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My sister Dona Sancha is,
At least the priest asserted this,

When that I got baptismal grace.

“I rest beneath the greenwood tree, For I have travelled long to see

Bastard Mudarra near and farSon of the Spanish renegadeHim who commands a ship to aid

The Moorish king, Aliatar.

“Certes, unless he shuns my wrath, I soon should cross the caitiff's path;

He carries with him everywhere, The dagger of my house, and on The pommel shines an agate stone,

While sheathless hangs the blade and bare.

bitter enough; and anything in the way of prolixity has had excellent epic precedent in Homer.

Viotor Hugo's sentiment is very often injured by very great extravagancies and exaggerations. He has a genius for gorgeous enumerations and graphic details. He gets a heap of grand and luxuriant images, and he “ glides o'er them like a golden fish.” He exhibits all the French taste for dramatic effect, and his movement sometimes, compared with Byron's for instance—or Cowper's, is that stage carriage of which Mrs. Crummles's gait, walking up the aisle, in Nicholas Nickleby, is the caricature—a pausing, pronounced advance on a measured stride. Every stanza has its pointed rounding—and this, to an American taste, may, in some instances, be thought amusing enough. In his Greek Childa boy lying amidst the ruins of Scio, which the Turks had desolated, is addressed, and asked what he looks for or mourns for; and all the beautiful and poetical attractives of childhood are poured interrogatively out, till they are completely exhausted, and then the child—"the child of the blue eyes”-a high-stomached young rogue !-cries out—no, none of these

“Yes, by my Christian soul and faith, No other hand shall to the death

His miscreant body doom but mine; This is the dearest hope I hold”— “They call thee Don Rodrigo bold

Rodrigo of De Lara's line?

“Then listen, lord !—The youth who now
Speaks, names thee, gazes on thy brow,

He is Mudarra and thy fate!
The judge and the avenger see!
Now to what refuge canst thou flee?"

Rodrigo said : "thou comest late!”

"I, son of the bold renegade
Who doth command a ship to aid

The royal Moorish potentate-
I, and my dagger, and my wrong-
We three are here, we three are strong !"-

Rodrigo said: “thou comest late!”

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“I want powder and ball!” In another lyric, a dervish witnesses the grief of

Pacha, and in nine stanzas sums up the probable, picturesque causes of his awful and ominous look, and you think it must be one of the finest and weightest of them, till you come to end, and find it is only

Son tigre de Nubie est mort !

“Now, with my true Toledo blade,
And the good help of God to aid

Look on my eyes—they burn and start1-
Thy master and thy lord I stand,
And I will tear with red right hand,

Thy life from out thy beating heart!

His Nubian tiger is dead! In another, called Mazeppa, the poet desires to say that a fated bard is like the Ukraine chief, carried in painful transit amidst perils and discomforts, till he sinks and then becomes a king-posthumously—as it were :

“Yes, Dona Sancha's nephew here
Shall in thy ruddy heart's blood dear

Slake all this long-devouring thirst.
My uncle, diel no more for thee
Days, hours, or fleeting moments be!"-

“Nephew, Mudarra, hear me first!

Il court, il vole, i tombe
Et se releve roi!

"Wait thee a moment, till I stand With my good falchion in my hand!"

This the poet says, in twenty-three stanzas“Delay, good uncle, shall be none

about one hundred and forty lines. He does Than that from thee my brothers found;

not leave out a bound of the animal—rood Follow them down into the ground Where thou didst send them first, begone!

of the long way, or a pang of the victim

making all up into stanzas with a good point "If to this moment, everywhere,

palpable hit, at the end of each. Byron I've worn my thirsty dagger bare,

would have put the matter into three rapid 'Tis that I thought, and hugged the thought, lines and a hemistich-Cowper or Moore into That, to avenge the renegade, Thus, should my agate-hilted blade

a couplet. These exaggerations, so incomFind its red scabbard in thy throat!"

patible with an Anglo-Saxon taste, could be

easily multiplied. We are apt to smile at It should have found it four or five stanzas them; but our dramatic and sentimental neighback;—though the harangue is bloody and I bours of the other republic are vividly touched

Beyond the she-wolf's grim retreat,

Beyond the ring-dove's forest haunt, Beyond the plain where pilgrims meet

Three graceful palm-trees by a fount;

with them. Perhaps they laugh in turn, and deservedly, at some of our own literary complacencies. These things are, however, but the weeds—as we think them-of a rich soil, the exuberances of a glowing mind leaping, in its error, over climax into anti-climax-making that step which, Tom Paine says, divides, at times, the sublime and the ridiculous. Victor Hugo has a crowd of countervailing beauties. The following Orientale is picturesque and natural. An Arab is made to remember the French Sultan (Bonaparte) who sent the echoes of his name from the Pyramids and Tabor all through the East:

Beyond the rocks whence rudely go

The storms that waste the standing corn, Beyond the lake where, bending low,

The lonely bushes seem to mourn;

Beyond the sands where sternly goes,

With ataghan, the chieftain Moor, And wrinkled forehead swarth, that shows

Like Ocean's in a stormy hour:

O’er Arta's mirror-pond, afar,

Swift as the feathered arrow strays, And o'er the mount whose summits bar

Corinth's and Mykos' mutual gaze

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At night, when man sleeps and his spirit dreams, When among reeds is heard the flow of streams,

Most like a weeping voice with stifled words; If like a beacon-blaze the dawn streams out, Up from the plain a tumult runs about

Of early bells and birds.

Your head bends lower than it used to be;

Won't you caress us !-Ahl what have we done? The lamp goes out, the fire is smouldering, see! Oh, if you do not speak, the fire and we,

We and the lamp will all be dead and gone!

Near the dark lamp we'll both be dead, and then

What will you do when you awake distressed, And find us deaf, in turn, while you complain? Praying your saint to make us live again

You must embrace us long upon your breast.

You are the dawning, infant! and my mind
The plain, exhaling to the fragrant wind

Odours of flowers whose sweetness comes from you-
A forest, too, whose shadows, softly wild,
Are filled for you alone with murmurs mild,

And rays of golden hue. For your fine eyes are full of infinite sweetness, For your small hands, in their soft, round completeness,

As yet have done no wrong; your footsteps white
With our vile pathways have not yet been soiled ;-
The fair-haired, sacred head-the angel child-

With halo golden bright!
It looks so fair, the infant with its smile,
Its soft sweet trust, its voice that knows no guile,

And would say all the grief it soon dismisses;
Letting its pleased and wondering glances roll-
Offering to life, on all sides, its young soul,

And its young mouth to kisses.

We'll chafe your hands in ours; sing us the lay

of the poor troubadour-how the knight of fame Would win, by favour of the friendly fay, Trophies as nosegays for his lady gay,

And how his war-cry was a loving name.

Tell us what sign the phantoms ever fled,

What hermit saw Sathanas in the air,
What rubies glitter on the gnome-king's head,
And if the demon holds in greater dread

Good Turpin's psalms or Roland's falchion bare !

Or show us, in your Bible, pictures fine

Gold skies, blue saints, and Maries dolorous; The child, the crib, the wise men, and the kine; And teach us with your finger, line by line,

Those Latin words that speak to God of us.

And, gracious Lord, to all whom I hold dear,
My brothers, friends, relations, far or near,

And even unto my foes, this grace be granted ;-
Ne'er to see summer without flowers, nor see
The cage or hive without a bird or bee-

Home by no children haunted !

Mother, look up, the fire is going out,

A wisp is dancing on the embers low, Spirits, perhaps, will come into our hut; 0! stop your prayer,-why are your eyelids shut?

You who would comfort us, why scare us now?

The next treats of a more melancholy household, and its sentiments are extremely natural and touching.

How cold your arms are! you did lately say

There was another world, and Heaven was nigbThe grave and Heaven!—that life soon flits away, And then death comes 1-0 mother, tell us, pray,

Who is that death ;-why do you not reply?

THE GRANDMOTHER.

Grandmamma, wake, if you are sleeping there!

Your mouth moves always in your sleep, and thus We scarce can tell your slumber from your prayer; But now you have our stone Madonna's air,

Your lips don't stir-your breath don't come to us.

Thus mourned they long alone ; at morning-tide,

Their grandmother still slept; the death-bell tolled ;Through the half-open door, that eve, were spied Before a Book, the empty bed beside,

Two little children, kneeling unconsoled.

MADAME ROLAND IN PRISON.

BY PHOEBE GARDINER.

WITH spirit andismayed she kneels in prayer,

With quivering lip she breathes to heaven her vow, Her hands are clasped, and her long, shining hair

Waves in luxuriance round her polished brow;
While day's last lingering ray steals faintly by
Revealing in its flight her calm, deep agony.
With none to soothe her wo in that dark cell,

Slowly has passed each sad and dreary hour;
But o'er her spirit Earth can hold no spell,

The world has lost for her its charmed power;
And all her thoughts, imbued with light divine,
Rise like sweet incense to a holier shrine.
In chains she suffers for her country's wrong,

And ever fearless of her own dark doom,
The burning thoughts that round her thickly throng

Bear not a trace of cowardice or gloom; The matchless pride that lingers on her brow, Tells of the daring might her soul is gathering now.

No mother with her gentle hand is near,

To soothe her wo and soften her distress, And to pour forth for her a fervent prayer

That the Eternal One his child will bless, To cheer her soul with words of holy faith, And stand untired, soothe and watch the dying breath. But as the eagle in its fearless flight,

Pursues with tireless wing its viewless way;
And gazes with a fixed, unwavering sight,

Upon the bright and glorious source of day;
So does her noble spirit undismayed
Look upward to that God who ever gives it aid.
'Tis well! for hark, the fearful hour has come,

And deep and loud the death-bell tolleth now,
Those tones so thrilling call her to her home,

Death's shadow falleth fast upon her brow;
The crowd, the scaffold, one calm look on high,
And the freed spirit soars beyond the dark blue sky.

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CHAPTER III.

lightness-arms entwining, and rosy lips parted

with smiles that would vanquish St. Anthony, Tea was over ere Horace came down stairs, -gently and lightly round and round they notwithstanding the repeated summons of the float. For a moment or two the delighted housekeeper-and to his credit be it said, his old uncle contents himself with humming the appearance was now much more becoming the air, and beating time with hand and foot, then society of such charming young ladies, than skimming into the circle, he throws his arm the negligent attire in which he paid his first round little Meggie, and away they twirl with devoirs.

the rest—twirling, whirling, rising, sinking, As he drew near the open door of the par- round and round—and faster Gabriella touches lour, a skilful hand swept over the keys of the the keys, and faster fly the merry waltzers. piano, as if to test its tone and finish, and then, Now they take a wider circuit, and nearerabove the music of gay voices arose the en- ever nearer to the spot where Horace stands livening air of a waltz, and by the time Horace entranced, they come circling on, their floating entered the room, the whole bevy of fair girls ringlets mingling with his breath, and bright were tripping it like so many fays to the lively eyes gazing roguishly into his, as round and music,_all, except the charming musician, round they circle past—while round and round Gabriella, who, with her head bent archly over in bewildering maze the brai of Horace are one shoulder, while her fingers swiftly swept the circling too! Are these beautiful forms real keys, nodded gaily to the dancers as they flew he sees before him? Do such fair beings indeed past her in the giddy waltz. Round and round exist; and like the maidens of old who enticed on twinkling feet they airily glide—forms all the angels from their pure abode, are these

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bewitching forms about to turn him from the would cause us all much chagrin—is it not so, cloud-land in which he had so long loitered ? girls ?” But the gay measure suddenly ceases, -and " True, Constance-I am sure my visit instead panting and laughing, each fair waltzer sank of being a pleasure, will only be a vexation, if down.

Cousin Horace sacrifices his own enjoyment!” “ Whe-w-w-you good for nothing little said Kate. rogues, you have made my old head spin like “And so will mine-indeed it will !” cried a top-steady-steady-take care—there I am another. safe !" cried the old gentleman plunging down “ And mine,” added a third, “and besides, upon a corner of the sofa. “Ah! are you there, our dear uncle is so kind, and has so many Mr. Diogenes ?—why where's your tub ?” ad- plans for our amusement, that I really don't dressing Horace.

see any necessity for Cousin Horace to waste And as if for the first time aware of his a single moment upon us !" presence, six pair of bewitching eyes turned " You see how it is—so banish all restraint, full upon our hero.

and let not another minute of your valuable “ I have been a silent spectator of your en- time be thrown away,” said Constance in a joyment, fair cousins,” said Horace, bowing to grave and decided manner. the lovely circle.

“ And here," cried Kate, demurely handing “Indeed ; but not a participator, of course,” him a little silver candlestick, “is & light remarked Gabriella.

-and now do, dear cousin, return to your “ Why of course not,” added Kate; “our books, and give yourself no trouble about us.” folly can only be annoying to our cousin." In vain Horace tried to speak-in vain he

“You wrong me, Miss Mansfield,” said Ho-essayed to refute the charges they were heaprace; “I assure you that in the present instance ing upon him—his tongue refused all utterance. I believe the spectator enjoyed even more than He looked to his father for assistance—but just the performers.”

at that moment the old gentleman was engaged “ And you 'll dance with me next time, Cou- in a desperate battle with a horned-beetle, sin Horace, won't you ?” cried little Meggie, which with flying handkerchief he was chasing the youngest of the six fair girls, not yet in from corner to corner-and so poor Horace her teens, tripping across the room, and catch- suffered himself to be bowed and courtesied out, ing his hand. Come, Constance is going to by his kind considerate cousins ! play for us.”

Then--such a peal of joyous mirth as followed “ For shame, Meggie !” exclaimed Constance him up the study stairs! what could it mean? gravely, lifting her finger in reproval—"how “ Ah, doubtless," he thought, “ they are laughcan you thus annoy your cousin !"

ing at some droll sally of my father.” “Pray do excuse the child-she is very Poor Horace ! thoughtless—I beg you will not heed her foolish Sleep was almost a stranger to his eyes that request. Fie, Meggie!" added Gabriella. night-his pillow haunted by the strangest vi

“Never trouble yourselves, girls," exclaimed sions. Was he bewitched ? for the room seemed Mr. Mansfield; “not even the charmed fiddle I filled with light airy figures. read about when a boy, were it in the hands of old Orpheus himself, could make our solemn

“They stood beside his head, scholar here cut a single caper !"

Smiling thoughts, with hair dispread!

The moonshine seemed dishevelled.” Horace felt exceedingly annoyed. “Is there not a charm more potent here, my dear father?” Or, if he closed his eyes, he saw them still floathe said, smiling at little Meg.

ing around him, and bright eyes like shooting “ Ah yes, you will dance—there, I knew you stars were continually darting across his vision, would. Constance-Kate-Cousin Horace will while like the murmur of forest brooks were dance !” exultingly cried the little gipsy. the gentle voices whispering in his ears. And

Constance arose, and taking the little girl when at length he slept, he dreamed of the glitby the hand drew her away, saying, at the tering harem of the Veiled Prophet—of the same time, in a most grave and earnest manner, bewitching Zelica, and of the still more fasciwhich her laughing eyes more than half belied, nating indwellers upon Calypso's enchanted

“Cousin Horace, as we are to be the guests isle. of my dear uncle for some weeks, we trust you will not out of any courtesy to us, neglect or forego those pleasures so much more congenial to you—we know the study, not the drawingroom, is the spot where you most love to be, and A SUNBEAM stole a kiss from the brow of therefore to feel that our presence here compels Horace and awoke him, while at the same you, through politeness merely, to forsake it, i moment a chorus of merry voices came up from

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OHAPTER IV.

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