Constance. What! die! for words? for breath which leaves no trace

To sully the pure air wherewith it blends,

And is, being uttered, gone? Why, 'twere enough For such a venial fault to be deprived

One little day of man's free heritage,

Heaven's warm and sunny light! Oh, if you deem
That evil harbors in their souls, at least
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest,
Shall bid stern justice wake.

Eribert. I am not one

Of those weak spirits that timorously keep watch For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues

Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been Where power sits crowned and armed. And, mark me, sister!

To a distrustful nature it might seem

Strange that your lips thus earnestly should plead For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being

Suspicion holds no power.

And yet, take note

I have said, and they must die.

Constance. Have you no fear?

Eribert. Of what ?-that heaven should fall?
Constance. No. But that earth

Should arm in madness. Brother! I have seen
Dark eyes bent on you, e'en 'mid festal throngs,
With such deep hatred settled in their glance
My heart hath died within me.

Am I, then,

Eribert.
To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl,
A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look?

Constance. Oh, looks are no illusions, when the soul,

But theirs to liberty! Have not these men
Brave sons or noble brothers?

Eribert. Yes; whose name

It rests with me to make a word of fear-
A sound forbidden 'midst the haunts of men.
Constance. But not forgotten? Ah! beware, be-

ware.

Nay, look not sternly on me.

There is one

Of that devoted band who yet will need
Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth,
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek

The spring-time glow is lingering. 'Twas but now
His mother left me, with a timid hope

Just dawning in her breast; and I-I dared
To foster its faint spark. You smile! Oh, then
He will be saved!

Eribert. Nay, I but smiled to think

What a fond fool is Hope! She may be taught
To deem that the great sun will change his course
To work her pleasure, or the tomb give back
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, 'tis strange!
Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus
Have mocked the boy's sad mother: I have said-
You should not thus have mocked her! Now, fare-
well!
[Exit Eribert.
Constance. Oh brother, hard of heart!--for deeds
like these

There must be fearful chastening, if on high
Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell
Yon desolate mother that her fair young son
Is thus to perish! Haply the dread tale
May slay her too; for Heaven is merciful.
'Twill be a bitter task,

MRS. HEMANS,

LESSON XI.

THE LITTLE BROOK AND THE STAR.

PART I.

1. ONCE upon a time, in the leafy covert of a wild, woody dingle, there lived (for it was, indeed, a thing of life) a certain little brook that might have been the happiest creature in the world, if it had but known when it was well off, and been content with the station assigned to it by an unerring Providence. But in that knowledge and that content consists the true secret of happiness; and the silly little brook never found out the mystery until it was too late to profit by it.

2. I cannot say positively from what source the little brook came; but it appeared to well out from beneath the hollow root of an old thorn, and, collecting together its pellucid waters, so as to form a small pool within that knotty reservoir, it swelled imperceptibly over its irregular margin, and slipped away, unheard, almost unseen, among mossy stones and entangling branches. No emerald was ever so green; never was velvet so soft as the beautiful moss which encircled that tiny lake; and it was gemmed and embroidered, too, by all flowers that love the shade-pale primroses and nodding violets; anemones, with their fair, down-cast heads; and starry clusters of forget-me-not, looking lovingly, with their pale, tender eyes, in the bosom of their native rill.

3. The hawthorn's branches were interwoven above with those of a holly; and a woodbine, climbing up the stem of one tree, flung across to the other its flexible arms, knotting together the

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mingled foliage, with its rich clusters and elegant festoons, like a fair sister growing up under the guardianship of two beloved brothers, and, by her endearing witchery, drawing together, in closer union, their already united hearts. Never was little brook so delightfully situated; for its existence, though secluded, was neither monotonous nor solitary. A thousand trifling incidents (trifling, but not uninteresting) were perpetually varying the scene; and innumerable living creatures, the gentlest and loveliest of the sylvan tribes, familiarly haunted its retreat.

4. Beautiful there was every season with its changes. In the year's fresh morning, delicious May or ripening June, if a light breeze but stirred in the hawthorn tops, down on the dimpling water came a shower of milky blossoms, loading the air with fragrance as they fell. Then came the

squirrel with his mirthful antics. Then, rustling through fern and brushwood, stole the timid hare, half-startled, as she slaked her thirst at the still fountain, by the liquid reflection of her own large, lustrous eyes. There was no lack of music round. about. A song-thrush had his domicil hard by; and, even at night, his mellow voice was heard, contending with a nightingale, in scarce unequal rivalry. And other vocalists, innumerable, awoke those woodland echoes. Sweetest of all, the low, tremulous call of the ring-dove floated at intervals through the shivering foliage the very soul of sound and tenderness.

5. In winter the glossy-green and coral clusters of the holly flung down their rich reflections on the little pool, then visited through the leafless boughs

with a gleam of more perfect daylight; and a redbreast, which had built its nest and reared its young among the twisted roots of that old tree, still hovered about his summer bower, still quenched his thirst at the little brook, still sought his food on its mossy banks; and, tuning his small pipe when every other feathered throat but his own was mute, took up the eternal hymn of gratitude, which began with the birth-day of Nature, and shall only cease with her expiring breath. So every season brought but changes of pleasantness to that happy little brook and happier still it was, or might have been, in one sweet and tender companionship to which passing time and revolving seasons brought no change.

6. True it was no unintercepted sunshine ever glittered on its shaded waters; but, just above the spot where they were gathered into that fairy fount, a small opening in the overarching foliage admitted, by day, a glimpse of the blue sky; and, by night, the mild, pale ray of a bright fixed star, which looked down into the stilly water with such tender radiance as beams from the eyes we love best when they rest upon us with an earnest gaze of serious tenderness. Forever and forever, when night came, the beautiful star still gazed upon its earth-born love, which seemed, if a wandering air but skimmed its surface, to stir, as if with life, in responsive intercourse with its bright visitant.

7. Some malicious whispers went abroad, indeed, that the enamored gaze of that radiant eye was not always exclusively fixed on the little brook; that it had its oblique glances for other favorites. But, I take it, those rumors were altogether libellous,