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coffee. The first quadrille was forming : at the, on his part. She looks half-disinclined; there, head of the room were Grace and Mr. Murray; they are gone to the lobby.” Mr. Percival and Kate had also taken their “I am tired ; indeed I cannot,” answered place; Fanny Weston, with her listless step, Grace, in reply to Alfred's request that she was dancing with another officer: all were gay should waltz with him—"and the room is so and happy-looking; but Grace, though she very warm; I feel that I ought not to attempt it laughed, and returned word for word with her just now.” partner, watched the door incessantly, and as it “ Come to the next room," said the young closed on every new arrival, an anxiety was man, anxiously, as he saw her flushed cheek and visible, and she raised her glass with almost heard her quick breathing ; " do come ; you will nervous excitement.

find it quite cool and refreshing," and they “What's the matter ?” inquired Mr. Murray, passed through the lobby into the back drawseeing her stoop, and look towards her foot. ing-room. There was but one young man be

“Ah, I have broken my sandal! What shall fore them as they entered, and with a natural I do?

feeling that he might be an intruder, he glided “Allow me to fasten it for you ; I shall be but quietly through the other door. too proud to kneel and arrange the shoe of the “ Is it not cool, now?" asked Alfred, sitting prettiest foot in the county.'

down, and drawing a chair for Grace; but she “Never mind, now," laughed Grace; “Mrs. stood proudly under the chandelier, and turned Newman, opposite, would say we were flirting if her face upward, as if to invite more colour to I allowed you to commit such an enormity: 1 her cheek, and lightnings to her eye. In a can wait until the dance is over.”

second he was at her side. “Why will you thus “But will you not waltz the first with me?” treat me? How can you account for such con“Certainly,” she answered gaily, dancing off. duct?” burst hurriedly from him.

“I am heart-sick of Murray, Kate," whis- * I was but amusing myself: you know I do pered Grace, passing in the quadrille. I won- not care for Mr. Murray: be friends,” and der, will he never come !"

Grace held out her hand, while she smiled “I am dancing with him," answered Kate, sweetly. thinking only of Edward Percival. Grace smiled. Alfred looked at the bright, glowing picture of

The waltz struck up—that dance so much youth, happiness, more than beauty-exquisite rhymed, so often reprobated-tolerated by expression; while he read in the blushing face mothers who have daughters with pretty figures (as he thought), a confession. He took the and feet-pronounced so spirit-stirring and en- offered hand, and held it closely within his own. livening by the young girl who is fond of ad-“Oh, woman! woman!” he cried ; and the primiration-so dangerous by the man who has a soner hand was pressed to his heart : he handsome young wife, quite willing to dance it stretched out his right arm as though he would if allowed—and so decidedly improper, with have detained her longer; but Grace thought it every step full of levity, and every motion be- had gone far enough ; she shook her head in her yond the limits of modesty, by the old man with own coquettish manner, and said, “Come, we grandchildren, who affirms,"such a dance shall be missed,” and, arm in arm, they joined would not have been thought of in his days.” the company. We do not attempt either to censure or approve; “ I could quarrel again with you,” whispered the story has nought to do with it.

the young man at the door ; for reconciliation is Grace Clifford waltzed with Mr. Murray, and a stronger bond. Will you waltz now? That as she fled round, a figure peering into the room is good music. Ah! they have finished; some struck her: it was like Alfred, so she sat down. one is going to sing." A minute after Alfred Selby entered, and se- Well, I shall sit awhile. Go, hearken to lected Fanny Weston as a partner for the dance the song, and come back by and bye.” then commencing. It was too much to be Grace took a seat on a sofa beside an old slighted for a mere doll ; so Grace, vowing in- man, and sighed heavily. Even then, in the ternally to make him suffer, was again all smiles height of conquest, and full stretch of her power and joyousness.

over the young man's heart, a sense of utter “What a pretty girl is Grace Clifford ! and loneliness' came chillingly across the fair dehow young she looks! I thought, on entering ceiver ; her gay, careless laugh was hushed; and the room, it was a child : that white muslin but little of the dancing was shared in any more dress, and red berry wreath round her head be- by the volatile flirt. come her. I would rather have her appearance “Look at Grace,” said Edward Percival to to-night than all the paraphernalia of finery she Kate, in a low tone: “though she is talking to was decked in a few evenings since.”

that old man so sedately, she has neither heart This was the whisper of a young gentleman, nor spirits to be amused. I know no one more who had been intently regarding Grace, to deceptive than that girl! I have, at times, another, who immediately answered, “I have thought her most to be envied in the world, been thinking that she is a fine girl; but some with that unconcerned manner; and again, I how I am half afraid of her mocking laugh, ha despised her for downright coquetry and though I shall go now, and ask her to dance."

trifling ; but invariably she cheats me into forForestalled, as sure as truth ; young Selby giveness and admiration, by the frankness with has her : I think there is something a little sweet which she will say, 'I love none of them; and

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yet I like Alfred Selby.' There, now, to im- , theless much good within : she is one who does partial, unprejudiced well-wishers of hers, like not value the world's opinion—an injurious proyou and me, Kate,” and he looked into her blush- ceeding either in old or young, as we live in a ing face, to read, if possible, her thoughts, great measure for the world. Colonel Lucas "Grace's eyes are meaningless, for her body will suit her better than either of the young alone holds a place in this room.

men : he certainly is near sixty ; but she always “Grace is a strange girl," answered Kate, said an old man would be her taste.” murmuringly; "and yet I think that she is Mrs. Weston changed the conversation, and happy in her own way. It is not well to be ad- presently took leave. mired by the crowd: I should prefer a few On the same day, about three o'clock, Grace simple friends. She has been spoiled by too Clifford and her mother were both in the rooin much indulgence in childhood, acting on an ex- where first we introduced the sisters to our citable temperament. Years may, I hope, check readers; Mrs. Clifford working, and as she that love of conquest. She cannot understand plied her needle quickly, every now and then my creed, that the love of many brings misery addressed her daughter. Grace knew by inand unhappiness : it is more to be dreaded than stinct a lecture was at hand; so she changed her entire solitude ; while one faithful and true heart position, and sat with her face quite turned is a prize seldom drawn from the lottery, but away, looking over the leaves of a music book. which is nevertheless of inestimable value, and Mrs. Clifford was longing to begin her oration, worthy our best endeavours to attain.”

yet she was afraid. “I'am a convert, dear Kate, to so excellent a Grace had been spoiled, in every sense of the doctrine," exclaimed Edward : “and, to a word : her mo:her loyed her, but dreaded the truth, so feelingly expressed! Hearken to quick kindling eye, and the tongue, whose every

word could contain pointed meaning and bitter stings at pleasure. Of late, Grace's unamiable

moods had the preponderance, and her delicate, “How very ill Grace Clifford is looking !" slight appearance frightened a mother's heart, said Mrs. Mansergh to Fanny Weston and her always nervously alive to danger, even without mother, who were paying a morning visit at her the probability of a cause. house.

Grace, my child, dreaming again ? come and “ Yes, indeed,” answered Mrs. Weston, “I take a walk with your father and me. I have think she has been declining ever since her sis- never seen a colour on your cheek since Kate ter's marriage with Edward Percival. Mrs. left us; instead of looking happy, you seem Clifford told me yesterday that Kate is the hap- wretched. I wish you would go to her for piest woman in the world, and Edward making change of scene.” a rapid fortune, attending to his profession. • Do you forget, mamma, I am engaged to They are establisbed at fifty miles from Colonel Lucas, and that I could not go, even if here; he has more to do than any one of his I would ?” standing that goes the circuit.”

"I am delighted, Grace," interrupted her “And,” interrupted Fanny, “they invited mother, “that you have mentioned the subject, Miss Grace on a visit, but she would not go ; | as I want to tell you, once for all, it depends on perhaps she regrets having refused Mr. Mur- your own will and pleasure whether you choose ray: he would have been more acceptable, I to marry Colonel Lucas or not. We are not fancy, as a lover and husband than old Colonel tired of our child ; and I own we consider it Lucas; and he had quite as much money. I strange that you should refuse Mr. Murray, a met Mr. Selby, and he seemed quite astonished young man more of a suitable age, and then when I told him the news. I wonder how he accept a man older than your father. It is not will like to have it found out that she jilted yet too late ; why not allow me to tell him that him? I said long ago she was fond of admira- you have changed your mind ? He is worthy of tion ; but he thought otherwise, for which rea- a good, steady wife; and a visionary girl is not gave him the hint to-day.”

fitted for him. I wonder he cannot perceive oh, fie ! naughty Fanny !” said her mother, the languor with which his very presence inat the same time her eye was smiling approb spires you. Nay, it is no laughing matter, tion. “How could you be so cruel? Indeed, Grace, and I must say your laugh comes not at any rate, Alfred Selby is no match for any from the heart; but remember, a husband is one;' he is a perfect idler, squandering away his quite different from a beau or lover, who may time, and without a prospect of fortune.” be cast off as you would your dress, from very

“The Cliffords are particular friends and fa-fickleness; he will be your companion through vourites of mine,” interrupted Mrs. Mansergh; life, and assert a stronger claim over you than I "and really very good, obliging girls. Kate have ever done—the chain will prove agony to was my favourite of the two, because of her your disposition, without love. Reflect, my gentle, pure disposition, and single-mindedness. child, I am sure I have not spoken unjustly.” It was at my house, you may remember, three “Mother,” said Grace-and she turned round, months since, that he proposed for her : I shall looking almost startling, so determined was the never forget her look of happiness that night: expression of that face of ivory whiteness—“moshe is, indeed, a worthy example. Grace, with ther, I do wish to marry him for two reasons, more glare and many imperfections, has never- and furthermore we will never mention the

son I

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subject. First, I have long given up all idea of Grace spoke the words coldly and calmly; wedding for love, such as I feel it possible I but even in uttering them, a slight tremor was could have felt; but whether I was not one to visible through her frame. fix the attentions of a man of sense, or that I “Ah, I see it all !” exclaimed Alfred, rising neglected the time in idle and vain coquetry, I in excitement, and laying his hand on a table need not say, for it matters not ; secondly, I opposite to her ; "you need not be wished joy, at respect, esteem him, and as it is necessary that any rate—the blanched cheek and dimmed eye I should marry, not being independent, it is tell that ambition and wealth have purchased fitter that I live with one who will not expect you. Vain girl! how could you sell yourself?” too much, and will make allowances for youth and “ It was my own act, free and unconstrained; inexperience, than carry a chill, and a blighting, and yet I have not sold myself for riches.” withering sting, to a warm, imaginative tempera- True," mused the young man, “ you rement. I have said all: you can goand take your fused Murray, who had more wealth; and I walk; but mind, the subject of love is interdicted imagined then it was a proof of your love for for ever."

me, though your lips never said it; I read it, as “I am satisfied, Grace: I hope you will be I thought, in every action, and my tongue has happy, even though you have thought me un- never been mute. You knew that I loved you worthy of the confidence a child is generally well, deeply, with a devotion blinding me to supposed to place in her mother. Do come and every fault of yours. It was that very affection take a walk, that we may not give a ghost as a which kept me here loitering beside you, when bride."

I ought to have been wooing fame and fortune—" Mrs. Clifford had her hand on the fastening “I can hear no longer, Mr. Selby: all those of the door, when Grace eagerly caught her dreams must have an end ; the sooner we are dress—“Would you have me tell what could awakened the better, in order that the world only lessen your child in your opinion and her may claim us as children; every one will tell own? a word can do it, hearken-1 have loved, you such awakening makes us wiser and better. but my love was unrequited!”

I must go now, and shall expect you to wish me The words came like a shriek from the ex-joy.” cited girl, whose white lips had pronounced No!


shall not,” he exclaimed, standing them; she raised her right hand before her eyes, between her and the door; “no, by heaven! and staggered back, and almost fell on the sofa. not until you answer me this question, for I do Her mother gazed, deprived of speech, at the not believe that delicate form to be the seat of weeping Grace; but the words, “Go—I would such utter heartlessness, nor that young, fair rather be alone," came from her, and Mrs. Clif-face, which I've so loved to dwell on, can bear ford felt that solitude could alone act as a balm the bold, practised stamp of deception; no, I to those over-wrought feelings, and slowly shut think yet better of you. I do not ask whether the door.

you have ever loved me, for my own heart An hour had struck since Grace first sank on readily answers that question ; but tell me, have the sofa; and there she remained still, without a you no fear of my revenge? Could I not whismotion or change in her position. During the per to Colonel 'Lucas what should make even time, she had reviewed her past life. All that him think little of you? Do you not fear my she used to take pleasure in seemed now in the punishment?” abstract as so many stinging memories, revived No, not at all," answered Grace. only to add to her faults. A voice outside

Why?” startled her; it was some one asking—“Is Because


loved me, and would even yet Miss Clifford in the drawing-room?" The ser- think well of me.

This must be our last convant replying in the affirmative, made her ad- versation; but I will beg your forgiveness. I vance to meet whoever it might be. “ Have I have not behaved well to you; still I am asking another scene to go through? I think I know pardon, your granting it will be the deepest that voice," she murmured, and at the same in- sting to this worn heart.” stant Alfred Selby entered the room. A colour Alfred took her offered hand—“ You have rose to Grace's cheek as she extended her hand, judged me rightly," he said, holding it and and they sat down.

looking sadly on his companion ; "for so well “What a beautiful day! have you met do I love you, that aught against Grace Clifford mamma?” she asked, determined on saying shall never pass my lips. I forgive you! yes, a something, yet scarcely knowing what.

second time I can forgive; once, when forgive“No," he answered; “but having heard that ness was asked in mockery, and now, when I she was out walking, I came here—my business see you desire it. May you be as happy as I is only with yourself."

once hoped to have made you! Is this not “I am quite ready,” interrupted Grace; “but wishing you joy? Good bye, Grace.” be quick, I expect mamma in shortly.”

He pressed her hand slightly between his, "Trifling ever,” exclaimed the young man, and was gone. hitterly; " at last I can believe that you delight Alfred Selby left her presence a sad, stricken, in torturing a true heart. Tell me, have you but a wiser man; he saw that youth and time promised hand and heart to Colonel Lucas? I had been vanishing from his grasp, and that he must hear from your own lips-is such the case?" should make haste and retrieve name and

“Yes; within a month I shall be a bride." character at his profession. It was a lesson to

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the young man, taught by a severe master, at- | from motives of vain glory, and manifesting a tended with stern and cruel treatment, causing contempt for the holy sentiment of "true love,” his mind to take a tone more reflective than gay think on the fate of Grace Clifford. It has been or joyous. It certainly proved the truth of beautifully saidGrace's assertion, spoken with pride of heart and conquest-" It had taught him to be a man."

“Oh ! pay not back with ice the gentle heart, And Grace fulfilled her promise : she married

That pours the sunshine of its love on thee." Colonel Lucas, who alone looked happy at that Sligo. strange bridal, for he was proud of the young girl at his side, though not even a blush of maiden modesty crossed her features ; for those solemn vows she uttered were scarcely heeded

SONG FOR SPRING. her heart was far away with a vision of the past. She was a prudent wife and mother ; that pride Old Winter hath wedded Spring, which in girlhood was only occasional, had

And taken her dower to his icy tower, grown and been cherished in the steady, pas: With her leafy wreath and sward of green ;

Where she decks him a brilliant scene, sionless matron; but Colonel Lucas thought

No more on the bower shall the snow-cloud lowerher, if possible, daily more perfect, and ed

Old Winter bath wedded Spring. it on his death-which took place three years after his marriage—when he named her sole He has wedded the rosy Spring, heiress to all his possessions, and said—“He need not mention their dear and only child, she of white blooms and sweet paly pink,

And softly she pours her palmy showers being well provided for with her mother.”

And the wild young bee comes now to drink, Years have passed away since then. Mrs. In sunny hours, from the nectary flowers Lucas, a calm, but still young and attractive He holds for the rosy Spring. woman, occasionally visits her father and mother, who are living at - ; she dresses in And Spring hath kindled her fires slight mourning, and her eye at times beams On the dragon-fly and broad peony, with something of its old magic when she smiles And the hip-rose so maiden red; on the lovely girl of eight years old at her side; Winter's fires are dark and dead, and that proud woman, who even yet does not or

That roared loud and high for his revelry

Ere she had kindled her fires. ever can forget her young heart's dream, loves with all a mother's love (and who can question it?) that gentle Marian; while her constant lesson Spring rides on the mellow morn, to her is-“The truth, my child, must ever be where she's buried her spouse so cold.

Oh, her wings she'll preen on the hawthorn green before you ; deception brings out its own Well, let him sleep on, nor behold punishment, and sooner or later will destroy the

How she loves to lean on the lustrous sheen brightness of your mind, leaving in its place rank That wakes with the mellow morn. weeds luxuriating; while truth, the glorious attribute of the Most High, needs no dress or He'll breathe no sullying breath adornment. Wear it as a treasure in your heart, On the glittering charms she bears in her arms, and let it be like a diadem on your brow." To the glades of the browsing sheep ;

Marian followed the advice; but was it not a Where mild-voiced lambs at daises peep, reproach again to Grace that her child should And leap their alarms at buttercup swarms, learn, from her teaching, what she had never Bedewed with their sportive breath. practised?

Alfred Selby attended to his profession, cut- | We are hailing thee, all who love ; ting out with patience and perseverance the

For with mild blue eye, the violets shy road to fame and fortune. Surely we would Creep in sweets over shade-clad banks

“ Cull us for maidens fair, rich thanks not wish our favourite to pass through life un

They'll smile ; while we'll lie on their necks, and loved, dwelling on a gloomy past ? About ten

shy years after, he met with one who, though neither We'll whisper your tales of love." brilliant nor attractive, yet won the heart of the man of sense and learning; happy and devoted She has risen on beamy wing, to each other, they are sailing down the stream

She's leafing the briar, and stringing the lyre of life.

Of the lark and the luscious thrush, Mrs. Lucas met with her old admirer during And the blackbird's honied rush. a late visit to her parents, and without embar- Each bud is springing higher, drawn up by the fire rassment on either side. Time, and the calm, She drops from her beamy wing. mellow beauty of middle age, hushes the wild stormy feelings of youth, as the cold twilight She will go, this fickle Spring, of evening inakes us forget the noon-day sun. But weeping she'll pass o'er the emerald grass The twilight of the heart, and the twilight of She has plaited on the verdant field, youth, all shall come encompassing us in their To hang in the Sun's ball her shield. turn.

There'll soon be, alas ! no sand in the glass Ye, who are fond of admiration, or drawing of this charmingly fickle Spring. forth the true and genuine feelings of the heart



Written on the arrival of Espartero in England.


[Espartero was undoubtedly “the man before his age," or at least before the age of his countrymen ; and it seems the general opinion that had he been willing to “baptize his country in blood," by continuing the strife of civil war, he might have retained his power much longer, and probably have ultimately established it securely.]

Here's a health to Espartero,

A welcome to our shore;
Not often boast we such a guest-

So come, the bright wine pour !
All honour to his noble heart-

Come pour the golden rain ;
Drink of the wine born of the vine

That grows in sunny Spain.
Here's a health to Espartero,

A sigh for sunny Spain ;
And scorn for those unworthy ones

Who hug their galling chain -
Scorn for the crowd who backward roll

Mankind's advancing waves ;
Unworthy freedom, if content

To live benighted slaves.

Yet, though beautiful art thou,
With thy snowy queen-like brow,
And the sunny grace that lies
In the laughter of thine eyes ;
Though my heart was widowed, lone,
Its cherish'd inmate thou alone ;
And more bitter yet my lot,
Since thou saidst“ I love thee not,"
Still listen to me, loveliest !
By the passion in my breast,
By the sweetness of thy mind,
Soaring high, all unconfin'd,
By thy timid, trembling tear,
Seen alone when I am near,
I will leave thee !--no command
E'er shall force thy heart or hand :
I will leave thee !--not to me
Shalt thou owe thy misery;
Never shalt thou guess my care,
Or the depth of my despair ;
Never shall my heaving breast
Rob thy pitying heart of rest :
This last effort of my pen,
Says-we ne'er shall meet again !

Here's a health to Espartero

In exile greater still
Than had he by the iron hand

Compelled them to his will.
Not even for the better birth

Would he“ baptize in blood.”
A health to Espartero, then,

The wise, and brave, and good! 1843.

In the struggling misty light, And the dark uncertain night, Prayers shall reach the God on high, For thy spirit's ecstasy. 'Neath the peaceful, holy moon, In the fervid heart of noon, On a foreign burning strand, Far from my own native land ; In my life's deep agony, A prayer shall spring to Heaven for theeThat never shade of woe may come To overcloud thy happy home, To dim the lustre of thine eye, To wake the echo of thy sigh, To stretch upon the rack of tears The shadows of the by-gone years, To bring back in misery The ruined shrines of memory; But be thy life all bright and fair, Untouched by that grim monster-Care ; Let fate reserve such store for me, And bring her blooming gifts to thee!



O pardon me! not mine the crime,
That love should live through endless time;
For though I dar'd to think of thee
In all thy peerless radiancy,
And though my heart still owns thy sway
(Ah, turn not thy bright head away),
Though at the music of thy voice
This wretched heart dares to rejoice,
Though at thy look the speaking blood
Floats o'er my cheek in passion's flood,
And my careworn breast is stirred
By each unforgotten word,
Which rests like fire upon snow,
Yet fails to warm the heart below;
Though a dream of bliss is mine,
At the lightest tone of thine
(Sunshine still on roses laid,
But to make more dark the shade ;
Budding flowers, that only beam
On the surface of life's stream,
Blooming but to make the woe
Still more stern that sleeps below),
Blame thine own surpassing beauty,
Stealing back my soul from duty.

And when foremost in the dance,
Pleasure in each sunny glance ;
When thy voice sends forth the song,
In the high-born courtly throng ;
When another love hath bound thee,
And Fame's glitt'ring wreath hath crown'd

Think not of me : let me be
A thing unknown to joy and thee.
But at midnight, if thy sigh
Far to other lands will fly,
When thy tears fall fast and free,
And thy thoughts come tenderly
(Like the dew, which always leaves
À brighter hue where'er it grieves ;
Or rather, like an April sun,
Which clears the thing it looks upon),
To thy mind's etherial view,
Let me seem at once the true
When thy lyre shall often waken
Tones of hopes and joys forsaken,
Gaze upon the changing past,
And think of me with peace at last !

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