her heart-ache; And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease, Came she for nothing'midst the flowers and trees. Yet how it was she knew not, but that day, She seemed to feel too lightly borne away,Too much relieved,-too much inclined to draw A careless joy from every thing she saw, And looking round her with a new-born eye, As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh, To taste of nature, primitive and free, And bask at ease in her heart's liberty. Painfully clear those rising thoughts appeared, With something dark at bottom that she feared; And turning from the fields her thoughtful look, She reached o'er head, and took her down a book, And fell to reading with as fix'd an air, As though she had been wrapt since morning there. HOW THE BRIDE RETURNED TO RAVENNA 'Twas Launcelot of the Lake, a bright romance, That, like a trumpet, made young pulses dance, Yet had a softer note that shook still more;She had begun it but the day before, And read with a full heart, half sweet, half sad, How old King Ban was spoiled of all he had But one fair castle: how one summer's day With his fair queen and child he went away To ask the great King Arthur for assistance; How reaching by himself a hill at distance, He turned to give his castle a last look, And saw its far white face: and how a smoke, As he was looking, burst in volumes forth, And good King Ban saw all that he was worth, And his fair castle, burning to the ground, So that his w earied pulse felt over-wound, And he lay down, and said a prayer apart For those he loved, and broke his poor old heart. Then read she of the queen with her young child How she came up, and nearly had gone wild, And how in journeying on in her despair, She reached a lake and met a lady there, Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet Into her arms, when lo, with closing feet She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake, And vanished with him underneath the lake. The mother's feelings we as well may pass:The fairy of the place that lady was, And Launcelot (so the boy was called) became Her inmate, till in search of knightly fame He went to Arthur's court, and played his part So rarely, and displayed so frank a heart, That what with all his charms of look and limb, The Queen Geneura fell in love with him: And here, with growing interest in her reading, The princess, doubly fixed, was now prooeeding. SORROW, they say, to one with true touched ear, Is but the discord of a warbline sphe re, A lurking contrast, which though harsh it be, Distils the next note more deliciously. E'en tales like this, founded on real woe, From bitter seed to balmy fruitage grow: The woe was earthly, fugitive, is past; The song that sweetens it, may always last. And even they, whose shattered hearts and frames Make them unhappiest of poetic names, What are they, if they know their calling high But crushed perfumes exhaling to the sky? Or weeping clouds, that but a while are seen, Yet keep the earth they haste to, bright and green? Once, and but once,-nor with a scornful face Tried worth will hear,-that scene again took play Partly bv cha nce the y met, partly to se e The spot where thev had last gone cheerfully, But most, from failure of all self-support;And oh! the meeting in that loved resort! No peevishness there was, no loud distress, No mean retort of sorrv selfishniess; But a mute gush of hiiding tears from one Clasped to the core of him, who yet shed none,And self-acetsings then, which he began, And into which her tearful sweetness ran; And then hind looks, with meeting eyes again, Starting to deprecate each other's pain; Till half persuasions they could scarce do wrong, And sudden sense of wretchedness, more strong, And-why should I add more?-again they parted, He doubly torn for her, and she nigh broken-hearted. Ready she sat with one hand to turn o'er The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before, The other propping her white brow, and throwing Its ringlets out, under the skylight glowing. So sat she fied; and so observed was she Of one, who at the door stood tenderly,Paulo,-who from a wii-sow seeing her Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where, Had thou,,it she w-as in tears and found, that!ay, His usual efforts v.tin to keep away. * May I come in?" said he:-it made her start,That smiling voiceo;she colored, pressed her heart A moment, as for breath, and then with free And usual tone said, "0 yes,-certainly." There's woent to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease, She never ventured in that spot aga in; And Paulo knew it, but could not refrain; He went again one day; and how it looked! The calm, old shade! —his presence felt rebuked. It seemed, as if the hopes of his young heart, His kindness, and his generouis scorn of art, Had all been mere a dream, or at the best A vain negation, that could stand Tno test; And that on waking from his idle fit, HIe found himself (how (could he. think of it ) A selfish boaster and a hypvocrite. 196 CANTO IV. That thought )efore li-,t(i rieved f)t,,t the p:ait, Cut sharp and siicl-'en now it care ag,,tir.. Sick thoughts of la,e ha(] Iiis 1),)(Iv sicl. And pale he stood, and seeni(,(l to b-,ii-st o',!iInto moist anguish never felt bef(,i-(-' i And with a dreadful certaii-ity to I,,',"W, J His peace was gone, and all to cortie was N-o., THE MIRROR LIBRARY. Francesca too,-the being, made to bless, Destined by him to the same vwretchedness, It seemed as if such whelming thoughts must find Some props for them, or he should lose his mind. And find he did, not what the worse disease Of want of charity calls sophistries, Nor what can cure a generous heart of pain, But humble guesses, helping to sustain. He thought, with quick philosophy, of things Rarely found out except through sufferings, Of habit, circumstance, design, degree, Merit, and will, and thoughtful charity: And these, although they pushed down as they rose, His self-respect, and all those morning shows Of true and perfect, which his youth had built, Pushed with them too the worst of other's guilt; And furnished him, at least, with something kind, On which to lean a sad and startled mind: Till youth, and natural vigor, and the dread Of self-betrayal, and a thought that spread From time to time in gladness o'er his face, That she he loved could have done nothing base, Helped to restore him to his usual life, Though grave at heart, and with himself at strife; And he would rise betimes, day after day, And mount his favorite horse, and ride away Miles in the country, looking round about, As he glode by, to force his thoughts without; And, when he found it vain, would pierce the shade Of some enwooded field or closer glade. And there dismounting, idly sit, and sign Or piuck the grass beside him with vague eye, And almost envy the poor beast, that went Cropp-)ing it, here and there, with dumb content. But thus, at least, he exercised his blood, And kept it livelier than inaction could; And thus he earned for his thought-working head The power of sleeping when he went to bed, And was enabled still to wear away That task of loaded hearts, another day. But she, the gentler frame,-the shaken flower, Plucked up to wither in a foreign bower,The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she, The wife that was, the mother that might be,What could she do, unable thus to keep Her strength alive, but sit, and think, and weep, For ever stooping o'er her broidery frame, Half blind, and longing till the night-time came, When worn and wearied out with the day's sorrow, She might be still and senseless till the morrow? But Princee Giovahad i, w hl om k ed anan (dis tress Had touched, of late, with a new tenderness Which, to his fresh surprise, did but appeal To wound her more than when he wali severe, Began, with other helps perha)s, to see Strange thing;, and missed his brother's company. What a convulsion was the first sensatic.! Rage, wonder, misery, scorn, huimiliation, A self-love, struck as with a p(ersonal bloN, Gloomy revenge, a prospect full of woe, All rushed upon him, like the sudden viewv Of some new world, fioreign to all he knew, Where he had waked and found disease's visions true If any lingering, hope, that he was wrong, Smoothed o'er him now and then,'twas not so long Next night, as sullenly awake he lay, Considering what to do the approaching day He heard his wife say something in her sleep:He shook and listened;-she began to weer,, And moaning louder, seemed to shake her head, Till all at once articulate, she said, " He loves his brother yet-dear heaven,'twvas I-" Then lower voiced-," only-do let me die." The prince looked at her hastily;-no more; He dresses, t akes his sword, and through the door Goes, like a spirit, in tire m or ning a ir;His squire awaked attends; and they repair, Silent as wonder, to his brother's room:Htis squire calls him up too; and forth they come. The brothers meet,-Giovanni scarce in breath, Yet firm and fierce, Paulo as Bale as death. "May I request, sir," said the prince, and frowned, "Your ear a moment in the tiltin~, ground?" "There, brother?" answered Paulo, with an air Surprised and shocked. " Yes, brothe(r," cried he, ah the,.' The word smote crushingly; and paler still, He bowed, and moved his lips, as waiting on his -'vi'l. Giovanni turned, and down the stairs they bend; The squires, with looks of sad surprise, attend; Then issue forth in the moist-striking air, And toward the tilt-yard cross a planted square. 'Twas a fresh autumn dawn, vigorous and chill The lightsome morning star was sparkling still, Ere it turned in to heaven; and far away Appeared the streaky fingers of the day. An opening in the trees took Pauilo's eve, As mute his brother and himself went by: It was a glimpse of the tall wooded mound, That screened Francesca's favorite spot of ground Massy and dark in the clear twilight stood, As in a lingering sleep, the solemn wood; And through the bowering arch, which led inside, He almost fancied once, that he descried A marble gleam, where the pavilion lay;Starting he turned, and looked another way. And oh, the morrow, how it used to rise! Hlow would she open her despairing eyes, And from the sense of the long lingering day, Rushing upon her, almost turn away, Loathing the light, and groan to sleep again! Then sighing once for all, to meet the pain, She would get tup in haste, and try to pass The time in patience, wretched as it was; Till patience self, in her distempered sight, Would seem a charm to which she had no right, And trembling at the lip, and pale with fears, She shook her head, and burst into fresh tears. Old comforts now were not at her command: The falcon reached in vain from off his stand; The flowers were not refreshed; the very light, The sunshine, seemed as if it shone at night; The least noise smote her like a sudden wound; And did she hear but the remotest sound Of song or instrument about the place, She hid with both her hands her streaming face. But worse to her than all (and oh! thought she, That ever, ever, such a worse should be!) The sight of infant was, or child at play; Then would she turn, and move her lips, and pray, T'hiat heaven would take her, if it pleased, away. I pass the meetings Paulo had with her:Calm were they in their outward character, Or pallid eforts, rather, to suppress The pan'rs within, that eitl-her's might be less; A 9(i ended mostiy wis a passionate start Paulo's heart bled; he waved his hand, and r -e'Ii His head a little in acknowledgment. "Say then, sir, if you can," continued lie, "One word will do-Xy(ou have not i>i}red m,~: Tell me bult so, and T shl11 t)ear the pain Of having asked a question I disdain:But utter nothings, if not that one woid; And meet me this:"-he stopped and drew his -'Is o)ra I 1!47 Of tears and ]indness, when they came to part -- Thinner fie grew, she thought, and pale with care 11 And 1,'twas 1, that dashed hig Doble air!" He saw her w,-tsting, ,( —t with I)Iacid show; And scarce could hell)..Exclaiming in his woe, 11 0 gentle creature, lool< not at me so!" Arrived, and the two squires withdrawn apart, The prince spoke low, as with a laboring heart, Arid said, 11 Before you answer what you can, I wish to tell you, as a gentleman, That what you may confess," (and as lie spoke His voice with breathless and I)ale passiop. broke; 11 Will implicate no person lcnown to you, More than disquiet in its sleep may do." 198 T-lE MIRRORvLIBRARY. Paulo seemed firmer grown from his despair; He drew a little back; and with the air Of one who would do well, not from a right To be well thought of, but in guilt's despite, "I am," said he, " I know,-'twas not so everBut fight for it! and with a brother! Never." "How!" with uplifted voice, exclaimed the other; "The vile pretence! who asked you-with a brother? Brother! O traitor to the noble name Of Alatesta, I deny the claim. What! wound it deepest? strike me to the core, Me, and the hopes which I can have no more, And then, as never Malatesta could, Shrink from the letting a few drops of blood?" " It is not so," cried Paulo, "'tis not so; But I would save you from a further woe." But noble passion touched Giovanni's soul; He seemed to feel the clouds of habit roll Away from him at once, with all their scorn; And out he spoke, in the clear air of morn:" By heaven, by heaven, and all the bet ter part Of us poor creatures with a human heart, I trust we reap at last, as well as plough;But there, meantime, my brother, liest thou; And, Paulo, thou wert the completest knight, That ever rode with banner to the fight; And thou wert the most beautiful to see, That ever came in press of chivalry; And of a sinful man, thou wert the besi, That ever for his friend put spear in rest; And thou wert the most meek and cordial, That ever among ladies eat in hall; And thou wert still, for all that bosom gored, The kindest man, that ever struck m.)' sword." " A further woe, recreant!" retorted he: "I know of none: yes, one there still may be; Save me the woe, save me the dire disgrace Of seeing one of an illustrious race Bearing about a heart, which feared no law, And a vile sword, which yet he dare not draw." At this the words forsook his tongue; and h Who scarcely had shed tears since infancy, Felt his stern visage thrill, and meekly bowed Ilis head, and for his brother wept aloud. The squires with glimmnering tears,-Tristan, Heart-struck, and hardly able to proceed,Double their scarfs about the fatal wound, And raise the body tip to quit the ground. Giovanni starts; and motioning to take The way they came, follows his brother back, And having seen him laid upon the bed, No further look he gave him, nor tear shed, But went away, such as he used to be, With looks of stately will, and calm austerity. " Brother, dear brother!" Paulo cried, "n nay, nay, I'll use the word no more;-but peace, I pray! You trample on a soul, sunk at your feet!" "'Tis Plse;" exclaimed the prince; "'tis a retreat To whlich you fly, when manly wrongs pursue, And fear the grave you bring a woman to." A sudden start, yet not of pride or pain, Paulo here gave; he seemed to rise again; And takling off his cap without a word, He drew, arid kissed the crossed hilt of his sword, Looking to heaven;-then with a steady brow, Mild, yet not feeble, said, " I'm ready now." " A noble wordl! " exclaimed the prince, and smote Preparingly on earth his firming foot:- A The squires rush in between, in their despair, But both the princes tell them to beware. " Back, Gerard," cries Giovanni; " I require No teacher bhere, but anll observant squire." i Back, Tristan," Paulo cries; " fear not for me; All is not worst that so appears to thee. And here," said he, " a word." The poor youth came, Starting in sweeter tears to hear his name: A whisper, and a charge there seemed to be, Given to him kindly, yet inflexibly: Both squires then drew apart again, and stood Mournfully both, each in his several mood,One half in raze, as to himself he speaks, The other with thie tears streaming down both his cheeks. The prince attacked with nerve in every limb, Nor seemed the other slow to match with him; Yet as the fight grew warm,'twas evident, One foughit to wound, the other to prevent: Giovanni pressed, and pushed, and shifted aim, A-id played his weapon like a tongue of flame; Paulo retired, and warded, turned on heel, And led him, step by step, round like a wheel. .Sometitnes indeed he feigned an angrier start, But still relapsed, and played his former part. "What!" cried Giovanni, who grew still more fierce, "Fighting in sport? Playing your cart and tierce?" "Not so, my prince," said Paulo; ", have a care, iow.y)ou think so, or I shall wound you there." Hle stamped, and watching as he spoke the word, Drove, wit'h. his breast, full on his brother's sword. 'Twas done. He staggered, and in falling prest Giovanni's toot with his right hand and breast: Then on his elbow turned, and raising t'other, lie smileld, and said, " No fault of yours, my brother; An accident-a slip-the finishing one Tl'o errors hv that poor old man begffin. You'll not-I;oi11 not "-his heart leaped on before, And clicLed his ott' rice; but he smiled once more. For, as his hand ger'w lax, hlie felt it piest; And so, his din eyes sliding into rest, He turned him round, and dropt with hilling head And, in that loosening drop, his spirit fled. The princess, who had passed a fearful night, Toiling with dreams,-fi'ight crowding upon fright, Had missed her husband at that early hour, And would have ris'n, but found she winted power. Yet as her body seemed to go, her mind Felt, though in anguish still, strangely resigned; And moving not, nor weeping, mute she lay, Wasting in patient gravity away. The nurse, sometime before, with gentle creep Had drawn the curtains, hoping she might sleep: But suddenly she asked, though not with fear, a Nina, what bustle's that I seem to hear?" And the poor creature, who the news had heard, Pretending to be busy, had just stirred Something about the room, ard answered not a word. W, Who's there," said that swe.t'voice, kindly and clew, Which in its stronger davs vwas joy to hear:Its weakness now almost deprived the squire Of his new firmness, but ap)roaching nigher, " Madam," said he, c;'tis I; one who may say, He loves his friends more than himself to-day;Tristan." —She paused a little, and then saidcTristan-my friend, wheat noise thus haunts inv I %di Sornethin(g l'Im sure has hbl pened —tell me whatI can bear all, thoughii vot> mnav fancy lot." ;Madam," replied the s,,ii ~,oii,, are, I know, All sweetness —Wardon me for saline so. My- master bade me say the,n," resiumed( he, "s That he spoke firmly, when lie told it me, — That I was also, madamn, to your ear Firmly to speak and you firmly to hear, I I TIIE MIRROR LIBRARY. 198 indeed Tristan, who, when be was to make the best Of som "thing sad and not to be redressed, Could show a heart as firm as it was iind, Now locked his tears up, and seemed all resigned, And to Francesca's chamber took his way, To tell the message of that mortal day. He found her ladies up and down the stairs Moving Path noiseless caution, and in tears, And that the news, though to herself unknown, On its old wings of vulgar haste had flown The door, as tenderly as miser's purse, Was opened to him bv the a,ed nurse, Who shaking her old head, and pressing close Her withered lips to keep the tears that rose, Made signs she guessed what,rief fie came about, And so his arm squeezed gently, arid went out. THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 19q. That he was forced this day, whether or no, To combat with the prince; and that although His noble brother was no fratricide, Yet in that fight, and on his sword,-he died." ' I understar,d," with firmness answered she; More low in voice, but still composedly. "Now, Tristan-f'aithful friend-leave me; and take This trifle here, and keel) it for my silake." So saying, firom the curtains she put forth lHer thin white hand, that wore a ring of worth; And he, with tears no longer to be kept From quenching his heart's thirst, s lently wept, And kneeling took the ring, and touched her hand To either streaming eye, with homage bland, And looking on it once, gently up started, And, in his reverent stillness, so departed. Her favorite lady then with the old nurse Returned, and fearing she must now be worse, Gently withdrew the curtains, and looked in:0, who that feels one godlike spark within, Shall bid not earth be just, before'tis hard, with sin? There lay she praying, upwardly intent, Like a fair statue on a monument, With her two trembling hands together prest, Palm against palrm, and pointing from her breast. She ceased, and turning slowly towards the wall, They saw her tremble sharply, feet and all,Then suddenly be still. Near and more near They bent with pale inquiry and close ear;Her eyes were shut-no motion-not a breath-A rThe gentle sufferer was at peace in death. I pass the grief that struck to every face, And the mute anguish all about that place, In which the silent people, here and there, Went soft, as though she still could feel their care. The gentle-tempered for a while forgot Their own distress, or wept the common lot: ']'he warmerapter now to take offence, Yet hushed as they rebuked, and wondered whence Others at such a time could get their want of sense Fain would I haste indeed to finish all; And so at once I reach the funeral. Private'twas fancied it must be, though some Thought that her sire, the poor old duke, would come. And some were wondering in their pity, whether The lovers might not have one grave together. Next day, however, from the palace gate A blast of trumpets blew, like voice of fate; And all in sable clad, forth came again Of knights and squires the former sprightly train; Gerard was next, and then a rank of friars; And then, with hleralds on each side, two squires, The one of whom up)on a cushlionl bore The coroneted helm Prince Paulo wore, His shield the other;-then there was a space, And in the middle, with a doubtful pace, His horse succeeded, plumed and trapped in black, Bearing the sword and banner on his back: The noble creature, as in state he trod, Appeared as if he missed his princely load; And with back-rolling eye and lingering pride, To hope his master still might come to ride. Then Tristan, heedless of what passed around, Rode by hiniself, with eyes upon the ground. Then heralds in a row: and last of all Appeared a hearse, hung with an ermined pall, And nearing on its top, together set, A prince's and princess's coronet. Mutely they issued forth, black, slow, dejected, Nor stopped within the walls, as most expected; But passed the gates-the bridle-the last abode,And towards Ravenna held their silent road. The prince, it seems, struck, since his brother's death, With what he hinted with his dying breath, And told by others now of all they knew, Had fixed at once the course he should pursue; An I from a mingled feeling, which he strove q'o hide no longer from his taught self-love, Of sorrow, shame, resentment, and a sense Of justice owing to that first offence, The wretched father, who, when he ha d read This letter, felt it wither his gray head, And ever since had paced about his room. Trembling, and seiz'd as with approaching doom, Had given such orders, as he well could frame, To meet devoutly whatsoever came; And as the news immediately took flight, Few in Ravenna went to sleep that night, But talked the business over, and reviewed All that they knew of her, the fair and good; And so with wondering sorrow the next day, Waited till they should see that sad array. The days were the n a t clos e of autumn, —still, A little rainy, and towards night-fall chill; There was a fitful, moaning air abroad; And ever and anon, over the road, The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees, Whose trunks now thronged to sight, in dark varieties The people, who from reverence kept at home, Listened till afternoon to hear them come; And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard But some chance horseman, or the wind that stirred, Till towards the vesper hour; and then'twas ail Some heard a voice, which seemed as if it read' And others said, that they could hear a -ound Of many horses trampling the moist gro'lid Still nothing came,-till on a sudden, just As the wind opened in a rising gust, A voice of chanting rose, and as it spread, They plainly heard the anthem for the dead It was the choristers, who went to meet The train, and now were entering the first sc'reet. Then turned aside that city, young and old, And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow rolled. But of the older people, few could bear To keep the window, when the train drew near; And all felt double tenderness to see The bier approaching, slow and steadily, On which those two in senseless coldness lay, Who but a few short months-it seemed a day, Had left their walls, lovely in form and mind, In sunny manhood he,-she first of womankind. They say that when Duke Guido saw them come, He clasped his hands, and looking round the room, Lost his old wits for ever. From the morrow None saw him after. But no more of sorrow:On that same night, those lovers silently Were buried in one grave, under a tree. There side by side, and hand in hand, they lay In the green ground:-and on fine nights in May Young hearts betrothed used to come there to pray THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 19.9 Had, on the dav preceding, written word To the old dule ot'all that had occurred And though I shall i ot," (so concluded he) Otherwise touch thine age's misery, Yet as I would that both one grave should hide, Which can, and must not be, where I reside, 'T's fit, though all have something to deplore, That he,whojoin'd them once,should keep to part ne =iors.1 THE NILE. 'k A SONNET. BY LEIGH HUNT. IT flows through old hushed Xgypt, and its sands Like so grave mighty thouzht threading a dream, And ti s and things, as in that visiofi, seem Kpiri, along it their eternal stand,3,Caves, pillars, pyramids, the shepherd bands That roamed through the young world, the glory exueme Of high Sesostris, and that Southern beam, The laughing queen that caught the world's great.hfads Then comes a miglitier silence, stern and strong, As of a world left empty cf its tlirong, And the void weighs on us; and then we wake, And hear the fruitful stream lapsing along 'Twixt villages, and think how we shall take Our own calm journey on for'iumaii sake QO T -l MIRO LIRR.____ NOTES. us at a distance, does not on a closer inspection turn out an opaque substance. This is a charge that none of his friends will bring against Mr. Leigh Hunt. He improves upon acquaintance. The author translates admirably into the man. Indeed the very faults clf his stvle are virtues in the individual. His natural gaiety and sprightliness of manner, his high animal spirits, and the vintei us quality of his mind produce an immnediate fascination and intoxication in those wvlho come in contact with him, and carry off in society whatever in his writings may to some seem flat and impertinent. Frown gre at sanguinethess of t e mper, from great (uickness an d unsuspectin g simplicity, he runs o n to the public as he does at his own fire-side, and talks about himself, forgetting that he is no t a lways among friends. His look, hi s tone are required to point many things that he says: his frank, cordial manner reconciles you instantly to a little over-bea ring, over-weening s elf-complacency. c To be admired, h e ne e ds but to be seen:" but perhaps he ought to be seen to be fully appreciated. No one ever sought his society who did not come away with a more favourable opinion of him: no one was ever disappointed, except those who had entertained idle prejudices against him. HIe sometimes trifles with his readers, or tires of a subject (from not being urged on by the stimulus of immao. diate sympathy)-but in conversation he is all life and animation, combining the vivacity of the school-boy with the resources of the wit and the taste of the scholar. The personal character, the spontaneous impulses, do not appear to excuse the author, unless you are acquainted with his situation and habits-like some proud beauty who gives herself what we think strange airs and graces under a mask, but who is instantly forgiven when she shows her face. We have said that Lord Byron is a sublime coxcomb: whv should we not say that Mr. Hunt is a delightful one? There is certainly an exuberance of satisfaction in his manner which is more than the strict logical premises warrant, and which dull and I)hlegmatic constitutions know nothing of, and cannot understand till thev see it. He is the only poet or literary man we ever knew who put us in mind of Sir John Suckling or Killigrew or Carew; or who united rare intellectual acquirements with outward grace and natural gentility. Mr. Htunt ought to have been a gentleman born, and to have patronised men of letters. He might then have played, and sung, and laughed, and talked his life away; have written manly prose, elegant verse; and his Story of Rimnini would have been praised by the Blackwood Magazine. As it is, there is no man now living who at the same time writes prose and verse so well, with the exception of Mr. Southey (an exception, we fear, that will be little palatable to either of these gentlemen.) His prose writings, however, disl-)lav more consistency of principle than the laureate's: his verses more taste. We will venture to oppose his Third Canto of the Story of Rintini, for classic elegance and natural feeling to any equal number of lines from Mr. Southev's Epics, om even from Mr. Moore's Lalla Rookh. I a more gay ano conversational style of writing, we thinkl his Epistle to Lord Byron on his going abroad, is a masterpiece; —and the Feast of the Poets has run through several editions A light, familiar grace, and mild unpretending pathos are the characteristics of his more sportive or serious writings whether in poetry or prose. A smile plays round the features of the one; a tear is ready to start from the thought. ful gaze of the other. He perhaps takes too little pains, anld indulges in too much waywvard caprice in both. A wit and a poet, Mr. Hulnt is also distingurlished by fineness of tact and sterling~ sense: he has onlet been a visionary in humanity, the fool of virtue. It swas said by a friend and contemporary, that Hunt was born wvith the disposition of a lord, Leigh Hunlt is the founder ofra school, ridiculed in Blackwood's.Mrag'azine under the name (,f' the Coc,~-ne-y School. There is muchl boldness in the p~oliticall',erirncil~les of Leigh Hunt; bult Lois poetry is charalcterisedi by o'ellleness. A. luxury of imnages inl Moore's style n}-av be di: cerned in itg and a de~'ee of hlarmony)l u,~restl-'aned liv7 rules and ordinary language- bult,n(he all 1 an affected nc~'ii'-nite. Mr. Hunt rhymes like a nloble be/ esprit: and thlinks like a dema. gogue. }[is enthulsiasmn for nature leas more the air of s pretence than a real emotion, {or h!s descri~t ells are nei, ther pastoral nor uartificial.. THE A.NGEL OF THE WORLD, by the Rev. George Croly, is a paraphrase of one of the most graceful fictions of the Koran. Tile angels HAVUTi and MARUTH had, it seems, spoken uncharitably, concerning mankind, and had expressed, in the regions above, great contempt for those temptations which are and have been long found, most efficacious for overthrowsin,g the resolutions of terrestrial virtue. That they might have their purity put to the proof, the two proud angels were sent down to dwell for a season on the earth. A woman was sent to tempt them-and they fell. Her charms won them first to drink of the forbidden fruit of the grape; and, after that fall, all others were easy. They stainiied their essence with the corruptions ofsense, an(d betrayed to mortal ears " the words that raise men to angels." Croly writes, (for our relishing, at least,) with a better conception than Moore, for this particular style of poem, and with a far more soaring and ennobling flosv of melody. The Loves of the Angels, to this poem, are as the hop of the sparrow to the long swoop of the eagle. Unparalleled splendor of language and imagery is Croly's great gift, and in reading his poem, the imagination sails easily and toweringly away and lies dreamily in the clouds, listening to him. It is marvellous that this most glorious poem should ever have been forgotten as it isfor it will be, to most readers, a work entirely new. X; The STORY of RIMINI is founded on the beautiful episode of Paulo and Francesca in the fifth book of the INhERNO, where it stands like a lilv in the mouth of Tartarus. The substance of what Dante tells us of the history of the two lovers is to be fobund at the end of the third Canto. The rest has been gathered from the commentators. They differ in their accounts of it, but all agree that the lady was, in some measure, beguiled into the match with the eider and less attractive Malatesta,-Boccaccio says, by having the younger brother pointed out to her as her destined huso)and, as he was passing over a square. Francesca of Ravenna was the daughter of Guido Novello ia Polenta, lord of that city, and was married to Giovanni, 3r, u others call him, Launcelot Malatesta, Lord of Rimini, under circumstances that had given her an innocent predilection for Paulo, his younger brother. The falsehood thus practised upon her had fatal consequences. In the Poem before the reader, the Duke her father, a weak, though not ill-disposed man, desirous, on a political account, of marrying her to the Prince of Rimini, and dreading her objections in case she sees him, and becomes acquainted with his unamiable manners, contrives that he shall send his brother as his proxy, and that the poor girl shall believe the one prince to be the sample of the other. Experience undeceives her; Paulo has been told the perilous secret of her preference for him; and in both of them a struggle with their sense of duty takes place, for which the insincere and selfish morals of others had not prepared them. Giovanni discovers the secret, from words uttered by his wife in her sleep: he forces Paulo to meet him in single combat, and slays him, not without sorrow for both, and great indignation against the father; Francesca dies of a broken heart; and the two lovers, who had come to Ravenna in the midst of a gay cavalcade, are sent back to Ravenna, dead, in order that he who first helped to unite them with his falsehood, should bury them in one grave for his repentance. The poor old man loses his wits; and the burial takes place. Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt) is of American parentage, by both father's and mother's side. He is the son of a royalist who fled to England at the commencement of the Revolution. The mother of the poet was a sister of Benj. West, the painter. Hunt was born 1784, and educated at Christ's Hospital, on leaving which he was for some time in the office of an attorney. He next obtained a situation under government, which he was obliged to quit on establishing the paper called the Examiner, in 1809, before which he wvas the editor of the News. His last speculation was successful, owing to the virulence of its politics, which brought upon him a prosecution for a libel against the Prince Regent, and he was kept for sme time in confinement. Personal intimacy (says Hazlitt, who gives the following interesting sketch of him) might be supposed to render us i mrtial to Mr. Leigh Hunt. It is well when personal intim'acy produces this effect; and when the light, that dazzles THE MIRROR LIBRARY. 200 THE WORLD BEFORE THE FLOOD. THaRE is no authentic history of the world from the creation to the deluge, besides that which is found in the first chapters of Genesis. He, therefore, who fixes the date of a fictitious narrative within that period, is under obligation to no other authority whatever, for conformity of manners, events, or even localities: he has full power to accommodate these to his peculiar purposes, observing only such analogy as shall consist with the brief information, contained in the sacred records, concerning mankind in the earlijest ages. The present writer acknowledges, that he has exercised this undoubted right with great freedom. Success alone sanctions bold innovation; if he has succeeded in what he has at temptel, he will need no arguments to justify it; if he has miscarried, none will avail him. Those who imagine that he has exhibited the antediluvians, as more skilful in arts and arms than can be supposed, in their stage of society, may read the Eleventh book of PARADISE LosT: and those, who think he has made the religion of the patriarchs too evangelical, may read the Twelfth. WVith respect to the personages and incidents of his story, the author having deliberately adopted them, under the conviction, that in the characters of the one he was not stepping out of human nature, and in the construction of the other not exceeding the limits of poetical probability-he asks no favor, he deprecates no censure, on behalf of either; nor shall the facility, with which "much malice and little wit" might turn into ridicule every line that he has written, deter him from leaving the whole to the mercy of general readers. But, here is a large web of fiction involving a small fact of Scripture! Nothing could justify a work of this kind, if it were, in any way, calculated to impose on the credulity, pervert the principles, or corrupt the affections of its approvers. Here, then, the appeal lies to conscience rather than to taste, and the decision on this point is of infinitely more importance to the poet than his name among men or his interests on earth. It was his design, in this composition, to p,resent a similitude of events, that might be imagined to have happened in the first age of the world, in which such Scrip)ture characters as are introduced would probably have acted and spoken, as they are made to act and speak. The story is told as a parable only, and its value, in this view, must be determined by its moral or rather by its religious influence on the mind and on the heart. Fiction though it be, it is the fiction that represents truth, and that is truthtruth in the essence, though not in the name; truth in the spirit, though not in the letter. By freshening waters, flocks and cattle strayed, While youth and childhood watched them from the shade Age, at his fig-tree, re sted Tom his toil, And manly vigor tilled the unfailing soil; Green sprang the turf, by holy footsteps trod, Round the pure altars of the living God; Till foul idolatry those altars stained, And lust and revelry through Eden reigned. Then fled the people's glory and defence, The joy,s of home, the peace of innocence; Sin brought forth sorrows in perpetual birth, Arid the last light from heaven forsook the earth, Save in one forest glen, Lenote and wild, Where yet a ray of linger-'tg mercy smiled, Their quiet course wlhere Seith and Enoch ran, And God and Angel. deigned to walk with man. riE i,:va;sion of Eden by thie descendants of Cain.-The flight of Jvaya florn the camp of the invaders to the valley where the patriarchs dwelt.-Tie story of Javan's former life. EAST'VARD of Eden's early-peopied plain, When Abel perished by the hand of Cain, The sour lerer from his judge's presence fled: Thence to the aising sun his offspring spread; But hlie, the fugitive of care and guilt, Forsook the haunts he chose, the homes he built; While filial nations hailed him sire and chief, Empire nor honor brought his soul relief: lI, foiunl, where'er lie roamed uncheered, unblest, No pauise from suffering, and from toil no rest. Ages meanwhile, as ares now are told, O'er the younz world in long succession rolled; For such the vigor of primeval man, Through numbered centuries his period ran,