lightning, upon the foremost of the ravishers, and wrenched the scimitar from his hand before he was aware of his purpose. He rushed towards Osman; the first blow made the Vaivode's scimitar fly ringing into the air; the second was arrested by one of the guards, which for that time saved the life of the tyrant, who exclaimed, almost choking with passion

"He has struck a musselman! He has outraged the law and the Prophet; he has polluted the person of the representative of the Commander of the Faithful! Hew him to the earth-cut him to atoms -scatter his flesh to the beasts of the fields-let the dogs feed on the Christian reptile!"

The crisis was come. The poor merchant, taking courage from despair, uncovered his face, and seizing upon Osman's scimitar which still lay upon the ground, summoned up the spirit of an ancient Greek, and placing himself beside the youth, determined to share his fate and die with him. The old priest stood with eyes turned upwards, beseeching of Heaven, what for inscrutible purposes was to be denied. The Turkish soldiers advanced, and Demetrius did not recede. At this moment, Adiante, with a sudden effort ran to Osman, and shrieked-" Spare my father-spare him whom now I see too plainly, heaven never destined for my husband. I deliver myself up to

my fate. Let their blood be spared-and I the only victim"-and she sunk to the earth at the foot of the altar.

"It is too late now," cried Osman. "The Christian dog has decreed his own death, by striking a true believer, and by Mahomet he shall die the death of a dog. Dispatch him, I say, ye cowards!”

A desperate conflict ensued. The poor merchant fought bravely, but soon fell dead by the side of Demetrius, who, covered with blood, still kept the soldiers at bay, and dealt death at almost every blow. Suddenly the merchant's daughter started up, and so unexpectedly rushed between the combatants, that the scimitar of one of the soldiers lighted upon her head and clove her dead to the earth. "One blow for love, religion, and vengeance," cried Demetrius, as he saw this bloody deed, and he rushed upon Osman. But ere he reached the retreating monster, the soldiers had surrounded him, and in a few moments he was hacked to pieces, and fell by the side of the merchant and his daughter. "Bury these dogs," said Osman to the old priest; "but see thou prayest over their carcases in secret, or thou sharest their fate."

In any other country but one where the Turkish despotism has debased human nature, and crushed the high spirit of man to the earth, such an outrage

upon religion and humanity, would have roused a spirit of vengeance that might have avenged the dead by punishing the tyrant. But the time had NOT YET COME. The old priest deposited the victims in one grave, and having strewed a few flowers upon it, departed from the isle, and buried himself in a distant monastery. Osman continued in his government many years, enriching himself and making yearly presents to his friend the barber; and as he felt no regrets or reproaches of conscience, lived and died, one among the many proofs, that vice is not punished, nor virtue adequately rewarded in this world; and that there is another, where these accounts are finally settled by an omnipotent Judge.

*** P.

,

THE DREAM.

INSCRIBED TO MISS * *

STILL was the night; and not a sound,
Save murmurs from the pattering rain,
Broke the sweet calm that breathed around,
And hush'd the humming haunts of men.
'Twas midnight:-sacred to the soul,

To soothing thoughts-to dreams of loveWhen endless visions brightly roll,

And fancy decks the joys she wove. Such was a night to dream of thee, Whose name adorn'd the wedding-charm, And served, in sleep's dull lethargy, To make its visions doubly warm.

METHOUGHT, that seated on a throne,
I saw thee crown'd as Beauty's Queen,
Whilst every heart, save thine alone,
Exulting hailed the joyful scene.

A tear was trembling in thine eye,
Thy bosom heaved with labouring sigh,

And oft, when roused from thoughtful trance,
I caught thy wild, bewildered glance:
'Twas not the gay and sparkling beam
That lightens up thy waking dream,
But a pale look of sad despair,

As tho' its throne were settled there.
No pride of triumph flush'd thy brow,
Or brightly tinged the dimpled snow
Of thy fair cheek, of pallid hue,
Where melancholy gently threw
Its mingled shades, so warmly dear
When sanctified by woman's tear;
(For there is something sweet in woe,
When beauty gems the tears that flow,
Which laughing joy can never know;)
And every charm that sylphs above,
To deck thy form, enraptured wove,
Seemed, in that thoughtful mood, to gain
New triumph for the lovely Queen.

What cares oppress that gentle heart,
Where peace and bliss so long have dwelt ?
Has falsehood barb'd the rankling dart,
And love o'erwhelmed the joys it felt?
And why towards that banner furled,
Such looks of silent woe are cast?

Cannot the smiles of this gay world