A night of heavy death-like slumber relieved the excited feelings of Egbert, and when he awoke the delirium was over, the tornado had passed, and left him, crushed, destroyed for ever. Deeply, bitterly, did poor Egbert lament the step he had taken, sincerely repent he had loosened the sails of passion and suffered himself to be dashed among whirlpools and breakers, from which, not all his art could extricate him. While reviewing all that had passed, he began to doubt the reality of that indifference he had fancied in Mary Connor. He might possibly have mistaken her feelings. He remembered his own backwardness at first, which might have offended her, and at last the miserable conviction came to his heart, he had rashly thrown from him, this pure and loving creature "worth all her tribe," for one whom he could never love. Cost what it would, he was determined to seek Mary, lay open his heart to her, and afterwards, if he should have been mistaken, throw himself upon the widow's generosity. While preparing to depart, the brother of Mrs. Watson drove to the door. He sprang out, shook Egbert warmly by the hand, called him brother-elect, and said how much rejoiced he had been to hear he was to marry his sister who had been long attached to him, and who sent for him the moment she arose to communicate the pleasing intelligence.

The father and mother of Egbert, who stood by, listened with astonishment. "And so you are engaged to pretty widow Watson!-ah, you are a sly one, Egbert," said his father. "I always thought it was Mary Connor; but this is better, for the widow's house and lands will eke out your scanty means-hey, Mr. Crocheron !"

"That is true, sir," replied the visitor; "I always say it is best the lady should have a little something, so that she need not be a burden upon her husband. But brother Egbert, I was charged to bring you with me. Oh, these lovers, Mr. Greenwood! they are so impatient—but I suppose you remember when you were young."

come,

"Yes, indeed-I never was happy when from Rachel's side. Now that we are to be relations you must step in Mr. Crocheron, and take a friendly dinner."

"Thank you-we must all be more neighborly." "Go along, Egbert," cried his father slapping him on his back. "Dont look so sheepish boy-ha! ha! who'd a thought it!—sly one!"

Egbert pressed his hand over his eyes one moment, and the next sprang into the wagon beside his brotherelect.

Egbert's mother had not spoken during the preceding conversation, so much was her surprise, for she had always known of the attachment which subsisted between him and Mary. Long and earnestly she gazed into the face of her son, and as he departed turned away with a sigh. "It is Mary Connor after all," she murmured," and my poor boy has been disappointed or has sold himself for gold!"

A week passed away, and Egbert grew more and more wretched, and each day resolved to see Mary and make one more appeal to the memory of early days, and declare to her all his true and faithful love; but when he reflected on all that had passed regarding Mrs. Watson he could not undertake the task. One day,

however, after a night of unusual wretchedness he arose determined to see Mary and open his soul to her. If, as he suspected, she did still love him, it was a duty not thus rashly to disturb her happiness by marrying another. He did not suppose she had heard of his engagement for it was known to few, and Mary's dwelling was two miles from the village. When he arrived at the farm-house occupied by Mrs. Connor, his affianced bride had just left it. She had called to inform her friend Mary of all her happy prospects, and invited her to be her bridesmaid. Mary bore the communication very well, for rumor had already whispered the news, and she was prepared for the visit. She declined being bridesmaid, as she with her mother were to visit her aunt in town just then, who was ill and had sent for them. Mrs. Watson was disappointed, but finding Mary inflexible she departed promising to send her some wedding cake. "A piece which had been through the wedding ring," she would also send, she said, that Mary might dream of her own future husband. She was scarcely gone when Mary saw Egbert drive up the green lane.

"Another trial!" she exclaimed with a sigh.

"May

I have strength to bear it! Why does he come-to exult over the misery he has caused, or perhaps ask me to his bridal! Oh, Egbert! you might have spared me this! But he shall not trample on me," she cried, her dark eyes flashing with indignation; "his visit is an insult, and with a woman's spirit I will meet him!"

"Miss Connor," said Egbert, when he had reached her side, "I have come to ask your forgiveness."

"My forgiveness, sir!" said Mary haughtily. "Do you think your marriage could ever be of consequence to me! that is, I suppose your meaning-No, Mr. Greenwood, you are mistaken if you imagine such an event could have the slightest effect upon me."

"Is it indeed so!" he replied; "then I was deceived when I fondly thought you ever entertained a preference for me, Miss Mary.”

This was too much from one on the eve of marriage with another, for she did not dream he intended for her sake to break his engagement, and his present conduct wrought her up to frenzy.

"Preference for you!" she said, with a fierce scorn of which he had not supposed her capable. "No, sir! pray do not harbor so poor an idea of my discrimination, as to suppose I could ever give you a place in my affections-Go, sir!-I despise you!"

She waved him from her majestically and poor Egbert without a word sprang on his horse and rode away. Mary walked quietly up to her room, closed and locked her door, and throwing herself upon her bed, wept as if she would

"weep her spirit from her eyes."

All hope was over. She had been rudely shaken from a dream of such sweet happiness, that her gentle nature could not support the shock. She had loved Egbert long and truly, and had believed him every thing that was perfect. How cruelly he had deceived her! Her agony was too great for repose on one spot, and rising she paced the room, her hands pressed on her forehead to still its wild throbbing, while deep and heavy sobs burst from her bosom. She threw herself on her knees, "Now father in heaven help me," she cried, "for on

earth there is no help. Take away this load of griefit is crushing my young life out. Thou wilt hear me, father. Yes, I am not utterly abandoned, there is one who loves me, one who feels for me-hear me, fatherlove me-save my senses for my poor mother's sake!"

A night of prayer and tears, had schooled Mary's heart to resist the flood of desolation which had swept away her all of happiness in life. Calm and pale she moved about her little dwelling intent upon her household duties and on the dear care of smoothing the downward path of her infirm mother. When she returned from visiting her aunt, the wedding was over and Egbert had taken up his residence with his wife in her handsome dwelling. Yes, they were really married. No explanations took place between the lovers, at the last moment, (which would have been the case were this a novel instead of a veritable history,) no husband turned up alive in time to prevent the ceremony; they were firmly tied together by the good Mr. Hartman, at the little Moravian church which stands on the Quarantine road: for Egbert's parents were Moravians.

A year passed away and great changes took place in the little village of Cherrytown. Speculation had pounced upon it as a fine spot for a large city. The houses were all bought up at immense prices; lots were laid out for miles around the village; streets laid out through the corn-fields; a large hotel was built; a steam-boat touched there to and from New-York, and the pretty village of Cherrytown was for ever lost in the flourishing town of New Higginsonville. (To be Continued.)

Original.

THE BELLES OF FLORENCE.

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

By Miss H. L. Beasley.

-

"Eftsoons they heard a most delightful sound
Of all that might enchant a dainty car;
Such as at once might not on living ground,
Save in this paradise be heard elsewhere:
Right hard it was for might which did it hear,
To read what manner music that might be!
For all that pleasing is to living car,
Was there consorted in one harmony,

Birds, voices, instruments, winds, waters, all agree."
SPENSER'S FAIRY QUEEN.

The Sick Chamber of Gabrielle. Gabrielle. (Seated by the casement leaning her head on her hand and watching unconsciously the Arno beneath.)

THIS fever still is busy at my heart.

How my brow throbs! methinks the veins would burst
Were not my hand pressed tightly over them.

There comes a cool breeze springing from the wave,
At intervals I feel it, o'er my bosom
Blowing and dallying loosely with my hair.
It is a heavenly night and yet to me

A sad one; for my young heart longs to join
The brilliant reveller's at Wisino's villa-
He has the wealth of Indies and his bride
In her exuberant gaiety has boasted
Her gala shall outrival fabled Jano's.
How beautiful Florenda looked as she,

Robed in a gossamer web of sheenest white,
Stole back to press on mine her parting lips.
Her hair as dark as raven's plume and glossier,
Circled with buds; her bosom decked with pearl;
Seemed as they lent not borrowed loveliness.
My fancy visions now her slippered feet-
The wonder and the envy of all Florence-
Circling the velvet hall, or her coy cheek
Blushing to crimson 'neath her eye's long fringe,
The gloss and cover to some merry speech,
Some gambol sauciness, where with her lip
An apt waylaying thief steals hearts to toy with.-
Yet fond is her gay breast-to me it seemeth
A sister's love is the most precious thing
'Neath the sweet heavens. How kind her care!
My comforter, smiling away my pain
These many days, she scarce would leave me now
For the bright fête but at my long entreaty.
How gaily there they fleet the hours away
To me so long and lonesome. Is there one
Will miss my footsteps from the busy revel
Or laugh the less that I am sorrowing now?-
There may not be. Ah-well-earth's banquet here
Is spread in beauty for mine eye to feast on.
The moon is up and never seems to me
So queenly in her aspect, as when viewing
Her delicate image in this glassy Arno,
Or hanging as a guardian genius over
The marble glories of my native Florence.
How swiftly yonder gondola shoots on,
Its red light copied by the crimsoning wave!
Would I could hear some snatch of boatman's song
To while away the hour! Sometimes they pass
So closely 'neath my casement that I catch
The tenor of their weird and unrhythmed verse.
Afar is a brave group. Their dipping oars
Anger the frothy waves that chafe around them.
They track the flood with glistering light, and here's
A straggler loitering along the shore
And singing in the distance. I will mark
His words.

Boatman Sings.

Mary, Mother! bend to hear

Hymn of lowly gondolier;

As my dropt oar dips in the dimpling wave,
I call on thee to save!

Save, save my precious soul,
Guide it on to reach the goal
Bought by the blood that streamed for all,
On thee, on thee, I call!

Mary, Mother, the benign,
Holy cross to thee I sign!
When the gondolier in the dust shall lie
Bear, bear his soul on high!

When the gondolier in the dust shall lie
Bear, bear his soul on high.
Gabrielle.

How loiteringly he moves!
There was a holy pathos in his strain
That crept into my heart. His earnest hymn
Rose in sweet concord with this tranquil hour-
To me at night-at soft and silent night,
The quiet breathings of the gold-toned breeze,

Earth, sea and heaven, so soul-enharmonized,
Seem aye to ask some practised master-touch
And they would leap to music. List! he sings!—

Boatman.

When the gondolier in the dust shall lie,

Bear, bear his soul on high!
Bear, bear his soul on high!
Gabrielle.

'Tis but the same strain lingering in his heart-
His bark is waking from its lazy rest-
Swiftly it cuts across the diamond tide

And now 'tis past away-away-quite gone-
Like many kindly things I've loved ere this,
His words remind me of a simple hymn,
An abbess taught me once, when in the shade
We walked at twilight and she strove to woo
My girlish thought to heaven. It may be I
Can chant the very words.

Ave, Madonna !

Bless all that I love

The butterfly winging

Her flight through the grove; The bee, the light courtier That bends to the rose;

The rose in her glory

That blushingly blows;
The golden canary
That fonds on my breast,

Or the freere birds sleeking
The silk of their nest;-
The antelope startled
Away from the springs ;-
Kind mother in heaven!
Bless all these bright things!
Ave, Madonna !
Bless all that I love,

My home green and sunny
Where kind spirits rove;
My brothers, the playmates
That laugh at my fears,

And the sisters whose sorrow

I kiss off with tears;

My mother, an angel
With gentleness fraught,
And
father whose fondness
I loved ere I thought;

my

My rose-lipp'd companions
That laugh as we roam;
Kind mother in heaven,
Bless all round my home!
Ave, Madonna !

Look down on thy child,
Forgive all that is wayward
And naughtily wild;
Let my heart be a brooklet
Where one star is seen,
The day-star of holiness
Deep in its sheen.

Make my breast as the marble,
Adorned for thy shrine,
Thy hand be the sculptor
That moulds it to thine.

Forgive all that is wayward,

And naughtily wild;
Sweet mother in heaven

Take me for thy child!
'Tis an old thing,

An old and time-out-of-mind affair,
This song, and hath no charm but simpleness
And that it calls me its assenting teacher
To make me love 't. Yet at this tranquil hour
The poorest note hath a bewitching grace.

I would I were a bard!—

On some such angel-haunted night as this
I'd build my el-dorado in the air
And people it with rainbows.

Petrarch, methinks

On some such witching night, struck his wild lyre
And sang 'neath Laura's lattice such rich strains
That Italy's enamored winds did listen

And whisper them round Europe-and our Danté
Enchanter wandering through the realm of tombs
Waved his bold wand to heaven on some such night
And blessed his far eye-chiding Beatrice.*
Oh, tis a glorious night!-

On some such one

Came angels wandering from their blue abodes
Hymning glad tidings to Chaldean shepherds,
Whose hearts at their harmonious ravishment,
And golden-gloried aspects, stood entranced
And lost themselves in marvel and in bliss.
Oh, 'tis a holy hour-Methinks 'twas then
Earth learned to robe herself in heavenly fashion.
I wonder much at the cold hearts that see
Graceful religion but a frowning goddess-
To me she is the sweetest thought I have-
I love to picture her. To me she comes
A delicate spirit stepping from the sun
All smiles and graces with a thousand harps
In waiting on her and a world of bloom
Breathed from her lip her white arms opening
As though she long'd to take us to her bosom-
And ever whispering with the gentle voice
Of all the bees and birds and honeyed airs
And diamond-dropping dews and showers-Heart!-
These are fond thoughts-I love to revel in them-
I would I were a cloisteress. (Music heard again.)

Where the moon and leaves play at light and shade,
And the song-bird woes his love.
But the trysting-glade seemed lone,
And sad was the song-bird's lay,

For the music and light of my earth are gone,
With my Gabrielle's form away.
May the kindliest eye 'mid the saints above
Smile on the breast of my gentle love.

I am out on the Arno's tide,

In my gondola borne along,

As the white waves whisk round her dancing side,

I am pouring my soul in song. But the Arno's tide seems lone,

And sad is the minstrel's lay,

For the music and light of my earth are gone
With my Gabrielle's form away.

May the kindliest eye 'mid the saints above
Smile on the breast of my gentle love.

Gabrielle. (watching his gondola till it disappears.)

Angélo truly hath a melting voice

That doth enrich the air. He is reputed

The flower of highborn gallants here in Florence.
I'll to my couch, though scarce in court of sleep
Until Florenda come. (lies down on her couch.)
(stealing in and whispering)
Gabrielle! Awake-

Florenda.

I hoped that sleep had come your visitor

For these lone hours. 'Twas a most gallant rout!
I would you had been there. My eyes ache now
With all its lightning lights and glistenings,
And my ear-murmurs still its noisy sounds.
My Gabrielle-when time slips by-and thou-
The gala-queen of ceremonial eves

Shalt hold thy court, let but the moonlight in,
And whisper to thy guests in spirit music.
The world is made of noise. In truth I think
The Count Ziani lives to raise a laugh.

Oh! love-sweet love-'tis a spirit blest

By no manly heart betrayed:
But a flitting guest in the changeful breast,
Of a lovely and wayward maid.

Florenda.
List-dear Gabrielle !-his treason-list!-
Count, singing again.

The Lady vowed at the parting hour

As she gave to the Knight her glove, 'By the eye on my bower, come shine, come shower, Will I rest thine own true love.'

Her fair cheek blushed as the faint rose-leaf
And a tear on her fringed eye sate,
The faint rose-leaf hath a life most brief
But her love had a briefer date.

Oh, do it not, Florenda-you'll be heard.
Hurt will our delicate mother be-it is
Unmaidenly-

Count, singing again.

Oh! love-sweet love-'tis a spirit blest
By no manly heart betrayed;
'Twas a flitting guest in the changeful breast
Of that lovely and falsest maid.

sky blue sovereign of the solitary, why have you come into this scene of pleasantness?

Mask. To carry away food for lonely enjoyment; to count the head-aches in every bottle that is drunk, and the stings in every speech that is uttered. To see scorn in a smile and hear satire in a panegyric. But this is not my place. You must come and see me on my throne.

Alvar. And where are we to seek it? Are we to take wing and fly to the moon for the honor of paying our homage?

Mask. My throne is every where in the east wind, in a long summer, in a speech of a noble lord, in a dinner of three courses and thirty grandees, in a conversation, in a club, and in a watering place.

Alvar. And your majesty's subjects are

Mask. Half the rich, three fourths of the great, and all the courtiers in christendom.

Bianca. No ladies, I presume, in your majesty's attendance?

Mask. Yes; all wives a week married, all widows a month free, and all the spinsterhood from the age of fifteen to a lundred and fifty.

The conversation is interrupted and the Mask disappears in the crowd.

Original.

THE ROSE.

FROM THE GERMAN OF HERDER.

THE queen of flowers on her throne,
Thus breathed a note of sorrow;
(Haply she felt her waning bloom
Would perish ere the morrow.
w.)

I see all flowers fade and die,
Yet I alone the fading,
The early perishing-am called:
Oh! why this cold upbraiding?

Ungrateful mortals! make I not
My span of life, a treasure
Enough for you?-E'en after death
My perfume sweetens pleasure.

I give you strength, refreshment—yet
(My few bright moments shading)—

I hear you sing and say-" alas !
The perishing! the fading!"

A maiden answer'd-" Chide us not,
Sweet one! 'tis pure affection,
'Tis love, and not unthankfulness,
Which prompts that sad reflection.

We see the blossoms round us die,

Nor sigh o'er scentless flowers;
But thee their queen-so sweet, so pure!
We wish thee ever ours.

We mourn ourselves in thee-the bloom
On which our hope reposes,
The flowers of the heart are crush'd-
Alas! life's fading roses!"

H. P.

ELLA.