Down a distant path, her look Like to summer skies that lighten, Grow sorrowful and overcast When the flash of hope has pass'd. And now she throws the useless page aside, And opens wide the casement, looking out Upon the far-seen river, rolling wide, With white sails gliding here and there about, In the broad sheaf of moonlight, shining down A ray of glory from Night's regal crown. ""Tis beautiful, and yet, alas! 'tis sad, This loneliness and silence. Were he here, The calm would be most perfect, if not glad; Because, too happy, I should know no fear. But there is something solemn in the night, Walking in all this phantasy of light. "Around me spreads a wilderness of sweets; But how unlike the fragrance of my home! Where in its starlit path the night-wind meets A thousand citron groves, whose breathings come Whisking the scented jasmine flowers aside Through the green jalousies, a perfumed tide! "There is a sadness in these English skies, With their grey veil of clouds between the blue And glorious heaven, that above them lies Like Sorrow darkly shading Hope from view. This air is soft, as that the punka showers, But oh! I languish for my own bright bowers. "And yet the name I bear is of this land My fathers moulder in her banner'd aisle ; And the cool air I breathe, in childhood fann'd My mother's brow: but oh, the sunny isles Of the Carnatic, with their blushing skies And musky odours, and rich flower dyes! "My heart is out of tune; too much of bliss "Oh no! When he is by me, I forget The past-the future, in the sweet unrest That stifles each sad murmur of regret With which his absence fills my yearning breast; Joy, joy too full is gushing through my soul, As a quick fount o'erflows the pilgrim's bowl." Sudden she pauses in her plaintive lay, As a familiar footstep greets her ear; And, starting with clasp'd hands, she bounds away- A PHANTASY. Dreams of the night, say, whence do ye come? Methought I was borne to the glorious sky, And beheld the pure host in rich phalanx arranged; Whilst stars in their loveliness gemm'd my long hair, And like jewels they shone on my feet white and bare; And methought amid stillness, most deep and profound, Rose a voice of melodious and exquisite sound, But well did that vision my fancy portray, For as the swift current pours rapidly on, TASSO TO HIS CROWN. (A Sonnet.) My soul, what see'st thou far beyond this sphere? What aspect wears the dim, the vast expanse ? Does not thine eye, unsullied by a tear, Pierce dread futurity with joyful glance? It does! I feel the raptures of the heavenly throngs! 'Tis dawn'd; my disappointments and my wrongs, I shake these ill-tim'd honours from my brow- LEANDER There are many unvisited corners and bye- | places in this our island, which even yet contain mementos of an earlier and very different period. Quiet recesses full of natural beauties, and rich in old customs, where the enterprising manufacturer has not found his way, nor the steam-engine polluted the balmy atmosphere; where railways themselves are only mentioned as wonderful things to be seen at a far distance; and the fathers of the hamlet live, toil, and die, much as did their fathers before them centuries ago, contented with an humble lot, in simple, happy ignorance; never dreaming of that busy, wicked world, from which only a few miles of green meadows and luxuriant cornfields separate them. We love to haunt such places: they become for a long time afterwards the sunny remembrances of our waking and sleeping dreams, and, like verdant oases in Lybian deserts, are more refreshing and precious because so rare. True, Elysian as their semblance is, we must not look to find in them an earthly paradise: they likewise have their cares, their jealousies, their politics. A strong under-current of life flows on beneath the smooth surface, which only those who penetrate the depth can feel; yet, after all, we think, perhaps idly, that their lot must surely be blissful who only know the trivial miseries attendant on such peaceful existence, and are not vexed with weightier matters. Longfield is one of these retired villages. Situated in a northern county, a few years ago it preserved its olden character almost entire. Adhering to customs handed down from father to son, with pious veneration akin to religious feeling, few innovations were tolerated by the primitive inhabitants. Probably the cottagers at this day would consider themselves greatly aggrieved, were they obliged to live like their grandfathers. Tea was a luxury not thought of: nice milk, or wholesome broth, constituted a better aliment. Gay dresses were nearly unknown. The farmer went to overlook his labourers, clad like them in homespun garments; and all-day long the busy goodwife's wheel went round merrily, to provide clothing for her husband and children. Their garb was plain, like their fare; but health and cheerfulness were their companions. The cottages were low, with thatched roofs of straw, or more frequently heather: yet, homely as their appearance might be, they were generally covered with festoons of ivy and honeysuckle; and in little plots before them gilly flowers, primroses, polyanthuses, marigolds, and other sweet flowers, were to be seen, carefully tended, uniting dewy odours with the balmy scent of neverfailing pot-herbs. Modern refinement was quite unknown. Only one newspaper reached the village; it came weekly, and was regarded with considerable awe. We verily believe, had it on any particular occasion announced that the princess royal was about to espouse a king of the South Sea Islands, the intelligence would have been implicitly credited by the rustics, who in simplicity of heart were thoroughly persuaded George the Third constantly wore a gold crown, and ate his breakfast with a sceptre in his hand! Such was the character of Longfield. Its situation was remarkably beautiful. Seated in a winding valley, along which a fine trout stream ran, it was literally embosomed in trees, which, most of them centuries old, clothed the hills on either side nearly to the summit, where heather began to mix with rougher herbage, gradually increasing until it formed extensive moors. Here and there amongst the foliage white cottage chimneys peeped out, sending up at morn, noon, and evening, thick, curling peat-smoke: and still further east of the village, the eye rested on a venerable gothic tower, the only visible portion of a superb old church. According to a frequent custom of our ancestors, the sacred edifice stood a little removed from any house, for it was built at a period when Christians considered it no hardship to walk a few hundred yards to assist at the awful mysteries of our faith. Tradition averred that a church was first founded on the site by some early converts of St. when he in boyhood had likewise a child's curiosity. One fine May morning it chanced Mrs. Byland, in returning from a friend's house, took a path which traversed the churchyard. The day was warm; bees and butterflies were flitting with pleasant murmur from bud to flower, amongst the many fresh blossoms that grew upon the osier-bound graves. She paused awhile in the solemn enclosure to read, probably for the hundredth time, two inscriptions Paulinus, the apostle of the north: be this as it may, the existing structure was much more recent, though erected long before the change of religion in England. It had suffered greatly from the spoiler; yet, after years of neglect, enough was left to carry back the visitor into the past, and induce solemn meditation. The stained windows still threw a dim light on the timeworn floor: there were still traces of the worship once celebrated there. It was to the thought of fancy an inanimate link between the dead who slept around its walls, and the living who as-recording the early departure of two who were sembled at times within them: almost the only link uniting the two. her infant playmates. It is a mournful, yet strange gratification to do so: it brings so vividly to mind, together with sad reminiscences, the happy hope of a future reunion. She thought long and fondly of her deceased friends, and then, half idly, entered the church. Of all the village children, none was more distinguished for beauty than little Lucy Byland: she had just attained that most interesting age when the thoughts of childhood are expressed in a language which, from its simplicity, becomes The May sunbeams acquired gorgeous hues eloquence. Few of us can well recall that age in as they fell through the stained windows on a after-life; it fades from memory like a lovely time-marked pavement, tracing in fantastic dream, and only revisits us in transitory shapes the images of martyr, saint, and angel, glimpses. Strange, indeed, must be the feel- with which the glass was dyed. The good dame ings of the young soul during its first com- walked silently along, alternately admiring the munings with the presence of actual sin. Whilst glorious blazonry and the black-carved roof, a babe in her cradle, Lucy was evidently thought- when her eye suddenly rested on her daughter, ful; something inexpressible by words dwelt in who stood gazing wistfully at a large White Garher full clear eyes: they looked contemplatively land, suspended from the chancel arch. It was upon those around her, as if she would read in one of those now perhaps never seen, but which theirs hidden thoughts, until perceptible sadness about sixty years ago might have been found in used to come over her infant brow. Yet she many old churches. Formed of a light wood, seldom wept, and was always docile and patient. these garlands were profusely decorated with The Bylands were "well to do," as the coun- silken ornaments, and at the burial of a maid try phrase runs; and as they had only another were borne, wreathed with virgin flowers, before child-a girl a little older-Lucy stood in some the corpse, by two young girls, dressed, as were risk of being spoiled by kindness. As she grew all the funeral attendants, in spotless white, emin strength and years, the same pensive cha- blematic of her purity who was to be given to racter more strongly developed itself: ever kind dust: they were, in fact, the bridal garlands of and gentle, she shunned the sports of her little those who in youth wedded with grim death. companions, or joined them carelessly. Beneath This beautiful and touching custom is, we bea sort of arbour, formed by lilacs and labur-lieve, obsolete in England, but is still practised nums, on a soft mound, studded in spring with snowdrops, and circled during summer by blue and white periwinkle, she had a favourite seat-"Lucy's throne," as her mother laughingly called it. There she spent hours, playing by herself, and twisting light chaplets of field and garden flowers, and sometimes singing in a sweet bird-like voice snatches of old ballads, which she had somewhere heard. Little of childishness was there about her: she seldom spoke, and rarely smiled, save when alone. in some portions of the continent. "Oh, mother," said Lucy, "how pretty! Why is it kept there?" "It is used at funerals, my dear." Funerals, mother!" replied the child; "I thought people always wore black at funerals, just as you did the other day when they buried old Mrs. Thompson-and they were sorry and crying. What do they do with that pretty thing?" people's funerals; but when a young unmarried person dies, they are carried before the coffin." "You know, my dear," was her mother's The old church and its quiet grave-yard soon answer, "Mrs. Thompson was a very, very old became a favourite resort: she loitered for hours woman; and she had a great many sons and beneath the ancient yew-trees and broad sha- daughters, quite elderly men and women: such dowy chestnuts, sometimes plucking the golden-garlands as you are looking at are not used at old eyed daisies, sometimes watching the rooks as they sailed cawing about the grey tower, and then gazing long and wistfully on the quaint devices which decorated the half-sunk tombs. The interior of the church, too, often attracted her, when the sexton in the course of his duties left the door open; and, sooth to say, that old man grew attached to the little child, and would tell her many legendary tales of the ancient lords whose monuments she saw, and of many former things, just as his venerable father had told him The girl looked at Mrs. Byland as she spoke, and then again at the White Garland. 'Do young people often die?" "Yes, my love. More die in youth than live to be old; and if they have been virtuous, we should think them happy, because they are spared much trial, and escape many occasions of sin." Lucy's fair features became very pensive. For a minute or two she remained silent; and when she looked up in her mother's face, tears were in her eyes. "Mother, shall I die young? Will they carry that pretty White Garland when they bury me?" Mrs. Byland smiled, but sadly; maternal love liked not such a question from her darling's lips. "My dear Lucy, our great God alone knows when you, or I, or any of us will leave this world. He has not told us, because he would have us to be obedient to his holy will, and always prepared to meet him; for you know we only really begin to live when we die on earth. I hope, my Lucy, you will be spared many years; but if it pleases the Almighty to take you away young, if you have diligently sought to serve him here, and carefully avoided sin, death will only translate you to heaven, to be with the holy saints and angels, and all the blessed virgins for ever, and to bear a bright crown of glory, which will never sully or fade like that White Garland." She kissed away the little maiden's tears, and led her from the church; but although the birds sang merrily in the warm sunshine as they passed along, and the small quiet village looked very cheerful, an unspoken sadness rested at Lucy's young heart. That night the child's sleep was broken; her thoughts wandered to the old church; she stood looking at the garland in fancy; and a soft voice seemed whispering"Shall I die young? will they carry it for me?" The seasons rolled on; spring grew into summer; summer waned, and autumn and winter followed. Years sped away, marked by little in their transit at Longfield, except the natural and welcome change. True, the ivy had grown thicker round new cottages, and the moss more abundant upon waving elms: the steps of very old people waxed a little feebler through their increasing pilgrimage, and the middle-aged counted a few grey hairs peeping among brown locks, hairs blanched more by weather than care. Such is usually the rustic's record of flying years: no great events shine in his simple annals-no continued shadows chequer his quiet way. Births, deaths, and marriages of neighbours form memorable epochs: the annual feast, the half-yearly fair, are important landmarks in the waste of time. Lucy Byland was now a blooming girl-not, indeed, the village queen, though all acknowledged her right to that enviable station, had she sought it like her fair compeers; but the retired character which marked her early infancy remained to distinguish her maturer age; so others less beautiful, but possessing more buoyant spirits, became the belles of Longfield. You might have searched earnestly, and travelled far, before you could have found a damsel really so attractive as Lucy: there was a world of light and love in her fine eyes: the expression of chastened sadness they frequently assumed only increased their brilliancy, and in blithe-hearted moments how cheerfully they smiled, reflecting her soul's purity! Rich auburn tresses, usually decorated with a few simple flowers, were smoothly folded over her brow, and fell in thick curls on her symmetrical shoulders. Her cheek "it was not dusk, not fair" the sun had kissed it gently, and blended with the peach tint his own warmer hue. And her lips-oh, on them the coral truly glowed; their expression was irresistible. Quiet, almost pensive in demeanour, she rarely participated in the little parties which occasionally enlivened the monotony of village existence: yet, when persuaded to join them, none was so welcome. But Lucy's chosen companions were the gentle denizens of wood and wold-the song-birds and bright insects, through whose haunts she daily wandered, and in whose secret joy she partook. Her steps were early in the grove-paths, among honey-sweet flowers; and along the brook's margin, beneath the shady chestnuts, when noon's heat grew oppressive. She delighted to watch the beauties of earth, that spoke so eloquently to her heart of Him who gave them; and absorbed in such glorious contemplation, the foulness of man's exterior life became rather a distressing dream than a hideous reality. In childhood she loved to frequent the old churchyard; now it was equally dear. Her walks often terminated there, and she sat for hours under the dark yew's shadow, absorbed in meditation deep and soothing. The dead lay by thousands around her, unseen by mortal eye, but perceptible to spiritual vision; those dead who are the living of another sphere:" beautiful forms early taken, decrepid bodies wor down by lengthened age; the bud unexpanded, and the winter-wasted blossom-all resting for a season, without distinction of rank or years. What led the maiden so to haunt this spotthe chamber of man's last repose? Was it that kind spirits whispered her how she soon would sleep beside her fathers, and pass in youth's beautiful sinlessness from a sinful world? Was it that she already felt half disengaged from earth, and so sought to commune with holier influences? The old sexton, Lucy's early friend, now a tottering octogenarian, long past the duties of his office, but still a daily visitor to their scene, thought so when he sat in the cool porch looking fondly on his favourite. It might, indeed, be so; for often did she wander into the church, particularly towards sunset, when the last slant rays gushed crimson through its glowing windows, and pause before the White Garland, which still retained its place, though less frequently used than of old. Long and wistful was always her gaze on that melancholy ornament, even as in infancy, till as darkness grew fast around, she turned away with saddened mien, and eye half-dimmed by creeping tears, saying softly in her inmost soul, just as the strange voice appeared to murmur when she was a little child. "Shall I also die young? Will they carry it for me when they bear me to my rest?" * It was impossible one so gentle and beaut ful as Lucy was should remain long without ad mirers. Her retiring character might give her additional interest in the eyes of the Longfield beaux; anyhow, many strove as best they might to attract her notice and obtain her love. Presents, devised by the ingenuity of rustic taste, were almost daily lavished upon her: they were not of very costly or elaborate character, but spoke expressively enough the feelings of the donors, and were fit offerings for a country beauty. The earliest wild fruits, the rarest hill flowers, seemed to ripen and bloom for her especial use. Her half-whispered wishes were more powerful incentives to action than another's expressed mandate. Month after month saw the train of her adorers increased, yet none received more than kind thanks and yet kinder smiles; so none could fairly complain of caprice if afterwards rejected. Was, then, her heart wholly untouched by Love? Did she, unlike others, entirely escape his visitation? Ah, no; she had early surrendered it to one well worthy of such a treasure. devotion, the unmingled admiration of our first pure love. George and Lucy enjoyed as much happiness as even they may expect who are fondly attached to each other: scarcely a cloud came across their sunshine: the future was full of promise, the present replete with joy. No harsh parents, no stubborn guardians thwarted their affection; no difference of rank raised a barrier between them; they were happy in themselves and in each other. Seldom can a fairer pair be seen than they presented when walking together through the Longfield woods in calm, sunny summer evenings, sometimes pausing to listen to the wood-dove's musical cooings, or to gather the graceful wood anemones; and sometimes bending over the brook, where it wound amongst the dark old trees, in order to watch the speckled trouts glide through its stainless waters; she resembling a delicate plant, well-nigh too fragile to support itself; he, in his manliness, like the stout elm such blossoms seek lovingly to embrace. Often had the moon risen high above the broad oaks before their footsteps tended homewards; and then, as in interchange of delicious thought, they passed through the dewed meadows, with the night swallows and bats wheeling about them, and the song of the sedge-bird rising melodiously from the willows, a strange feeling would sweep over Lucy's mind --a shadowy foreboding, only for a moment, for their path lay across the dusk church-yard, and she involuntarily remembered the White Garland. It seemed a foolish fancy, and she checked it, thinking so; still it was singular how often it returned, each time more vividly. When she slept, dreams fashioned themselves in bright George Drylea was as fine a specimen of that fine class, the English yeoman, as ever trod the greensward or scaled the hill. Of good stature and robust frame, when you looked in his frank open countenance, and heard his cheerful clear voice, with its merry-hearted laugh, you became convinced he was a gentleman of Nature's creation. Possessing strong intellect, he sedulously cultivated it to the fullest extent his limited opportunities permitted. His read ing was scanty, but he had read with care; he had seen little, but had observed closely: hence George really owned an amount of information which would have put to the blush hundreds of young men of similar station even in these days of universal knowledge. In agricultural pur-array, but dissolved ever into gloom, not cheersuits none surpassed him: his acquaintance with them was practical rather than theoretical. No youth in the parish drew so straight a furrow, or could shear a sheep better, or thatch a haystack more neatly. In village games he had few rivals: Longfield did not contain a more expert sportsman. He was master of the little pack of harriers kept by his brother farmer, although he did not bear the name, and possessed equal control over the celebrated otter-hounds. The river furnished him amusement, angling and shooting, in both which arts he was an adept. Poor George, it is true, boasted few elegant accomplishments; but then Lucy never wished for such. The shy pensive girl knew his worth: his heart was as warm and tender as ever beat within a human bosom, and he loved her as much for her goodness as for her beauty; besides, he was true, and brave, and generous; therefore she loved him for himself. Oh, it is a strange bright dream, that first young love, coming to each of us only once, and mostly passing away with a dark shadow cast upon its innocent freshness-a gloom which will not wear off, but must remain linked with the radiance in our memory whilst mortal life endures. Never may the dream itself return! We love, and love-aye, perchance scores of times during our travel-but not with the less perhaps, yet solemn. She heard funeral music, and saw funeral lights, and bridal robes that were not marriage garments; and still was the emblem garland prominent, and the mysterious murmur audible, just as of old-" Shall I die young? will they carry it for me?" She would wake with tears dimming her mild eyes, and a heart-sickness; yet she remembered George, and his deep affection for her, and strove to banish the melancholy ideas that came all uninvited. Slight success had she: the spell of a life was drawn about her, the thoughts of infancy returned. Noon found her frequently in the church-yard, and at times she entered the building to look at the old tombs, and to gaze singularly fascinated, on the maidens' wreath. These feelings she did not conceal from her lover: with him she had no such secrets; and when he heard her story, and her wild omens, he only laughed pleasantly, saying she was a foolish little prophetess; and as he kissed away her tears, bade her think of the blithe future. "Yes, dearest!" she would answer in her low musical tones; "I trust we shall be so happy, happy as we are now; but, oh George, forgive me if sad thoughts, which I cannot resist, make me sometimes appear sorrowful! I have endeavoured to overcome them for your sake; but frequently, very frequently, they re |