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Light-hearted and free, o'er the mountains she sang;
The bird's song was hushed, as the sweet echoes rang;
The gold of her hair made the sun blush for shame;
The stars hid away at the sound of her name,

Beautiful Peronella.
But alas, discontent o'er her life cast a taint,
And a fairy in passing thus heard her complaint:
" I would be a queen with a crown of pure gold,
I'd sit on a throne and a sceptre I'd hold ;
I'd wear precious jewels; in tine state l’d ride,
With vassals and serfs bending low at my side.
Oh make me a queen, pretty fairy,” she said,
“And honor and riches I'll pour on thy head,"

Said Peronella.
“A queen thou shalt be," the good fairy replied,
“On a throne thou shalt sit, in state thou shalt ride,
Thou shalt have serfs and vassals to kneel at thy feet,
And ladies and lords in thy palace shall meet.
But thou shalt be withered and wrinkled and old ;
Thy hair will be gray, where it now is bright gold;
Thine eyes will be dull, and thy form now so round
Will be ugly and gaunt; not a grace will be found

In thee, Peronella." So it all came to pass as the fairy had said, She dwelt in great splendor; the kingdom she led ; Her wealth was unbounded, it could not be told; And of course, as a queen, she in luxury rolled. But her beauty was gone; she was burdened with care ; And troubles and trials she met everywhere, Till she cried in despair "Good fairy, I pray, Oh give me again what thou once took away!"

Sad Peronella,


Within the town of Weissnichtwo

This famous building stands,
And there the picture lovers go

From all adiarent lands:
And once I also chanced to stray

Among the rest, to see

This exhibition of the day,

The Dickens Gallery.
And first the face of little Nell

Smiled on me from the wall,
And many a maiden form as well

Around the spacious hall. There little Dorrit's weary face

Recalled the Marshalsea ;
And child-wife Dora filled with greco

The Dickens Gallery.
Sweet Dolly Varden stood beside

The Pecksniff sisters twain,
And little Dot and Florence vied

With Kate and Madelaine;
And Sairey Gamp the next I found

With Betsy Prig at tea,
And spreading scandal all around

The Dickens Gallery.
And opposite a motley crew,

Smike, Toots and Marley's ghost, Micawber, Squeers and Pickwick, too;

And others, quite a host.
And Captain Cuttle, walking out,

With thoughtful face, we see,
Engaged in “making notes” about

The Dickens Gallery. And fraternizing in a row

Sit Wegg and Carrier John,
And Scrooge, and Trotty Veck and Jo,

No longer “moving on";
And Barkis, “willin', waitin'” still,

Upon the wall, we see,
And many more whose portraits fill

The Dickens Gallery.
And last, within a tarnished frame,

A face well known to me,
And, written underneath the name,

“I spells it with a wee."
Then homeward wended I my way,

Across the Northern Sea,
In hope to find, some other day,

The Dickens Gallery.


Ella LINDSEY MATCHETT. In the following interesting poem tho scene is the time of the ruin of the gay and joyous Pompeii, and at the beginning of the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius, Every reader of Bulwor's novel “The last days of Pompeii," will remember Ny. dia the blind flower girl whose unrequited love of Glaucus, fired by a jealousy of the beautiful Ione, caused her to seek peace and oblivion in the blue deptba of the Mediterranean. The hour is come! What mean these words so full of gloom? A wild refrain,—the hour is come! The hour is come! these words fill all the air above, around, With tongues that know no other plaint. One mighty voice, one mighty tongue ! What hour? Ah yes—I heard Olinthus say It is the day of doom ! the day of doom ! A surging tide of human woe Bears me along down to the seasAnd yet in all this multitude am I alone! Glaucus! Glaucus! who called my name? Sallust! friend-his friend-the gods are kind! Hast thou seen Glaucus ? Not seen him ? And bidst me “Come,” for refuge hasten to the sea ? If Glaucus perish what then were my poor life to me? Unclasp my band- I will retrace my steps. The gods protect thee, Sallust-make haste-escape! Chis darkness is but the pall that all the years have brought

to me. Sallust, thou art his friend-farewell—(to one passing) Stay!

hast thou seen Glaucus ?
He curses me and says, the vengeance of the gods
Pours from Vesuvius a molten rain!
l'he air is hot, is stifling, and on my hair
I feel the ashes of this fiery rain.
Pompeii, all thy brightness, joy and mirth,
Youth, beauty, love and song, master and slave-
Find then, one common grave.
Oh answer! is there not one in all this surging throng
That knows of Glaucus? they heed me not-
I'll ask no more-oh, Athenian! Greek!
My hand could guide thee to the sea.
Whose voice? this is the forum.
He oft comes here, he calls my name!
It is I, dear heart, thy Nydia;
Glaucus - thy hand! oh follow fast, I'll lead the way

Down to the sea. You say we journey but to Hades,
The under world, the land of shades-
Then be it so. Where Glaucus is can come no woe.
And now the bark glides calmly on.
He sleeps—I'll keep my vigils while he sleeps.
Blest sleep! oh bear him to his Athenian shores;
With breath of flowers fill his dreams,-
Roses of mine own Thessaly,
Land of Olympus,—Thessaly,
Where once the soft winds kissed the brow
Of poor blind Nydia—not then a slave,
But free as song of bird—as perfume of sweet flowers.
And now I mind me of cruel lash and chain
And bondage-by thee set free.
O Glaucus! then pulsed within my veins new wine of life.
The dews that fell upon the flowers of my care
Seemed the anbrosia of the gods !
Once kneeling at thy feet
Thou didst place thy hand upon my head
And tell me of the light. It seemed that zephyr,
Bud, and flower found voice and filled the air
With low sweet chimings --the music sang one name,
The name of Glaucus-and thou didst tell me
Of Harmodius and her past grandeur;
Of lovely olive groves that made green walls
For bright Ilissus; of Athenian nights
And their pale glory. Once in my dreams
The gods smiled on my love-
Nectar and ambrosia they placed upon my lips
And we were both immortal.
Our barque went drifting out among the eternal stars;
Far on a moonlit sea, forever and forever
We held our glorious way. O Glaucus! Glaucus!
These are thy gifts, these bands, this chain.
I often wept my thanks, words were so poor.
Ah, Glaucus! when the sad days came,
Deep in my heart I knew thou didst not slay Apæcides,
I knew thou couldst not murder.
And when Arbaces made me prisoner in his palace
I bribed his slave, and with my stylus
Wrote the words to Sallust that sent thy friend to thee.
I sought Calenus in those gloomy vaults-
In Cybeles' sacred grove he saw Arbaces,

Priest of Isis, deal the fatal blow.
I led him forth to save thy life.
And in the praetor's mouth he put the words:
"Arbaces-not the Athenian--sball die."
And still the bark glides on-how deep his sleep.
Ah, rest and dream!
The soft winds stir thy hair;
They say thy hair is like the sunlight
Spun with threads of gold-but this I know not of
Save that it must be beautiful.
A moment on thy forehead, broad and smooth,
l'll rest my hand -oh! what is sight?
Some rare sweet blessedness revealing more than touch,-
The sunlight in thy hair, the glory on thy brow?
Once, kneeling at thy feet, I said
Upon thy brow should be an olive crown.
He twined white roses in my hair
And said: “Thessalian Princess thou shalt be, fair child !”
I wept such happy tears-
For on the ides of June I was a slave!
And still the barque glides on.
Oh, solemn, sacred sea, bear us to Thessaly!
Glaucus! Glaucus! how sweet to touch thy band-
Ione! Ione! her hand in thine!
Ah! she is more than friend,—thy future bride!
She bath every charm, -learning, beauty, wealth and gracą,
High born, the gift of sight-and I am blind!
Glaucus, Greek, Athenian!
I can bear no more,- no longer slave,
Yet slave so bound in chains
That only death can set me free.
Glaucus, I too shall sleep; the sea is deep and wide.
O sacred sea! they forfeit future life
Who go unbidden to thy cold embrace.
But in the land of shades, this woe would follow me.
Immortal gods! hear me in this last hour,
This hour of woe. Orcus-the Avenging-
In pity veil thine eyes. O Jupiter, the All-seeing-
Beneath Olympus heights the breath of roses
Fanned my baby brow, roses of mine own Thessaly.
There grieves my mother yet for her lost child-
When death shall come to her
Oh gently may she glide across the sea.

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