SONG OF THE AUTUMN LEAVES. Hark! sisters, hark to the wailing breeze, The flowers of summer have drooped and died- We may not linger: Winter is come; In the delicate Spring, when each tender bud And cheek, as the heart of the rose-bud, bright, And the boy would roam from his mother's side, O'er the grave where that beautiful boy was laid ;. A maiden there was, most happy and fair, Nor her young breast heaved with a sorrowing sigh: When the silver Queen of the Night was high She would wander beneath us, with footsteps slow, And with drooping form, and face most sad, Oh! earth, we grieve not at leaving thee, BALLAD. S. J. G. Oh! say thy heart is mine, Mary ; Oh! labour will be sweet, Mary, Yes, sweet indeed for thee; I see the sun's last rays, Mary, And I think like a pictured saint thou art, With that blue eye of thine, Mary, Most beauteous to see: Though poor my lot, and mean my cot, I see not it, but thee! MADELINE. Madeline Goneli was the only child of peasants, in one of the most beautiful valleys of Switzerland; but though her parents were of low rank, yet, like many of that class in her country, they were, comparatively speaking, rich. She was for a short time my schoolfellow, and never shall I forget my first view of her lovely figure. She had, a year or two before, left the same school; where, as a peculiarly pretty and amiable child, she had been a great favourite; and several of my companions remembered her, so that when some one said, Madeline is come back," there was a general rush to welcome her. I did not see her till dinner-time, and then she was seated just opposite me. It was no longer the pretty child I had heard described, but a beautiful girl in the first flush of womanhood. Her form had expanded, and was shown to advantage in her costume-a low velvet boddice, laced over a cambric chemisette, and connected with a velvet collar, fitting close to her throat by massy silver chains; the full sleeves were also of cambric, and the long, flowing skirt was of rich black silk. Her dress I noticed afterwards, for then my eyes were irresistibly attracted to that sweet, mild face, sorrowful it is true, but of heavenly expression. Her rich, brown hair was braided over her cheeks in soft folds, and hung behind in thick plaits, far below her waist; her brow was high, and white as alabaster, and her full blue eyes, and rosy, pouting lips, were most beautiful. What evil, thought I, can have cast its shadow over her? Who could have the heart to grieve so lovely a creature? But we all soon heard her story; for Madeline was simplicity itself, and never dreamed of hiding a thought of that pure, fond heart. It was the same evening when my companions said they must persuade her to sing"I never could feel half her enchantment till I heard her voice." She resisted at first; but her friends soon prevailed over her gentle nature. I forget the words she first sang, but I know her voice reminded me of the beautiful fountain in our play-ground, so liquid and flowing were its tones. "Madeline," said a merry girl, 66 you should sing us 'La Fiancée;' for I heard in Basle that you were engaged to the handsomest young man in the world." Madeline turned very pale, but complied in the following words, of which I have attempted to make a rough translation from the Swiss German : "Es schintmere sterne so froh in mis herz, "Dä sterne isch d'liebe mit all ihrer lust; "A star shines in my heart with such brilliant light, "From that star all of love and of pleasure I draw; Here Madeline paused, and burst into tears. I cannot sing that song, Marie." would not grieve you for the world. Forgive "Do not, do not, sweet, dear Madeline: I my thoughtlessness in asking you." You could not know how dreadful those words Nay, Marie, there is nothing to forgive. sound to me now. Oh, friends, dear friends, may you never suffer like your poor Madeline." And then she told her sad tale, and we wept and sympathized with her till our kind teacher took us to our chambers. words, made so heart-rending from her exI will not attempt to give the tale in her own pressive language, sounding so harsh from most lips, but in her gentle voice perfect harmony. of their wealth consisted in cattle, which in Her parents were rich, as I have said; and much Switzerland, as is well known, are, in the summer, taken to feed on the mountains. Among the young men who watched the cows was one far superior to the rest, both in outward appearance and in natural gifts; he played several instruments, and sang with the greatest taste; he had indeed received a good education, for his family it surprising that he should look on her with had once been as wealthy as Madeline's. Was affection? and why should not the girl, then almost a child, admire the handsome youth, whose hair hung in such golden curls beneath his large straw hat, generally wreathed with Alpine flowers? And what harm could there be in accepting some of those flowers to wear on Madeline, and he knew that her parents, proud her own fête-day? But Henri was older than of their daughter and of her wealth, would never bestow her on a poor herdsman; so he fought against his love, and avoided her. But then came the long winter months, when, in their simple housekeeping, they were so much together; and Madeline grew more lovely every day, and knew no reason why she should not love better to talk to Henri than to the other shepherds; and when the spring came again, with its leaves and flowers and sunny skies, how sweet to be rowed across the lake by him, and to talk of the birds and the cows and the chamois, and how she should so love to go with him to the mountains, and help to watch the flocks, and make butter and cheese in her châlet; while he should sing to her, and garland her with Alpine roses and Gentianetta. Will any wonder that Henri betrayed his secret, and was found by the angry mother with his arm round the blushing girl, who had told him she loved him better than all the bright flowers, sparkling mountain springs, and bleating flocks, better than all in which she had hitherto delighted most-ay, as well even as her own dear father and mother? though grave, and sometimes sad, did not lose her health, but employed herself continually. She had evidently not lost all hope. Her lover wrote to her, and she answered him once or twice, but, as we thought, coolly, considering her great affection for him; but Swiss girls are modest, and shy of telling their love. At length these letters ceased, and then she grew still more sad, lost her appetite, and never sang to us, or spoke of Henri, as she used to do. One morning, at the latter end of November -a dull and dreary day, I well rememberwhen the wind whistled and moaned through the long galleries, and our double windows were first put on; we were all creeping close round the stove, to warm ourselves, when Marie Oser burst open the door, crying, "A letter for Madeline! a letter for Madeline !" Poor girl, how white and faint she looked when she saw it was only from her mother! No sooner had she read the first words, however, than she leaped from her seat with a dreadful scream, which brought our teachers in terror to the room. "Read it for me, dear Mademoiselle; I cannot see. Read it loud; let all hear the news." It was merely a cold and formal announce ment of Henri's marriage! We were at first stupefied; but soon came a burst of indignation from every one at his perfidy. "Oh no, no! it cannot be. I will not believe it till he writes himself. I will wait-I will not send his ring yet." Madeline would not tell what her mother said, but bitter words they must have been, the thought of which could make her sob so deeply. Henri did not go with the cattle that summer, but stayed with a neighbouring landowner, who thought highly of his talents, and interceded with the incensed parents on his behalf, but in vain. Madeline was kept in the house till her faded colour obliged them again to permit her usual exercise; and now, it may be thought, surely she will meet Henri, perhaps run away with him. Such would probably have been the case in England or France, but not so in Switzerland. My readers may perhaps think them cold and unfeeling, but neither Henri nor Madeline ever thought of meeting purposely, after so strict a prohibition. Accidentally they sometimes passed each other, and Henri watched Not long had she to wait, poor girl! For a day every night to see the light in her own little or two after came a long, despairing letter from room. At church, too, it is also to be feared Henri himself, telling how he had been inveigled that their eyes and their thoughts would wander by her parents into marrying a girl who had long in spite of themselves; but never did either ever been known to love him, and who had been perdream of marrying without her parent's consent. suaded to swear that he was betrothed to her. Still they had hope; but even this was soon His friends, believing her story, threatened to overcast. A stranger, of middle age, well look-turn him adrift on the world if he did not marry ing, and undoubtedly rich, came to spend some time in the valley; he soon perceived Madeline's superiority to the other girls, and was enchanted with her beauty. He had not heard of Henri, and one day he came and was closeted a long time with her father; and then she was sent for, and told that she was to marry this man in a month's time. What a blow for the poor girl! At first her senses forsook her; but when she revived, for the first time in her life, as she herself said, she refused to obey. How could she? Did she not still love Henri? And had she not told him that as long as he was faithful she would never love another? "No, mother, I will not marry Henri without your consent, but I cannot become the wife of another." Her mother was astonished. Neither entreaties, nor threats, nor promises, could shake her resolution; and they at length sent her to Montmartre, in hopes that when she no more saw her lover she would forget him. 66 Not so," said she, kissing a small ring she always wore. "As long as he is faithful I will be so too; and I have promised to keep this on my finger till I change my mind." Well, the weeks rolled on, and Madeline, her. He even now madly implored Madeline to "Can that be our Madeline's mother?" said we, as we saw her alight from her charaubanc. Her face was handsome, but had that harsh, weather-beaten look, so common among the peasants of Switzerland, owing to their constant exposure to sun and wind without bonnet; her black lace cap, standing out from her face with wires, was anything but becoming, and a round black hat, looking as if seldom used, hung upon her arm. Oh, how we hated her! We could! scarcely restrain our feelings, and could with difficulty be prevented from expressing our indignation before the carriage rolled away, taking our beloved friend for ever from our sight. We heard some time after that she had, at last, been induced to give her consent to marry the same man who before had sought her, but that she did not look likely to live long; and so it proved. On her very bridal day, as the ring was placed on her finger by her husband, she fell in a long faint; and before the sun set, her spirit, too gentle to contend with such harsh natures, ascended to the home she had long sighed to reach. LOVE. BY GEORGINA C. MUNRO. Z. Z. 'Tis Love that nerves the gentlest souls to dare There was a maiden, beautiful as gleam Of her young years, with Love's glad sunbeams dyed; aim Was but to scatter blossoms on her way; Love-in her girlhood-from a heart, whose claim Was nearer, yet more distant; for there lay Between their paths a chasm, yawning wide, Of deadly feud-of bitterness, and pride; Yet, Love, immortal Love! thy might awoke Within his breast, his lips untiring spoke Thy eloquence, and dreams, long cherished deep Within the heart of vengeance, passed away, And wrath was lulled by its soft tones to sleep, As winds which sink with the declining day; And all was peace, and Love his halo cast Alike round present and round future hours, And made her life a bright and blissful dream. Again 'tis night!-the moonbeams brightly sleep I dare not tread upon the meanest thing P FIDDLER'S WELL. (A Legend of Cromarty.) BY ELIZABETH YOUATT, AUTHOR OF "THE BLIND MAN AND HIS GUIDE," ETC. Why seek for distant marvels, when at home "What's in a name?" asks our own immortal Shakspeare. Ah! a good deal sometimes. In confirmation of which we candidly confess that we were once more than half tempted to leave the following touching and beautiful legend in all its original obscurity, simply because the hero's name happened, most unfortunately, to be William, or Willie Fiddler! Then it occurred to us that the difficulty might be got over by supposing this to be a mere soubriquet, derived from the young man's probable passion for music; the violin perhaps, vulgarly called fiddle; a supposition far easier to advance than controvert, as all this happened more than a hundred years ago. But our natural love of truth, together with the fact of the name of Fiddler being still common in the neighbourhood, finally triumphed, and our readers shall have the legend just as we found it. Once upon a time, in the eastern part of the parish of Cromarty, lived two dear friends, Willie Fiddler and Dugald Scott. They had been companions from their earliest childhood, and had grown up together in that perfect sympathy of thought and pursuit which renders such attachments as delightful as they are rare; neither could boast of very robust health, a circumstance which, while it hindered their joining in the more active sports of their youthful associates, threw them still oftener into each other's society. At such times they used to wander away among the lofty cliffs, and liked nothing better than to watch the blue waters of the Frith gliding and sparkling along in the distance like some fairy thing. 66 We verily believe, with Wordsworth, that there is a hidden, but refining influence to be found in the contemplation of nature. "A beauty, born of murmuring sound," that even where it does not pass into the face," seldom fails to touch the heart with something of its own tranquil loveliness; and it is in this manner that we would in a measure account for the evident and acknowledged superiority of the two friends over the majority of their acquaintance. Those lonely walks together, with the thoughts to which they so naturally gave birth; the sweet companionship of earth, sea, and sky, were not without their due effect in forming the character and disposition of those of whom we write. Neither will we pretend to deny that in all probability they also brought about in a great degree the catastrophe of our simple history. For many a time, beguiled by the beauty of the scene and hour, have they lingered to enjoy it until warned by the chill winds of night of their own imprudence, and the risk they ran. About a twelvemonth previous to the period of which we write, the long friendship subsisting between these two young men appeared for the first time to be seriously threatened, and never afterwards entirely resumed its former exclusive devotion. A third had been admitted among them-Cathleen Ross, beautiul as a dream, and wild and mirthful as a fairy, came with an aged relative to reside in the neighbourhood, and was soon surrounded by a host of rustic lovers and admirers, and among the rest Willie Fiddler and his friend Dugald, who were from the first peculiarly distinguished by the smiles of the young girl. But Cathleen was too truthful and simple-minded to keep them very long in suspense, and her evident preference for the former, evinced rather by happy smiles and blushes than eloquent words, soon terminated the affair. Dugald candidly confessed that he verily believed that this had been only a brother's love from the beginning, and asked permission still to retain that feeling for the betrothed of his friend, which the girl gratefully and cheerfully granted; for she liked Dugald, as we cannot help liking all those who are near and dear to the beloved of our own hearts. To love what they love seems only right and natural, and is a feeling that comes of itself, and extends even to the meanest flower that blows. After a little time everything seemed to go on just as usual, only that Cathleen made one in all their walks and plans, and that poor Dugald occasionally found himself in the very unpleasant predicament of playing third; and was wont, now and then, to feign a weariness and indisposition which he did not feel, in order to remain behind. But this did not very often occur, for |