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His dark eye flashed,—his proud breast heaved,—his

cheek's hue came and went,He reached that grey-haired chieftain's side, and there

dismounting bent, A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he

tookWhat was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook ?

That hand was cold,-a frozen thing, -it dropped from

his like lead, He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the

dead. A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fixed

and white; He met at last his father's eyes,—but in them was no

sight! Up from the ground he sprang and gazed ;—but who could

paint that gaze? They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and They might have chained him, as before that stony form

he stood; For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his

lip the blood.

amaze :

“Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like

childhood thenTalk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike

men ! He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young

renown, He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat


Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly

mournful brow, “No more, there is no more," he said, “ to lift the sword

for now,

My king is false, my hope betrayed! My father-oh!

the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth ! “I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire !

beside thee yet I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil

had met ! Thou wouldst have known my spirit then ;—for thee my

fields were won ; And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou

hadst no son!”

Then starting from the ground once more, he seized the

monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and 'wildered looks of all the courtier

train; And with a fierce, o’ermastering grasp, the rearing war

horse led, And sternly set them face to face,—the king before the

dead :

“Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to

kiss ? -Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell me

what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-give answer,

where are they? -If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life

through this cold clay !

“Into these glassy eyes put light,—be still ! keep down

thine ire, Bid these white lips a blessing speak,—this earth is not

my sire:

Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my

blood was shed, Thou canst not kand a king his dust be mountains

on thy head!”

He loosed the steed,—his slack hand fell ;—upon the

silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from

that sad place : His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial

strain :His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of




Now, Mr Caudle,-Mr Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this : there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I shall quit the house. No, no! There's an end of the marriage state, I think,—and an end of all confidence between man and wife,—if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul : tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still,—not that I care much about it,-still, I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh ! Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr Caudle ; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well ?

And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say—you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion,—not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the

secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a mason,—when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be allowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason,when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage.

Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute yes, Mr Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a mason; not at all, Caudle ; I dare say it's a very good thing ; I dare say

it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me,-you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't? You're a wretch, Mr Caudle.

By permission of Messrs Bradbury, Agnew, & Co.

it is :

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[PERSONS : Claude Melnotte and Pauline Deschapelles. ] Pauline. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the Lake of Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendours since thou didst swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and when thou describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scoin, as if custom had made thee disdain greatness. Melnotte. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me

paint The home to which, could Love fulfil its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen !-A deep vale

Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world;
Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold
And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies,
As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows,
As I would have thy fate !

Pau. My own dear love!

Mel. A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose

songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why earth could be unhappy, while the heavens Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends That were not lovers ; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we'd read no books That were not tales of love—that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens We'd

guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange-groves

and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I’ the midst of roses !Dost thou like the picture ?

Pau. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang
Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue !
Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly,
Who would not love thee like Pauline !

Mel. [bitterly] Oh, false one !
It is the prince thou lovest, not the man:
If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power,
I had painted poverty, and toil, and care,
Thou had’st found no honey on my tongue ;-Pauline,
That is not love!

Thou wrongst me, cruel Prince ! At first, in truth, I might not have been won, Save through the weakness of a flattered pride ;

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