Original. MONODY TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH. By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. This devoted Missionary, who died in the autumn of 1836, at Beyroct, in Syria, testified in early life, the deepest regard for the Heathen, and turned from these gaieties that are wont to fascinate the young, to instruct a remnant of the tribe of Mohegan Indians, who have their residence a few miles from Norwich, her native city. So Syria hath thy dust-thou who wert born Amid my own green hillocks, where the voice Of falling waters and of summer winds Mingled their music. How thy full, dark eyc, Thy graceful form, thy soul-illumin'd smile Return upon me, as I muse at eve 'Mid the bright scenery of remember'd years. Upon the ashes of his buried kings, As on a loathsome weed. Thine own fair halls And then, Thy way was on the waters, and thy hand Strong ties withheld thee here- O! Jerusalem! Jerusalem! and do I see thee there- As when poor banish'd Judah wore the crown Had twin'd the tresses on his temples grey, And gnaw'd his heart-string. Lo, thy tent is pitch'd Among the Syrian vales-to thy lov'd toil And so the grief DIM is the eye and pale the check Which once the rose's hue outshone; And she-the once-lov'd-mildly meek, Lingers-deserted and alone. For she had trusted, earth above, And prayed for blessings on his head: The soothing tones of Friendship's bland, Oh! could her vile seducer feel How vain the wish! The sun is setting, In that sweet slumber all her woes. Now fixing with a vacant stare, Her listless eyes upon the token Of his first love-a miniature She droops her head-her heart is broken. And now-apart from all that clings To love and memory-she sleeps Where yonder pensile osier flings Its shadow-and its vigil keeps. We'll try the issue. Fran. Thy coward soul exulting in its safety! I see thee fold the letter-every thought Merged in thy joy at most successful cunning. And stamp'st thy private seal! Look here-look here! Then be it so. Fran. Why should I live, an outcast from my kindA hell within-contempt and scorn without— Cursed at each step I tread!-no vanished joys To bless remembrance, naught of present good, And a bleak hopeless future! Let me dieWhy have I lived so long, save for this endTo pay my debt to thee! I now can crush theeThee, proud in honor's wealth, and power about thee! O let me kindle with a blazing torch Thy towering edifice of rank and state, Of this good sword thou gav'st me, and the skill I've won from thee to use it. So-have at thee! [They fight. Albrozzi conquers, knocks Francisco's sword from his hand, forces him to the floor, and points his weapon at his breast.] Alb. Braggart, I give thee here a moment's pause To curse thyself for bringing this upon thee, And then thou diest! Fran. [Muttering with emotion.] Die-I cannot die! Count, stay thy hand! Nay, I pray thee do not strike! I have to tell thee! Hear it ere thou strikest! Fran. No, no! A moment more! 'Tis this-'tis this! Wait-hear me. Know another, a sworn friend, Has of this little scroll, a copy, Count; With my full writ confession of my deeds; Alb. [Aside. Dropping his sword. Fran. rises.] Of all thou art possessed of-naught beneath it. Alb Extortioner, I will not give it thee! Fran. As is thy will. Farewell. Fran. I pause not now for all thy fortune, Count. I give thee half! Francisco, stay; I yield. Alb. [Kneeling.] Here on my knees, I pray thee! Tear the confession-go not to the Duke! Alb. Thus far I've 'scaped secure. So long inured Look well to himself; we'll have a reckoning! [Exit. If I do slay thee here, I am acquitted. Hyp. And if I slay thee, men will look on it, Alb. Fight thou alone. 'Tis dastard work Alb. Back! Help! stand back! Ye will [A square. Enter Hypolito, Orsino, nobles, citizens, My lords-my lords-I give ye warning! Back! Jacopo, and servants.] Hyp. Here we will wait the return of our spies, whom we have despatched to obtain knowledge of his path. Once balked, I will sustain no second foil. Look to yourselves, my friends! Who knows himself safe since the good Mazoni has fallen beneath the blow of the assassin! 1st. Cit. Lead on--we will kill him! Mob. Yes! Yes! Are tired of howling, and have wide dispersed. Hyp. My lord, bid forth thy cut-throat sattelites And make our vengeance sure; for thou must die' Fran. [Entering from the rear.] Ha! ha! Brave I'll back you 'gainst a thousand of the knaves! Alb. Yes-from your sweet lady, Count. Alb. Stay, thou-a question. When revenge so fierce Fran. That thou did'st foster there? Can thy wealth quench Fran. No-'tis the outbreak of a slumbering fire! Pietro. 'Tis good a month since I have seen the And that same heart hath nought of hardness in it, Nor thought to feel it-and that want of thought, Fran. Of what has been of life!-let it be buried Would thou wert other than thou art. Change, change. And the dread future 'yond the gaping tomb. Thou may'st be right-but what if thou art wrong! same. AFRICAN CELEBRATION OF MARRIAGE. "AFTER a short march we met some horsemen, one of whom led a richly-harnessed, dazzling white horse, whose mane and tail were dyed with henna orange color, and the rest of the body decorated with spots of the Soon after appeared some gaily-dressed Bedouins, of whom the foremost carried a striped red and white banner, which he pranced about in the most graceful manner, and displayed his skill by sundry evolutions -sometimes raising it over his head, sometimes sinking it to the ground. Several other horsemen now met them from the opposite side, and at last all united upon an open place, and performed various sports and military exercises. We amused ourselves a while with watching them, and then learned that they were celebrating a wedding, and that the female part of the company, though themselves unseen, witnessed the spectacle from an arbor."-Adventures in Algiers. THE FIRST AND LAST MEETINGS. immediately before him. They were seated upon the A TALE OF WOMAN'S LOVE. It was a fine sunny day in autumn, when a pale and melancholy man wandered among the glades and valleys of Lynmouth, a spot of which it has been truly said that nowhere else is to be found so much picturesque beauty of water, foliage, stones and banks within so small a space. From the point where the water separates, the stream glides smoothly and clearly over a very gently declining bed to the termination of an insular mass, where it suddenly descends, leaving a darker edge that curves inwards reaching the foot of a bank; the whole length of this curve the water falls over in all the richness of bright jewellery, partaking of the colors of the stone and variegated moss beneath it. It is like the flowing of liquified topaz and emerald, here blended, and here separated slightly by bands of gold, transparently embrowned. About half a foot from the edge the descent is broken by the hollowness, or rather the inward retiring, of the rock, and forms under the surface a fringe as of the brightest silver running entirely across; this ever moving fringe as of frosted silver, is here and there connected by the light threadlines that rise within the darker water above the edge. In this scene of beauty and of poetry the sad Sir Alfred wandered, as in a fine school, “wherein the mind may learn nobility, cast off with shame every littleness of pursuit or fancy, and from humility learn to be great. Nature's poet may here worship and have his reward; and praise, too, nature's God that he has made her so beautiful, and given us capacity to perceive and to enjoy it." Sir Alfred had retired from the world sated and tired of its false delights. He was not above five-and-twenty, but he had had much experience. He had been left an orphan in his childhood, and came into the possession of an extensive property when he attained the age of twenty-one. The sharpers with which the metropolis abounds marked him for their prey, and he, being unacquainted with the tricks of the knaves of high life, became an easy victim. He discovered his error, however, in time to save himself from absolute ruin, but not until he had lost enough to embitter him almost against society. Sir Alfred was not naturally misanthropic, nor had his misfortunes destroyed all the fine social traits of his character, nor deadened his generous feelings, though they might have obscured them. In the retirement and solitude of the far West he was but little observed, and it was a kind of melancholy pleasure to him to wander through glade and valley, on hill-top and by the river's brink, and enjoy in imagination pleasures which he did not expect in reality. grass, and scarcely expecting any intruder. A Blenheim spaniel which the ladies had been fondling, suddenly ran towards Sir Alfred and jumped about him, and evidently recognising him, and being pleased to see him. Sir Alfred, to his surprise, found it was one which he had lost while in London many months before. He did not wish to occasion any embarrassment to the party, and he was therefore passing on, but the dog continued to jump about him, and evinced a disposition to follow him. The calls of the elderly gentleman and those of the young ladies were unheeded, the spaniel continued to bound on before its old master, and Sir Alfred then thought it best to return and explain the circumstance. This was done in few words, and the elderly gentleman was disposed to waive his claim to the animal; the ladies also acquiesced, but Sir Alfred saw that it was with great reluctance, and he refused to accept it. The father was pleased with the manner of the young stranger, and invited him to accompany them to their residence at a short distance. The offer was accepted, and the arm of Julia Willoughby for the first time reposed upon that of Sir Alfred Percival. For the first time since his self-expatiation from the world, Sir Alfred felt a regard for his fellow creatures— for the first time for many months he deemed it possible for human voices to speak consolation to his wounded spirit. They walked together to the mansion of Sir Bernard Willoughby, Julia and Sir Alfred Percival, and neither of them dreamed of the sequel of that first meeting. Sir Alfred passed the day at Willoughby Hall. Sir Bernard recollected having met him once in London at the soirée of a fashionable Countess, and recalled the circumstance to Sir Alfred's recollection, by mentioning a droll occurrence at ecarté. Sir Alfred felt more at his ease, and when the hospitable old Baronet pressed him to repeat his visit he did not decline the invitation; the soft blue eyes of Julia Willoughby met his, and he promised to return on the following day. The seeds of love were already implanted in his heart, and he was sad till he again stood in the presence of her who was to influence all the after-actions of his life. It were idle to describe the growth of love-how insensibly it steals upon the heart, making its presence known only when it has established itself too firmly there to be expelled. Julia and Alfred loved. They each entered upon a new existence-and for a few brief moments they were happy. Sir Alfred became a different being, he no longer shunned society and the companionship of the world; the clouds had passed away from his sun of happiness, and the after part of his life, it seemed, would be unchequered by care or sorrow. Where is the cultivated mind, associated if it be with generous feelings, that can be said to be unhappy? They came to London, Alfred and his much-loved There is, perhaps, no greater happiness than the imagi- Julia, and neither of them dreamed that aught could nation affords. But a truce to reflection. Sir Alfred interrupt their affection. But Julia did not understand was not doomed to wander alone, unseeing and unseen. her own character,-she fancied that she could love but He had one day extended his ramble, and suddenly once, that the object of her first affections could never emerging from a close thicket into an open meadow, be superseded. But she deceived herself. Sir Alfred beheld a party of three ladies and an elderly gentleman was different to the scented fops who throng the halls |