sions for each other. The turbulent spirit of the brother was at rest; he had found a being endowed with virtues like his own, and as he thought, destitute of all his vices. The day dreams of his fancy had been realised, and all that he had imagined of beauty or affection, was embodied in that form which he could call bis owu.

On the inorning of her departure, the dreadful truth burst upon the mind of her wretched husband. From the first arrival of the dark-eyed stranger a gloomy vision of future sorrow had haunted him by day and by nigbt. Despair and misery now made him their victim, and that awful malady, which he inherited from his ancestors, was the immediate consequence. He was seen, for the last time, among some stupendous cliffs, which overhung the river, and his hat and cloak were found by the chamois hunters at the foot of an ancient pine.

Soon too was the guilty joy of the survivors to terminate; the gentle lady, even in felicity, felt a load upon her heart. Her spirit had burned too ardently, and she knew it must, ere long, be extinguished. Day after day the lily of her cheek enroached upon the rose, till at last she assumed a monumental paleness, unrelieved, save by a transcient and hectic glow. Her angelic form wasted away, and soon the flower of the valley was no more.

The soul of the brother was dark, dreadfully dark, but his body wasted not, and his spirit caroused with mure fearful strength. The sounding cataract haunted him like a passion. He was again alone in the world, and his mind endowed with more dreadful energies. His wild eye sparkled with unnatural light, and his raven hair hung beavy on his burning temples. He wandered among the forests and the mountains, and rarely entered his once beloved dwelling, from the windows which he had so often beheld the sun sinking in a sea of crimson glory.

He was found dead in that same pass in which he had met his sister among the mountains ; his body bore no marks of external violence, but his countenance was convulsed by bitter insanity.



Yet he who came with mournful ditties vain,

On every grave to murmur and complain,
Must drop on this a more peculiar tear.
Fly far from hence, ye righteous and severe!
Who ne'er the grief of honour's stain,

For one, alas! whom sore remorse has slain,
And shame for erring love, lies sleeping here,
0! Agnes I have wept on many a tomb

Of some that like the flowers in ripe decline,
And some in bud had fallen, and some in bloom;

And most o'er infant graves would I repine:
Yet thou hast taught me, by the sadder doom,

To weep that such a grave has not been thine!

POPULAR LITERATURE OF 1824. AMONG the most profitable speculations of this year, may be reckoned Sayings and Doings by Theodore Hook, and the Tales of a Traveller by Washington Irving. The publisher of the former of these very popular works is said to have paid £800. for the copyright. . As sketches of men and manners, and of the philosophy of every-day life, they are inimitable; Mr. Irving may be said to have laid the foundation of his fame by his Sketch Book and Bracebridge-Hall, and in his department he is without a rival." He may be deemed the Goldsmitb of the present day.

Sir Walter Scott, who may now be said to have passed the zenith of his glory: he writes periodically.

It must always be gratifying to intelligent minds to see genius thus liberally rewarded ; but it would be doubly grateful, were writings of more acknowledged soundness and decided utility patronized with greater zeal. Life is but short, and wilh this maxim before us the improve." ment of the mind should certainly take precedence in li.

terature: but the public ordain it otherwise. Be this as it may, mere works of imagination will never stand the test of time, because all pleasure sickens by repetition. Philosophy will at length prevail in spite of these meretricious allurements, and conduct us to ber refreshing springs, whence flow exhaustless instruction and infinite delight.


For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight;
His van't be wrong, whose life is in the right;
All must be false, that thwart this one great end,
And all of God, that bless man kind or mend. Pope,

HAIL, pure Religiou! sacred science!

Best learnt from Holy Writ:
Teach me to bid the world defiance;

Make flesh and blood submit.
Correct and moderate each passion;

But not its use exclude;
Since heaven made us in this fashion,

And all it made is good.
Doubts concerning immortality,

Whene'er they rise repel;
Fix my faith in the reality

Of judgement, heav'n, and hell.
Thy name but one, yet how various

Different climes adore!
Nor are thy documents mysterious,

When stript of priestly lore.
Oft ceremony's made thy essence;

Farce assumes thy face;
Each party arrogates thy presence;

Yet how few share thy grace!
Thou art not those singularities

That sectaries applaud;
Nor the vain-glorious charities,

From riches got by fraud.
Nor art thou transubstantiation,

Chrism, beads, nor keys ;
Penance, nor excommunication;

Pardons, nor jubilees;
Nor organs, chantings, elocution,

Imposition of hands;
Nor consecration, absolution,

Cassocks, scarfs, roses, bands:

Nor art thou election, reprobation,

Nor the long formal cloak;
Nor yet the supper ordination,

Nor preaching from an oak:
Nor art thou a disuse of greetings,

Hat on, contracted brow;
No, nor perfection, silent meetings,

Nor language thee and thou:
Nor imaginary revelations,

Or intercourse divine;
Nor supernum'rary prostrations,

To alter heav'n's design.
To give a summ'ry of thy beauties,

An abstract of thy plan,
No round thou art of useless duties,

But “ Love of God aud man.” The first consisteth in adoring - His sov'reignty and grace; In praise, thanksgiving, and deploring

Our present lapsed case! The last, in treating all as brothers;

Forgiving, just, and true : Doing sincerely unto others

As we'd be done unto.
This is the Law and Prophets join'd,

Of gospel 'tis the sum;
Who has Religion thus defined.

Has hope in life to come;
Whether he approve of liturgies,

Or give assent to none; Whether he attend communities,

Or worship God alone.


NAIR was thy blossom, tender flower,

That opened like the rose of May,
'Though nursed beneath the chilly shower

Of fell regret for love's decay !
| How oft thy mother heaved the sigh

(l'er wreaths of honour early shorn,. Before thy sweet and guiltless eye

Had opened on the dawn of morn!
ME How oft above thy lowly bed,

When all in silence slumbered low,
The fond and filial tear was sbed,

Thou child of love, of shame, and woe!
Her wronged, but gentle, bosom bnrned,

With joy thy opening bloom to see,
The only breast that o'er thee yearned,

The only heart that cared for thee.
Oft her young eye, with tear-drops bright,

Pleaded with heaven for her sweet child,
When faded dreams of past delight

O'er recollection wandered wild.
Fair was thy blossom, bonny flower,

Fair as the softest wreath of spring,
When late I saw thee seek the bower

In peace thy morning hymn to sing!
Thy little feet across the lawn

Scarce from the primrose pressed the dew

[ocr errors]
« 前へ次へ »