While thus they spoke, the party still From whence the stranger had looked down Was gained; he paused upon its brow, Yet marked not that the landscape fair What mattered it that earth, sea, air, She suffered him some moments here To rest his hand on Snowdrop's rein, During which space each seemed to fear To trust their voice to speak again; Young Berkley first the effort made, And for her brother's health inquired; With Snowdrop's flowing mane then played, Caressed her softly, and admired, While she with pleasure seemed to stand Beneath his long familiar hand. The clock upon the church's tower Now roused them by its warning sound; "Lucy," he said, "grant me one hour To speak with thee! Say, art thou bound By promise thus to shun me? say, Who trifles with our hearts? to-night Like the moon, shedding the pure light She sighed, and had th' uncertain light If she decree that we must part, To weave the ties which bind the heart Bending, she gave her hand; he took At parting pierced her heart, and streams Of tears, which she in vain essayed To hide, fell from her eyes; kind tears! Mute witnesses of love, which bade His doubting mind dismiss its fears, And showed her yet unchanged! he pressed Her dear hand to his throbbing breast. She started at the action, then Turned her white steed; was he alone? But in his soul what brightness shone ! Even through nature's shadows dim. To where his groom awaited still; "Marcus," he said, "if I have showed Kindness to thee, even so I will This night prove thy fidelity. Thou know'st my plans; ride therefore on And see them perfected, for I Would here remain awhile alone; But when the banquet hour draws near, Fail not to wait upon me here." The favourite his master heard "Ah, fickle fortune!" Berkley sighed, "Do thou but favour me to-night, And I will bless thee!" O'er the tide Now rose one early star, whose light Glimmered afar. "Yes! by the gleam Of yon fair star, this night must prove Either how false my heart's fond dream Of happiness; or of her love Shall show the strength; but, foolish heart! How full of faithless doubts thou art!" Now rose the moon, the stars looked down, Were many sounds of movement still. A night of mirth more glad than all; Beneath a flood of softened light, Move through the mazy dance by night; It is a pleasant sound to hear The thrilling strains to which they move; And could we stay for ever here, The theatre of Life would prove To us as one whose stage would show Few of the varied scenes of woe. Alas! a poisonous serpent sleeps Concealed beneath earth's fairest flowers, And oft in strange disguises creeps Even into pleasure's sunny bowers: And they who with too eager grasp Cull fortune's roses as they spring, Must find it oft their lot to clasp, Instead of sweets, a venomed sting; Often might aching hearts be found Within the dance's merry round. That day had Bertrand's gentle bride Was one, a stranger even by name, Lucy reluctantly had come Unto this festive scene; her heart Was ill at ease: she left at home Her much-loved brother, and to part Her robe transparent, of pure white, The Shamrock green was wreathed upon, (For on the Archers' festive night This colour is the favourite one :) Her velvet bodice, laced with gold, Was of the same dark shade: around A costly golden girdle wound: A jewelled dove, with wings half-spread, And on one arm, so white and round, A bracelet, wove with nicest art Of auburn hair, with brilliants bound, Her glance, as though she prized it well. Excited feeling, and the scene Of that gay night, to her so new, Gave to her cheek what once had been, In happier days, its constant hue; That tint so warm, so rich, whose glow, Compared with fainter beauties near, Seemed as when damask roses blow Beside their paler sisters: clear And dimpled cheek! on thee the smile Or tear, alike could hearts beguile ! Lucy with modest ease received She moved with wondrous grace, admired There was a costly supper too, Where all which lavish wealth can gain To please the palate and the view Was gathered when the mirthful train Had from this sumptuous banquet passed, There mingled one among the crowd, Who upon all around him cast A careless eye; to some he bowed, But quickly scanned with eager glance Each figure moving in the dance. Then turning from them, his quick eye His looks with beaming joy elate, With mild reproach, she softly said, "Doth Cecil then so soon forget My parting words, when last we met?" The mantling blush which left her cheek, He saw her wavering--noticed too The quivering lips which tried to speak, But dared not trust themselves; he drew Her footsteps on, as if to seek Their place among the dancers, yet Not such his purpose; they were near A lighted alcove, where were set Vases of rare, bright flowers; and here He paused; the flowering branches made From curious eyes a pleasant shade. "Lucy," he said, "were I to lose Even for ever thy esteem, Yet must I speak, nor thou refuse To hear me patiently; our dream Of love must have its waking; aye! It rests with thee to prove how oft Such dreams have a reality Of happiness:" she raised her soft Inquiring eyes to his, and then Attended while he spoke again. "Heaven be my witness, I have tried "Listen! not far from here doth stand Thy heart, I know it! say but one Upon our 'raptured souls may rise Like statue fair did Lucy seem, So beautiful, so motionless, Or like somnambulist, whose dream As if to still its throbbing; oft Her trembling lips were seen to part In half-breathed words; and when with soft And timid touch her hand he pressed, Its icy coldness chilled his breast. Lucy," he cried, "my beautiful, Lucy, my heart's beloved, speak!" "Cecil, this foolish heart is full I own--ah, would it were less weak! You called our love a dream-ah me! Wherefore then could I not sleep on For ever, dreaming pleasantly? My sad awaking has but shown How worthless oft the idols prove We most esteem, and fondest love! "Oh, cruel Berkley! better far To part (though parting be such pain) The image memory must retain Even from his touch, while the bright hue Back to her cheek now rushed once more With deeper crimson than before. "Lucy! be my rash words forgiven, Thou know'st it was my last resource; It fires my brain!" With gentle force : Cursed be that wealth in which I find She answered not-her fingers fair Were busied with that bracelet bright, Which, woven of her lover's hair, Had been his gift; she deemed it right Now to restore it, but the swell Of tears so dimmed her sight, in vain She sought its tiny clasp: full well He guessed her purpose, and with pain The angry feelings he suppressed Which started to his wounded breast. "Poor foolish bauble," he exclaimed, "And art thou, too, rejected?" Then, In softer tones- this shall be claimed When Cecil's heart is changed or when The little love thou once didst own For him, shall all have passed away; Then let the fatal truth be shown By this same token! But the day Steals on-some eyes observe us tooBless thee, my loveliest-oh, adieu !" (To be continued.) THE DEPARTED HEROES. BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ. Say not that they are dead, From turf corse-strewn and gory: Through all succeeding years Say not that they are lost, Whose names on hearts are graven- Us to like acts persuading. Say not that they are gone, Our souls their spirits brighten; Our onward steps enlighten. In danger never faltered, They will not be forgot As lapse the fleeting ages, Their deeds from History's pages : By generations cherished, The Heroes claim no tears; Fame has them in her keeping. Who fell on fields of glory, From turf corse-strewn and gory. Banks of the Yore. THE POET, AND HIS LUTE. IN THE STYLE OF ANACREON. Beneath a tree, where ivy clung, He changed the strings, and then anew Enraged-he dashed his silver lute A. TAYLOR. LOVE AND LOYALTY. (An American Story.) BY GRACE The town of G-, on the Ohio river, was originally settled by French emigrants, principally royalists, many of whom preserve, to this day, their national character, customs, and prejudices. Among these was one family of rank, distinguished for refinement and intelligence, who, having emigrated on the first lowering of the storm which convulsed all Europe, were enabled to bring with them a considerable portion of their once princely fortune. This family consisted of old Jean Dulaire, formerly an officer at the court of the unfortunate Louis, and still a faithful and fiery-hearted royalist; his daughter, an only child, gay, charming, pretty, and petite, with Julie for her name; his nephew, Jaques Le Brun, a scholar and a gentleman, tall enough for a grenadier, but with an amount of modesty which would overstock a school-girl. Now it happened, very naturally, in the course of human events, that Jaques loved his betwitching little cousin but, faint heart a lively and coquettish French girl; and so, one fine summer morning, with a cold smile on his lip and agony at his heart, poor Jaques saw his soul's dearest treasure bestowed by her father, fate, and the priest-on a gay, handsome, and adventurous young Frenchman, once attached, in an honourable capacity, to the house of Orleans. never won' I suppose I may as well inform my readers that it is full fifty years since this marriage, which took place when Julia was about seventeen; and this makes her rather an old girl" in 1849, for she is living yet. The young husband, Pierre Loraine, who had been about two years in America, was poor, but enterprising, and had already entered upon an extensive trading business, on the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. After his marriage, he remained with his wife at the house of her father until the autumn, when his business called him to Louisville. He parted from his friends, with a cheerful smile on his fine, manly face, tenderly unwinding the small white arms of poor Julie, who clung weeping about his neck to the last, agonized with those dark presentiments which ever haunt the heart of a loving woman. Months had passed by, bringing most affectionate, though, from the want of direct communication, very unfrequent letters from the absent Loraine. It was now the dead of winter, and his return was looked for daily and anxiously. GREENWOOD. eyes, the heart within her hourly becoming heavy, and "sick with hope deferred." Against the wainscot at her side leaned the pale and devoted Jaques, cherishing still for his fair cousin a holy and unalterable affection--a love as pure and as unseen as a crystal hid in the bosom of a rock. Suddenly the eyes of both were attracted to a party of men, coming up from the bank of the river, led by old Jean Dulaire. As they drew near the house, Julie was struck by the manner of her father, and the expression of his face. He walked deferentially, yet proudly; he seemed both happy and sorrowful, and in his eye shone the light of a sentiment, with him, a gentleman of the old régime, true as religion, and ardent as love-loyalty. The strangers were dressed--as travellers at that inclement season of the year should be dressed with comfortable plainness, even roughness. Two of them were evidently but common boatmen ; but the three in advance, who were young and handsome, though strong and hardy-looking, had about them that nameless grace, that air of superiority, of refinement, of je ne sais quoi, which always, and in all situations, distinguishes gentlemen, the truly noble, wherever they are found. Julie and Jaques were hardly surprised when they were presented to three of the princely members of the royal family of France-the Duc d'Orleans, Duc de Montpensier, and the Count de Beaujolais. After breakfasting with their friends, these brave and adventurous young princes related enough of their recent history to account for their present situation and undertaking. After many months' travelling through various parts of the United States, they had heard, while resting for a time in New York, of the new law, expelling all the members of the Bourbon family from France, and that their noble mother had been deported to Spain. Their object was to join her; but owing to the then existing war between England and Spain, this object was not easily attained. To avoid French cruisers upon the coast, they determined to repair to New Orleans, and from thence to Havana, whence they thought to take ship for Europe. They crossed the Alleg) any mountains to Pittsburgh, in December. At that place they purchased a keelboat, hired two persons to aid them in their navigation, and thus descended the Ohio. One bright, frosty morning, Julie was stand- They found that the immense quantities of ing at the window of the common parlour, look-ice almost, obstructed their passage: they had ing towards the river, with fixed and dreamy been in some danger from it, and had once or twice been obliged to land, and lay up for some days, awaiting a thaw. complaining voices might never inake discord in the song of her rejoicing, and that the tears of our mortality might never blind us to the infinite glory with which God hath crowned her! But these heroic young men talked freely and gaily of their hardships and misfortunes, thus showing that their originally fine natures had not been spoiled by aristocratic habits and luxurious living. As the day of their arrival was extremely cold, the travellers remained with the emigrant family; but the following day being milder, they took leave at an early hour. The eldest brother, the Duc d'Orleans, as he bent to kiss the fair hand of the beautiful Julie, kindly expressed his regrets at not having met her hus-ing his room, leaning on the arm of his nephew, band, who had formerly been his secretary. The excitement of this interesting visit having passed, the wifely anxiety of Julie returned. Alas! how long was it destined to weigh upon her breast with mortal heaviness-to slowly draw strength and joy and hope, like blooddrops, from her heart! Weeks, months went by, and brought neither husband nor letter; no tidings, no word of any kind reached the half-frantic woman, or her anxious friends. Diligent inquiries were finally made, at every town on the river where the ❘ missing man had been in the habit of trading; but in vain; and Pierre Loraine was at last mourned as one dead. Then, how desolation spread through that once happy home-its joy changed to sadness, and its light became dimmed! The once glad step of Julie grew languid, her bright eye tearful: she was missed from the dance; the chords of her harp were untouched, the voice of her singing was hushed, and her once-loved flowers withered and died in the shadow of her neglect. It was a beautiful evidence of Julie's own loyalty of nature, that she never for one hour believed herself deserted by her husband. She believed that he had died by the hand of some foe, or perished from hardship, or fallen a victim to his own reckless daring on some hunting expedition, when, as was his wont, he had gone out alone. Julie Loraine was daily becoming more reconciled to her sad, peculiar lot. She was religious and industrious, a good daughter and friend, and though widowed in heart and life, could not long remain a wretched woman. Her father seemed to revive somewhat as the spring advanced; but it was still evident to all that his race was nearly run. One day, as he was walk Jaques Le Brun, he dwelt freely on the event of his death, which at the best he believed could not be far distant. Seeing that Jaques appeared much affected, he said tenderly, "You should not grieve for me, my son. I am old, and bowed towards the grave with many sorrows. I have been faithful to my king and country, true to the holy mother church, and I do not fear death its repose would be grateful to me; and I should even be impatient for it, were it not that I must leave the richest treasure of my heart, the angel of my life, my dear and devoted child, my Julie, widowed and unprotected!" 66 Stay!" cried Jaques, have you forgotten me?-will I not remain her protector and friend, her own true-hearted brother?” 66 Ah, my good Jaques, you have not that relation by nature, and the world will not allow you to assume it. Were you Julie's husband, now-" "I were the happiest man living!" exclaimed Jaques, in a quick, fervent tone. Dulaire turned, and looking with earnestness into the face of his young companion, said, "And so, Jaques, you love my Julie?" "Oh, uncle, next to the holy mother I adore her! Yet she has never known my love, wild and hopeless as it has ever been!" "Poor Jaques! how must you have suffered, and I never divined it! Ah, there is much be fore our eyes that we never see. But Julie may yet be yours. Without a doubt Loraine is long since dead, for he was not a man to forsake a wife-and such a wife! To you, my good Jaques, I could resign my child, and afterwards sink tranquilly to the last sleep. Go and call her; I will talk with her alone on this subject." The gentle mourner was finally roused from the deep stupor of her grief by the severe and protracted illness of her father. It was again winter, when the old man, who had long been failing, but whose habits were those of cheerful and constant activity, resigned himself, like a subdued child, to the stern dominion of disease. Jaques summoned his cousin, and for the next Julie, who, in her strangely darkened youth had half-hour walked the hall without, in a state of been longing with an intense and bitter yearn-fearful uncertainty. At length, hearing his ing for the grave-rest, rebuked her selfish sorrow, and pressing her cross to her lips and heart, prayed for strength to fulfil that holiest of woman's missions-ministering to the wants and sufferings of age. Thus, in affectionate attendance on her invalid father, she passed the dreary autumn and winter months, till the warm pulses of spring began to play through the chilled bosom of earth, and the blue skies once again smiled down on the coming forth of flowers. Oh, that our worn hearts might ever leap with the renovated heart of nature--that our griefs might depart with her storms, and our smiles return with her sunshine-that our name softly called, he hesitatingly re-entered the well |