to one really worthy of him,-and Emily tried to familiarize herself with this idea, and absorbed in painful thought, wandered farther into the wood, and marked not the deepening twilight. She was aroused by hearing her name repeated in wellknown accents, and after replying to the call, was immediately joined by Harry, who, uneasy at her prolonged absence, had come in search of her. Emily apologized for the trouble she had given him, and declining his offered arm, was hurrying homeward as fast as she could, when Harry said, in a sad tone, "Emily, is there to be no end to this coldness? Will you never again accept the smallest kindness at my hands without apologies and hesitations so different, oh! how different from your confiding affection in former days?"

We were both young then, Harry," answered Emily. "Time, you know, makes sad havoc with us all; and I may have grown cold and indifferent, though I was not till now aware of it." "You are cold to none but me," said Harry, "and perhaps there is no one else that would feel it so keenly. Emily, you alone know what my sufferings once were, and with you alone rests the power to obliterate their memory." Emily almost gasped for breath, and her agitation became apparent to her companion, who supporting her with his arm, continued, 'you will think me abrupt, Emily, but you so sedulously avoid any confidential intercourse with me, that I have been unburdening my fears and doubts to my mother, who bids me be of courage,-may I go on?" A slight pressure of the small hand that rested on

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his arm, induced him to proceed.--"Yes, Emily," he said, "I offer you not a second love, but a first, true and abiding affection. Your virtues won my early homage, and though my senses were enthralled by another, their mild and heavenly radiance only shone upon me the more brightly in my darkened hours; but I will not dwell on them -they are past, and have taught their lesson. Tell me, Emily, may I hope? Will you again let me bask in your sunny smile, and bring joy and gladness once more to my desolate home?"

He waited in vain for an answer-the revulsion of feeling had been too much for Emily, and she could only sob upon the arm that supported her. He drew her more closely to him and said, "My beloved, one word:" she raised her beautiful eyes, now filled with tears, towards him, in the clear moonlight, and in the melting tenderness of their glance her lover read his fate even before she had words to utter, "Harry, I am yours-only yoursnow and for ever."

Need we go on?—-need we tell of the happiness founded upon the reality of goodness and affection as we have told of the misery that resulted from trusting to their imaginary counterfeits? From a thousand happy firesides and beloved homes goes forth the testimony which Harry Wyndham's experience fully confirms-that the grand essential of domestic bliss is in the beauty of the soul, invisible indeed to the eye of sense, but, like its Great Source, revealing its presence by the joys and the benefits it diffuses around it.

'Tis a land where the green leaf is brilliant and broad;
Dark eyed are its daughters, and lovely in sooth:
Aye, fair as the First that came glowing from God-
Pure as she, ere the fruit had beguiled her from truth-
'Tis the clime of the Creole! the land of the south!
We may dream as the Moslem-but why the ideal?
Here's the Giaour's daughter, as lovely, yet real-
Conception alone cannot image her beauty-
Oh! to see is to feel that devotion is duty!

Brighter by far than her loved land's skyFairer, more pure than its purple dye

Is the lustrous glance of that bold black eye,

Like the sheen of the star through the cloud rolling by: Who can look and not love? 'tis not I-'tis not I! Who can gaze and not glow? Art thou adamant? No! And a thrill through the soul of a cynic would go, When wild from the night, of those orbs darkly bright, In their roll, gleams the soul, blending beauty, love, light!

Boundless and broad as her circling ocean-
Undying and deep as its tints of azure-
Burns her bosom with willing but wild devotion.
Oh! pure is her passion, as pungent its pleasure!
Happy is he, who, that heart's whole treasure,
Is cherished and cheered by a love like this!
'Tis the acme of feeling! 'tis bliss-'tis bliss,
To live in the light of those eloquent eyes!-
To live in a heart that loves deeply, or dies!

The casa of the Count De Lorme,
Gleams o'er the Bay of Leogane,
Whose blue wave scarcely stirs the storm
That wildly wakes the Spanish main.
So green the shores-so bright the skies,
That he the daring Genoese,

Whose caraval first cleft these seas, Well named it " Vale of Paradise."

'Tis fairer than the Eastern Eden!
Say, hath its bowers an Eve as fair?
Yes, many a bright and beauteous maiden,
That with the Lost might well compare,
Has lived, has loved, and languished there.
Yet, since that band with glory laden,
Planted their banner bathed in gore,
Upon Hispaniola's shore,

Of none does fame or story tell
Fairer in face, of lovelier form,

Than she the beauteous Azele, The only daughter of De Lorme.

*

The day hath closed-the night hath come-
The bell has called the bond-slave home.
The moon now rising mild and meek,
Gilds La Serrania's lonely peak.
The silver light is gaily streaming

In picture through the orange bowers-
The fairy raylets dancing, gleaming,

Like living things on half-oped flowers.
There's not a whisper on the deep,
Save where some gentle zephyrs creep,
And scarcely could you call it wind,
For heavy sleeps the tamarind;
And e'en the aspen's quaking leaf,
From ceaseless labour seeks relief,
And droops beneath the cold moonlight-
A calm but not a sultry night-
For there is dew upon the myrtles;
There's dew upon the olive leaf,
Like to the pearly tear that startles
Yet lingers on the eye of grief:

A night that you would wander lone,
Along the silent strand of ocean,

And think of days long past, and gone, With painful, yet with sweet emotion:

A night that anguish deep would mellow, For all seems fair and innocent;

E'en falsely mirrored sleeps the billow, While storms are in its bosom pent;

And smooth too were the cheek of sadness, Unwrinkled were the brow of care,

And the lorn heart would gather gladness, To linger but a moment there!

The casa stands not on the shore

Inland an hundred rods or more;

But from its walls down to the beach,
Through gay parterre and gardens reach,

Green lanes o'erarched with jasmine flowers, Where lilies droop along the walk;

And fountains flinging crystal showers

All through the lonely midnight hours,

In strange and solemn spirit-talk
The voices of creation mock.

Yet now, no voice of living thing

Is heard within those garden bowers Save the lone mock-bird's notes that ring And tremble on the leaves, and flowers, And echo softly from the towersWe list the soul that song devours; Its music cheers the drooping heartIn vain we try from it to partIt holds us by some mystic spell; By what strange tie we cannot tell! And there for ever could we dwell, In the moon's enchanting light, Listening with fond delight, The warbler of the Tropic night!

Oh! can she be a thing of earth? Say, is she not of heavenly birth, Who through the casa's folding door

Appears upon the corridor?

Hair like the wing of raven, straying, Half shrouds a neck of snowy whiteness;

Eye, black, bright as the eagle's, playing With clouds, yet lovely in its brightness; Cheek, lips, who tastes alone can tell Thy loveliness unmatched, Azele!

Half leaning o'er the balustrade

She looked out on the moonlit sea,

All lucid, save where fell the shade,

From the dark green leaves of the mangrove tree;

She saw the white sail spread afar

On the laden lugger homeward bending, She saw the keenly twinkling star

To the azure wave its brilliance lending,

She saw the pirogue close in shore,

And the light boat o'er the water dancing;
She heard the dip of the feathered oar,

And saw its blade in the moonbeam glancing;
She heard the song melt on the billow,
From the boga's skiff down by the willow,
Yet heeds she not nor sound nor song,
That tremble the blue wave along;
And craft that ply close by the shore
She heeds not, for the waters o'er

Is flung the glance of her gazing eye,
On the line where meet the sea and sky.

The sea is silent-all are gone

Yet scans she still the horizon.
Vain is her vigil-vain, to-night
She has out watched the crescent's light,
For now the moon, the ocean's daughter,
Is drinking deep the purple water;
And shell and shore no longer sparkle,
And the blue wavelets deeply darkle.
In vain she looks the lone sea over,
To-night she may not see her lover.
He's far upon the Spanish main,
Though bending fast the isle to gain.
To-night her vigil will be vain,
He anchors not in Leogane.
Away! repose, my gentle dama,
That lovely form upon the cama.
To-night along those waters dark
No eye sees the Polacca Marque.

SCENA II.

Where are the winds? lo! Leogane
Is mirroring the purple heaven!
Yet not a breath comes o'er the main;
Yon far polacca may not gain

The Port ere closing hour of even;
Yet the broad yellow banner drooping,
And listless o'er the royals stooping,
To gazing landsman may reveal
The golden emblem of Castile.

See! they've clewed the fore-sail-main!
Hands unseen brail up the spanker!
Hark! the rasping rolling chain!

Hark! the plunging of the anchor!

And the spray o'er the crystal waters hurled,
And the wave in white circling eddies curled,
Have dappled and died-the dark schooner's asleep,
Silent and lone on the distant deep.

Sunset hath passed, still the blue wave is glassed,

And in Leogane's bay sleeps the breeze on the billow, For when Zephyr would steal a short moment from Eole, No lovelier spot may he choose for his pillow.

It is a lovely tropic night,

Glad along the dark sea glancing,

THE POLACCA

Plays the crescent's trembling light,
While each raylet darting, dancing,
Seems to fancy's wild romancing,
Living form of ocean sprite!
Landward loom upon the sight

Glowing peak, and verdant Llana-
One fair casa on the height-
Farther inland the cabana
Gaily to the gaze half startles
From its grove of leafy myrtles.
In the back-ground crystal rills
Leap adown dark wooded hills;
And, as steed with hanging rein
Gallops to his home again,

Through deep rocky ravines rushing They now seek their home, the main: Here, in glassy volume gushingThere in foaming turbid motion

O'er the rude rock wildly streaming, Down the dark barranca gleaming Like a silver flood to ocean.

There goes a signal on the stranger!
A white flag flashing to the peak!
Gods, can she be the far-famed "ranger,"
That long hath swept the broad Mexique?
The Spanish flag may idly speak
Her name or traffic-many a schooner,
Freighting alone the dark marooner,
Hath reft these shores, while at her main
Floated the golden flag of Spain.

Ha! she is answered from the height
Where stands the casa of De Lorme!
And who hath spread that signal white?
By heavens! it is a female form!
Upon the hill's high summit standing,
The whole reach of the bay commanding,
While sheltered by the guavas green,
She cannot from the hall be seen.

List! do you hear the tackle slipping,
Where hangs the chieftain's gig abaft?
Hush! 'tis the light boat lightly dipping!
From the dark shadow of the craft,
Out upon the wave she's yawing!
Six good oars that wave are clawing-
You cannot hear those six oars plashing,

Though you may see their broad blades flashing,
And the crystal drops in the moonbeams glancing,
While the light gig comes o'er the waters dancing.
Nearer, more near to the beach advancing,
Scarce breaking the wave all unruffled before,
Silent she steers for the cove on the shore:
Silent she nears it, dead-muffled her oar.

But who is she upon the height?

And why that silent signal given ? For 'tis not morn, or noon, or even, But the hushed hour of lone midnight! Why does she from her cama steal? Her bosom's beauties thus reveal, Though chaste as Dian the moon's light? I've never gazed on glance more bright. The lustre of those eyes would leaven A heart that burned with inward hell In hope and happiness to dwell.

Seaward that glance is gladly given; Ah! now I know the maiden well,

The daughter of De Lorme, by heaven! The lustrous, lovely, loved Azele!

And who is he-a pirate-rover

Who from his boat bounds on the shore } No! 'tis the maiden's favoured loverI've seen that gallant chief beforeI've seen him on the distant main, Fighting beneath the flag of Spain, When rent was every sail and spar,

MARQUE.

By the red revelry of war

No rover Cortez Leonar-
But chief of yon polacca dark,

He holds Spain's "carta de la marque."

Oh! who can speak the thrill of wild delight When lovers meet again, whom fate had parted? Like to the first glad gleam of golden light

That welcome o'er the waste of waters started, Breaks joyous on the wearied seaman's sight! Or like the beam of hope that bursts the night Of sorrow to the lorn and broken hearted! Still deeper, sweeter, is the raptured feeling When from reposing care of guardian stealing, Within the friendly shade of some lone bower, Long parted lovers choose the silent hour Of the still witching night unseen to meet, To breathe their kisses and their vows repeat! How sweet to mingle heart with heart! To think that we no more shall part! How sweet to press the pouting lip! From its red pulp the nectar sip! How sweet in that bright eye to gaze That gushes forth love's lucent blaze! How sweet on kindled bosom leaning,

When heart to heart responsive beats; When eye from eye pure love is gleaning, A luscious banquet of wild sweets! When mingle heart, pulse, thought, and breath, Oh! then 'twere sweet to melt in death!

The lovers meet in fond embrace,

Her rounded arm his neck is twining; His gaze is bent on that sweet face

Upturned, upon his breast reclining, And though he felt his heart repining, The transport of that heart to trace, No word he uttered, so intense,

So wrapt with pleasure was each sense.

Why meet they by the dead of night? Why greet they not in open light?

Thou knowest not the Count De Lorme, Thou knowest not his Gallic hate;

A weary life of war and storin,

Had rendered dead and desolate The better feelings of a heart That ne'er had ta'en a Spaniard's part. He was Spain's deepest, deadliest foeAnd could the noble only know That here, beneath his very wall,

A foeman loved his only daughter, 'Twould not be gaol or grillo's thrall, But silent shrift and speedy slaughter. Aye, high upon the beetling cliff The head of Cortez Leonar

Should serve the steersman of the skiff For starting point, and guiding star.

*

As rolls the sable thunder cloud

Broad o'er the sun, his light obscuringAs through that black but broken shroud More deeply brilliant and alluring, Burst ever forth the slanting rays, Pouring on earth a golden blaze That half bewilders the weak gaze, Till more opaque and deeper haze Drives o'er his disc, and dark as night Seem sea, shore, grove, and mountain height, So o'er the maiden's beauteous brow The crimson blood is flashing now, Yet only serves to make more bright The living flood of lovely light That gushing parts from her dark eyes, Melting as meteor on the skies:

Why do her eyes so wildly rove?

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Why looks she through the orange grove?

"What! shadows on the moonlit wall!

Ha! was not that a signal call?"

"O God! it is the bloodhounds' bay! O Leonar, away! away!"

Oh! who hath felt (and he alone can tell)
How hard it is to break that mystic tie,
The lovers' knot? to speak the wild farewell,
While gazing in the deeply lucid eye

That gleams more lovely as the time draws nigh
For the last parting kiss? Oh! who can tell
The strong yet silent power of that deep spell
That binds the lover in its golden fetter?
In vain the captive tries the charm to scatter-
Weak is the spirit when the flesh rebels-
And on that parting signal the tongue dwells,
Nor does it dare the dreaded words to utter:-

Oh! who hath felt, and feeling hath not known
A secret power stronger far than mortal,

That ever stays him when he would be gone?
In vain his trial to repass the portal
Where love reposes in her magic bower,
Unmarked, unheeded goes the gliding hour,
Time and again the nectar'd kiss he sips-

Time and again a fond adieu essaying

Time and again the words are on his lips, And perish there, no thought or sound betrayingWhat boots sword, strength to beauty? the proud Roman Conquered the world, to be enslaved by woman!

He pressed her wildly to his heart,

He kissed the lips that pouting parted;
If from her eye the tear would start,

He kissed the drop ere it had started;
And though the echoes nearer ring,
Yet fondly still the lovers cling,
As if the fate that now would sever
Was tearing them apart for ever.

"Farewell!"-"farewell!"-they part-they part-
That wild farewell nigh rends the heart-
She glides back by the shaded walk,
He over many a rude piled rock,

Through the dense grove of guavas springing

His eyes flash fire as the eagle's,

For down the dark barranca ringing Comes the deep baying of their beagles; And now he clears the guava wood,

Yet closely cling the dogs of blood.

And now he nears the shelly strand,

Where moored his boat sits by the shore,

The moonlight flashes on his brand,

The shells have drank the sleuth hound's gore.

The boat hath left the beach afar,

And all is silent on the land,

"'Tis strange," so muttered Leonar,

"Tis strange that none have sought the strand

Perhaps, 'twas but the hound's own strife.

Well he hath paid the forfeit; life.

Hurrah' my lads, give way! give way!

The wind is waking on the main,

We'll reach St. Jago ere the day.
Good-night once more to Leogane!"

SCENA III.

Another night hath passed and gone-
Another, and another one,

And off Hispaniola's shore
The dark polacca lay once more.
To-night she brails nor fore, nor spanker,
To-night no hand hath heaved the anchor,
Yet brings she to upon the main,
Abreast the shores of Leogane.
Up to the peak the signal white
Is run! 'tis answered from the height!

The gig once more glides o'er the water, The chieftain leaps upon the shore, Within the bower he hath sought her; Where often they had met before, They meet, and silent greet once more.

One wild embrace-a wild sweet kiss

Hath thrilled their hearts with purest bliss.

Oh! life for such an hour as this!

But they have met not now to part,

That joyous greeting has been short.

They've left the grove-they've gained the shoreThe boat. "Off! off! bend to the oar ""

The light gig nigh leaps from the water,

They ply their oars so madly, wildly;

But where goes she, De Lorme's lost daughter, Still looking back, so sadly, mildly Say, whither goes the proud Azele? Ay, whither? let the sequel tell.

The dark polacca sought the gale

That grasped and filled her snow-white sail, And ere had dimmed the smallest star, Long ere the morn rose o'er the bay

Upon the distant sea afar,

Was standing nor nor-west away.
But oh! when broke that bitter morrow
Upon the villa of De Lorme,

To paint it words we vainly borrow.
Upon the beach a single form,

Whose eye once wild as winter storm,

Now dimmed and chastened with deep sorrow, Bent ceaselessly upon the main.

No sail was seen from Leogane,

Save where the island zephyr bore
Some fishing schooner close in shore.
Childless, upon the strand he stood;
Childless, looked o'er the heaving flood,
Then sinking down upon the earth,
He cursed the star that hailed his birth.

The gold tints of the Tropic sun
Still glad the distant horizon,
The bell has tolled oracion,
None now may wear his beaver on.

The passing crowd, uncovered there,
Pause to repeat the evening prayer,
Some dusty devotees are kneeling
Upon the Plazza's pavement stones,

And soon as stills the solemn pealing
The portales ring with christian groans.
Well need they groan, if double load
Of sin the conscience may goad,
For there is not of Earth's abode,
In east, or west, or tropic clime,
Within the moral modern time,

A spot more deeply dipped in crime,
(Not e'en Madrida del Espana,)
Than this same southern nook Havana!
One moment dealing in fruition,
Her gay bourgeoise but live to live,-

Another, kneeling in petition!
Why need they either pray or grieve,
For sin that fray or priest can shrive? a
Hark, now again the bell is tolling,
The evening salutation's spent,

The varied crowd is onward rolling,
And all seem now on pleasure bent.
Here are guasos homeward wending

By Horcon-Regla-La Salud:

Here, are brilliant parties bending
Through the gates in ceaseless flood:
And the gay laugh is renewed,
Blent with cries from voices rude;
And the tinkling bell of the aguador,
And the heavy plash of the boga's oar

Is heard in the street, is heard on the bay,
While the weary heart welcomes the close of the day.

The gold tints of the Tropic sun

Wax pale on the distant horizon,
Still the Pasao far along

Lives with the gay and brilliant throng.
Oh! who would not their walk prolong,
Even till twilight's latest hour,

To snatch from those dark eyes one glance

So full of light, of love, and power?

To feel, perhaps,-oh thrilling chance!— The pressure of fair jewelled fingers! And thus the cavalier still lingers, VOL. XXVII.-15

Hoping that beauty's eyes may see us— That beauty's lips may lisp "a dios!"

"St. Jago, what a brilliant dame!

Say, knowest thou her? her birth? her name?
How fearlessly she rides her steed,
With grace alone to gods decreed!
Her beauty seems a thing of heaven.
Was e'er such form to mortals given?
Tell me, senor, what is her name?
She must have stolen Jorullo's flame
To light those dark and flashing eyes.
There is a spark that never dies,

In those deep orbs-a sleepless fire-
Till death my heart would never tire,
To gaze upon that beauteous creature,
The paragon of form and feature.

See how she sits, her charger prancing,

While her gold barbed heel his flank is lancing!

Not lighter rides the albatross

On the crest of the rolling wave,

When seas the scud of their waters toss

In clouds to the blue concave.

Oh! did you mark that sweetest smile
That saint from saviour would beguile?
Such smile the goddess Venus wore
When she the prize from Ida bore,-
How name you the fair girl, senor?"

"Ah! bien, senor! not girl, but bride:-
In Santa Rosa's church last eve
That cavallero by her side

To her, hand, heart, and fortune gave.
Say, seest thou yon polacca dark,
Close moored beneath the Moro wall,
Hull, spars, black as the coffin's pall?
He is the chieftain of that bark-
She, the proud beauty you admire,
Hath left behind an angry sire-
Hath left behind fair fortune, home,
Far o'er the seas with him to roam."

The last tints of a Tropic sun

Have left no trace in the horizon!

The star of eve is gaily twinkling

The boga's song dies on the bay

The bells of the laden mule are tinkling,
As the muleteer takes his homeward way-
The dews of the night are lightly sprinkling
On fruit and flower their pearly spray.
'Tis night, upon Havana's wall-
The lamp gleans o'er the puertacalle
The crescent moon bursts o'er the Moro,

And quivers on La Reina Oro,
Bathing shroud, spar, and rigging black:-
Two forms are seen upon the deck,

Gazing upon the evening star,
Now gleaming from the wave afar,
Their hands are joined-who are they? tell!
'Tis he, the chieftain, Leonar;

'Tis she, his beauteous bride, Azele!

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