6

that made me almost repent having put myself in her power. 'See,' she continued, they are about adjourning to the ball-room, let us follow; I will take the form of a beautiful woman, and use my every art to fascinate him, and we shall see how his boasted constancy will stand the test!' I was annoyed by the delay, but forced to yield, and in a moment she stood before me, one of the most lovely creatures my eyes ever beheld, and as though she had known the point most calculated to win him, she had assumed that air of high-bred refinement which I well knew was in his eyes, the greatest attraction a woman could possess; and as I saw his attention directed toward her, a death-like faintness came over me, and I felt as though this were too much of a trial even for his constancy, and trembled for the result. But just as Alciope was about to leave me, I saw his eye fall upon a ring he wore, and which had been my own gift to him under very peculiar circumstances, and the expression which passed over his face spoke to my heart as plainly as words could have done, and I felt that I had been wrong to doubt him even for a moment, and I whispered to Alciope: 'If thou canst obtain the ring he wears I will return with thee to thy oceanhome, but if not, I shall claim thy promise.' 'Only that ring,' said she, laughing, will that indeed satisfy thee?' And I replied that it would; for I well knew that nothing would tempt him to part with it till he had ceased to love the giver. Fearing I should not be able to retain my composure if I remained near them, I withdrew to a distant part of the room, and watching them from a distance, I saw them join the dancers, and he looked with admiration on his beautiful partner, a bright smile played upon his lip, and his eye was bright with pleasure, as they whirled by me in the waltz. The time hung wearily upon my hands; for it is but poor amusement to watch the man you love playing the agreeable to another woman, but to me it had at least the charm of novelty, and I could have almost found it in my heart to pity those poor wives and sweethearts, who are victims of the green-eyed monster, jealousy! It was the first time in my life that I had ever been able to understand the feeling. I did n't find it pleasant, and it is a satisfaction to know that no mortal woman could raise that demon in my breast! At last I saw Alciope approaching, and she exclaimed: Thou mayst well be proud of thine empire over his heart, and thy confidence is well placed: I tried every fascination, every art to lure him from thee, but in vain; and as for that ring, he says he would not part with it for the brightest gem in an emperor's crown; and now I am ready to fulfil my promise, and lead thee to him. Come!' said she, and led the way to a quiet apartment; but my trembling limbs would scarcely allow me to follow, for the thought that I was indeed to see him again, seemed to have deprived me of all strength. I assumed my own form, and at the door she left me. He was alone, and had thrown himself listlessly upon a couch, as though wearied with the festive scene. A moment I stood in silent contemplation of that well-loved face, and then murmuring his name, rushed toward him. He started up, looked at me wildly, doubtingly, for a moment, as though he feared his senses were deceiving him, and then clasped me passionately to his heart, and his dear voice sounded in my ear, breathing fond assurances of continued love, and

sweetest terms of endearment, and I was happy once more. I could have rested thus for ever, but his eager questions forced me to raise myself, and I awoke, to find it all a dream! I was clinging to a rock, and my hair was wet with the night-dew, but my heart was happy.

Do you recall that summer's day,
When, straying long and far away,
Within a lovely spot,

Your shoulder pillowing my head,
I listened while you sat and read
'The Lady of Shalott?'

The deep blue sky seemed bending low:
I watched the white clouds come and go,
And looking up I knew,

By the kind smile upon your face,
The self same things I loved to trace
Were dearly loved by you!

Had she, so long by passion tossed,
The lovely lady and the lost,

Come in between us there,

We should have welcomed her with eyes
Brimful of feeling, not surprise,

And soothed her lone despair.

O blessed hour! O blessed spot!
O lovely Lady of Shalott!

O friend so wise and dear!
To-day I ope the book again,
But try to find the charm in vain:

Would thou wert with me here!

Strong hills of granite, bold and high,
The beauty of a western sky

Had far more charms for me!
And where the noble Hudson flows,
O'er tipped with crimson as he goes,
My heart must ever be!

For thee, dear friend, whose paths are laid
Within the city's heat and shade,

I know 't is not forgot:

That day of conscious happiness,
That shape of light and loveliness,
The Lady of Shalott!

'AT about half-past one P.M., on the twenty-first of September, 1832, SIR WALTER SCOTT breathed his last, in the presence of all his children. It was a beautiful day-so warm, that every window was wide open; and so perfectly still, that the sound of all others most delicious to his ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly audible as we knelt around his bed, and his eldest son kissed and closed his eyes. No sculptor ever modelled a more majestic image of repose.' LOCKHART'S LIFE OF SCOTT.

THE sunset's evanescent smile,

That gilds the long and shadowy aisle
Of Dryburgh's old monastic pile,

Seems slow to fade

From the sepulchral marble bed,
Where rests the venerated head
Of SCOTT with his forefathers dead,
All lowly laid.

Fit place of rest!
Around him famous champions lie,
His ancestry of years fled by,
Each with his sculptured effigy
Stretched o'er the dust!

Bones of grave monks repose around,
Of knights in feudal wars renowned,
Of mailéd nobles, each one crowned
With his grim bust.

Dead saints their holy palms expand,
Dark soldiers clasp the stony brand;
The pluméd casque, the priestly wand,
Watch o'er his sleep.

Well did he love your lives to paint,
Rough vassal and monastic saint,
In life-like tale or lyric quaint,
With colorings deep.

Well did he love the shadows dim,
That o'er departed ages swim,
To pierce, till they revealed to him
Their deeds of gloom.

Well did the Great Magician wield
His staff, till each ensanguined field
Its dead at his command would yield
From Time's dark womb.

He spake, and the soft landscape spread
Its verdurous borders to the tread;
Groves mingled their thick tops o'erhead,
Herds roamed below:

The stag and the wild boar swept by,
Loud peals the hunter's cheery cry,
Whistling the cloth-yard arrows fly,

Sharp twangs the bow.

He sang! and in the lofty strain
Cheviot's bald summits gleamed again,
Each mount in Scotland's broad domain
Up rose to view;

Loch-Lomond and Loch-Katrine's roar
Resound along the idle shore,

And Tweed's melodious channels pour
Their waves of blue.

He sang the brier-rose oped its bloom,
The sweet fern mingled its perfume,
The heath-flower tossed its colored plume
O'er hill and dale.

His voice aroused deep solitudes,
Drear deserts and primeval woods,
Amid whose brown impetuous floods
Trod the wild Gael.

The fisher, in his rocking skiff,
Beneath Ben Nevis' craggy cliff,
Heard the wild song;

The sheep-boy, tending his white fold,
And maiden, with her locks of gold,
In silken snood or tartan rolled,
Dancing along.

He sang! and the bold mountaineer,
Whose bones for many a dusty year,
'Neath savage cairn or snow-drift drear,
Forgot had lain;

Flashed his tough spear and smote his shield,
His claymore his stout arm would wield,
And o'er his ancient battle-field

Stalked forth again.

ROB ROY his rugged Caterans leads,
MAC IVOR on the scaffold bleeds,
DALGETTY on his 'provant' feeds,
BRADWARDINE'S guest;

Sweet LUCY ASHTON droops in grief,
Fair AMY ROBSART'S dream is brief,
Poor EFFIE DEANS seeks sweet relief
On JEANNIE's breast.

He sleeps! where Dryburgh flaunts the weed,
And ivies their green tendrils lead,
While fast beside the silver Tweed
Perpetual pours:

Yon towers of Abbotsford arise,

And watch the spot where low he lies,
And near the latest sunbeam dies,
On fair Melrose!

THE OBSERVATIONS OF MACE SLOPER, ESQ.

FAMILIARLY NARRATED BY HIMSELF.

NUMBER EIGHT.

SLOPER'S SUMMER EXPERIENCES CONTINUED.

' AND so,' observed beautiful Widow Twiggles, 'you have followed me all the way to Cape May?'

'Yes,' answered I, I came a-Maying after the sweetest flower that ever grew and have found it.'

In an arbor!'

Well,' said I, looking around, if we come to that, I reckon I'd better call you a lady-apple; for that's the only real pretty, rosy, sweet, first-rate, tart little beautiful thing that I ever saw kept under dead leaves. Country folks say it makes the color come. I b'lieve that 's so.'

And I believe it was, for by the time I had got out that last speech there was a color on Amelia's cheeks which would have torn down a peck of madder. Perhaps it was the evening clouds which shone that sun-set with an extra ferocious crimson, like as if the fire of the day had burned down some, and the last and hottest coals were being raked out just before the black ashes of night should be piled over them. There we sat in the arbor composed of pine boards and covered with dry oak boughs, and the evening winds kept a-twisting and rustling the leaves, and we looked down at the roaring great waves running up like cream-soda on the beach, and at two little boys who kept chasing of them and prodding them with sticks, as if they expected to pin them down, and at the rest of the children, who were digging for dear life in the sand without regard to dress or rank, and at one soli