Death. like a jealous rival, came
To wound such perfect bliss-
And on those lips of glowing red
He stamp'd an icy kiss!

She lay-how pale! a lily now,
That late surpass'd the rose;
Where late the summer flush was seen
Were strewn the winter snows.

Alas, for beauty! it must yield
Its treasures to the tomb,
And, like the hag, deformity,
Bow to the common doom!

From her sad lord's caressing arms
The darling wife was torn;
And to the cold, cold sepulchre,
By pitying neighbours borne.

It was a noble funeral,

And gorgeous to behold-
The coffin was of scented wood,
Her name was graved on gold.

The body lay, all pure and calm,
In its unbroken rest,

And one thin hand reposed upon
Her chaste and stainless breast.

What flashes there so dazzling bright!
It is an antique gem;

A diamond on her finger gleam'd,
Meet for a diadem!

They left her in the sepulchre,

Hewn from the marble stone

And all around with coffins fill'd,
Of many a silent one!

The midnight bell toll'd slowly from
The church-tower dark and high;

Which, like a rigid sentinel,

Alone stood scowling nigh.

Whose form glides from the old church-door,

Like wizard from his cell?

It is the sexton with his lamp,

Who went to stop the bell!

What makes he now among the tombs,

With tottering step and slow?

Ha! to the lady's sepulchre

The gray beard dares to go.

He springs the lock, he enters in,
He feebly gropes about;

Though fragile are his shivering limbs,
His harden'd heart is stout.

What makes he now? the golden plate
From off her coffin lid

He tears, and in his tatter'd robe
With trembling care 'tis hid.

He lifts the lid-arrest, old man!
Thy base, polluting hand—
What to decrepit age avails
The wealth of every land?

But avarice cleaves unto its prey,
Like lean dog to a bone;
The sexton takes the passive hand
And eyes the precious stone.

Ha by the holy book! she stirs―
She stirs and sits upright!
The wretched sexton turn'd to flee,
And stumbled in affright,

Across the threshold, o'er the graves,
Till by his own hearthside

He fell, insane with horrid fear,
And, deeply groaning, died!

'Twas one at night-when Edward sat
In his ancestral hall:

Mute was his grief, and not a tear
From his parch'd eyes could fall.

His heart was desolate-but hark!

Who knocks at such an hour?

Whose voice is that, which, through the gloom Comes with such startling power

"Edward, O! Edward-I am cold, The night is damp and drear, Why, in so horrible a bed,

66

Was lain thy Ellen dear?

My Edward, come, unbar for me
The massive, wide, hall-door,
Come-and I'll sing thee to sweet sleep,
As I have sung before !"

His mind was stunn'd by grief-he knew
No sentiment of fear,

But went and oped the wide hall-door,
And there, the moonlight clear

Reveal'd the white-robed, tender form
Of his beloved wife!

Not from the tombs a gliding ghost,
But breathing still with life!

She sank into his arms-he bore
Her senseless to her bed:

Her summon'd maidens shriek'd to see
Their lady from the dead.

Three weary days and nights pass'd on,
And then the beauteous dame

Lean'd fondly on her husband's arm,
In blooming life the same.

To all the tenantry anon

The awful tale was known

The lady, buried in a trance,
Walk'd homeward, all alone!

The sexton's body, stiff and cold,
Upon his earthen floor,
Frighted the early passer by

His open, cheerless door.

The beauteous dame lived many years-
And now her daughters tell,

How in their dear remember'd home

This dread mischance befell.

The sparkling jewel, that she wore,
Is deem'd a priceless thing;

For, like a holy amulet,

They keep the diamond ring.

P. B.

171. THE CHARACTERS OF JEFFERSON AND NAPOLEON CONTRASTED.

In the bearings of his personal character, Jefferson can be safely compared with the contemporary rulers of nations, not excepting him-the greatest of them all; nor need our patriotism shrink from the singular contrast between two men, chiefs for nearly an equal period of their respective countries, and models of their different species,-Napoleon, the emperor of a great nation-and Jefferson, the chief magistrate of a free people.

Öf that extraordinary being it is fit to speak with the gentleness due to misfortune. Two centuries have scarce sufficed to retrieve the fame of Cromwell from that least expiable of crimes-his success over a feeble and profligate race, more fortunate in their historian than their history: and the memory of Napoleon must long atone equally for his elevation and his reverses. There are already those who disparage his genius, as if this were not to humble the nations who stood dismayed before it. Great talents, varied acquirements, many high qualities, enlightened views of legislation and domestic policy, it were bigotry to deny to Napoleon. The very tide of his conquests over less civilized nations, deposited in receding some benefits even to the vanquished-and all that glory can contribute to public happiness, was profusely lavished on his country. But in the midst of this gaudy infatuation there was that which disenchanted the spell-that which struck its damp chill into the heart of any man who, undazzled by the vulgar decorations of power, looked only at the blessings it might confer, and who weighed, instead of counting, these victories. Such are the delusions which military ambition

heds in turn on its possessor and on the world, that its *riumphs begin with the thoughtless applause of its future victims, and end in the maddening intoxication of its own prosperity. We may not wonder then if, when those who should have first resisted his power were foremost in admiration and servility-when the whole continent of Europe was one submissive dependence on his will-when among the crowd of native and stranger suppliants who worshipped before this idol there was only one manly and independent voice to rebuke his excesses in a tone worthy of a free people that of the representative of Jefferson, we may not wonder if all the brilliant qualities which distinguished the youth of Napoleon were at last concentred into a spirit of intense selfishness, and that the whole purpose to which his splendid genius was perverted was the poor love of swaying the destinies of other men-not to benefit, not to bless but simply to command them, to engross every thing, and to be every thing. It was for this that he disturbed the earth with his insane conquests,-for this that the whole freedom of the human mind-the elastic vigour of the intellect—all the natural play of the human feelings all free agency, were crushed beneath this fierce and immitigable dominion, which, degrading the human race into the mere objects and instruments of slaughter, would soon have left nothing to science but to contrive the means of mutual destruction, and nothing to letters except to flatter the common destroyer. Contrast this feverish restlessness which is called ambition-this expanded love of violence which makes heroes-contrast these, as they shone in the turbulent existence of Napoleon, with the peaceful, disinterested career of Jefferson: and in all the relations of their power-its nature, its employment, and its result we may assign the superiority to the civil magis

trate.

Napoleon owed his elevation to military violence-Jef ferson to the voluntary suffrage of his country. The one ruled sternly over reluctant subjects-the other was but the foremost among his equals who respected in his person the image of their own authority. Napoleon sought to enlarge his influence at home by enfeebling all the civil institutions, and abroad by invading the possessions of his neighbours-Jefferson preferred to abridge his power by