and Philip pulled from his bosom the holy relic, "does not this, and the message sent by it, prove our creed is true?"

"I have thought much of it, Philip. At first it startled me almost into a belief, but even your own priests helped to undeceive me. They would not answer you, they would have left you to guide yourself, the message and the holy word, the wonderful signs given, and their creed were not in unison, and they halted. May I not too halt, if they did? The relic may be as mystic, as powerful as you describe, but the agencies may be false and wicked, the power given to it may have fallen into wrong hands-the power remains the same, but it is applied to uses not intended."

"The power, Amine, can only be exercised by those who are friends to Him who died upon it."

"Then is it no power at all; or if a power, not half so great as that of the arch-fiend; for his can work for good and evil both. But on this point, dear Philip, we do not well agree, nor can we convince each other. You have been taught in one way, I another. That which our childhood has imbibed, which has grown up with our growth, and strengthened with our years, is not to be eradicated. I have seen my mother work great charms, and succeed. You have knelt to priests, I blame you not ;-blame not your Amine. We both mean well,-I trust, do well." "If a life of innocence and purity were all that were required, my Amine would be sure of future bliss."

"I think it is; and thinking so, it is my creed. There are many creeds, who shall say which is the true? And what matters? they all have but one end in view-a future heaven.

“True, Amine, true," replied Philip, pacing the cabin thoughtfully. "And yet our priests say otherwise."

"What is the basis of their creed, Philip?"

"Charity and good will."

"Does charity condemn to eternal misery those who have never heard this creed, who have lived and died worshipping the Great Being after their best endeavours, and little knowledge?"

"No, surely."

Amine made no further observations; and Philip, after pacing for a few minutes in deep thought, walked out of the cabin.

The Utrecht arrived at the Cape, watered, and proceeded on her voyage, and, after two months of difficult navigation, cast anchor off Gambroon. During this time, Amine had been unceasing in her attempts to gain the good will of Schrifter. She had often conversed with him on deck, had done him every kindness, and had overcome that fear which his near approach had generally occasioned. Schrifter gradually appeared mindful of this kindness, and at last appeared to be pleased with Amine's company. To Philip he was civil and courteous at times, but not always; but to Amine he was always deferent. His language was mystical, she could not prevent his chuckling laugh, and his occasional "He! he!" from breaking forth. But when they anchored at Gambroon, he was then on those terms, that he would occasionally come into the cabin; and, although he would not sit down, would talk to Amine for a few minutes, and then depart. While the vessel laid at anchor at Gambroon, Schrifter one evening walked up to Amine, who was sitting on the poop," Lady" said Schrifter, after a

pause, " Yon ship sails for your own country in a few days."

"So I am told," replied Amine.

"Will you take the advice of one who wishes you well? Return in that vessel, go back to your own cottage and stay there till your husband comes to you once more."

"Why is this advice given?"

"Because I forbode danger, nay-perhaps death, a cruel death—to one that I would not harm."

"To me!" replied Amine, fixing her eyes upon Schrifter, and meeting his piercing gaze.

"Yes, to you. Some people can see into futurity farther than others." "Not if they are mortal," replied Amine.

"Yes, if they are mortal. But mortal or not, I do see that which I would avert. Tempt not destiny farther."

"Who can avert it? If I take your counsel, still was it my destiny to take your counsel. If I take it not, still it was my destiny." "Well then, avoid what threatens you."

'I fear not, yet do I thank you. Tell me Schrifter, hast thou not thy fate someway interwoven with that of my husband? I feel that thou hast." "Why think you so, lady?"

"For many reasons. Twice have you summoned him--twice have you been wrecked, and miraculously reappeared and recovered. You know too of his mission, that is evident."

"But proves nothing."

"Yes! it proves much; for it proves that you knew, what was supposed to be known but to him alone."

"It was known to you, and holy men debated on it," replied Schrifter, with a sneer.

"How knew you that, again?"

"He! he!" replied Schrifter. "Forgive me, lady, I meant not to affront you."

"You cannot deny but that you are connected mysteriously and incomprehensibly in this mission of my husband's. Tell me, is it as he believes, true and holy?"

"If he thinks that it is true and holy, it becomes so."

66

Why then do you appear his enemy?"

"I am not his enemy, fair lady."

"You are not his enemy,-why then did you once attempt to deprive him of the mystic relic by which the mission is to be accomplished?" "I would prevent his further search, for reasons which must not be told. Does that prove that I am his enemy? Would it not be better that he should remain on shore with competence and you, than to be crossing the wild seas on this mad search? Without the relic, it is not to be accomplished. It were a kindness, then, to take it from him." Amine answered not, for she was lost in thought.

"Lady," continued Schrifter, after a time, "I wish you well. For your husband I care not, yet do I wish him no harm. Now hear me : if you wish for your future life to be one of ease and peace, if you wish to remain long in this world with the husband of your choice of your first and warmest love-if you wish that he should die in his bed at a good old age, and that you should close his eyes with children's tears lamenting, and their smiles reserved to cheer their mother,—all this I see and

can promise is in futurity, if you will take that relic from his bosom and give it up to me. But if you would that he should suffer more than men have suffered, pass his whole life in doubt, anxiety, and pain, until the deep wave receive his corpse, then let him keep it. If you would that your own days be shortened, and yet those remaining be long in human suffering, if you would be separated from him and die a cruel death, then let him keep it. I can read futurity, and such must be the destiny of both. Lady, consider well, I must leave you now. To-morrow I will have your answer."

Schrifter walked away and left Amine to her own reflections. For a long while she repeated to herself the conversation and denunciations of the man, whom she was now convinced was not of this world, and was some way or another so connected with her husband's fate. "To me he wishes well, no harm to my husband, and would prevent his search. Why would he?-that he will not tell. He has tempted me, tempted me most strangely. How easy 'twere to take the relic as he sleeps upon my bosom, but how treacherous! And yet a life of competence and ease, a smiling family, a good old age; what offers to a fond and doting wife! And if not, toil, anxiety, and a watery grave; and for me. Pshaw! that's nothing. And yet to die separated from Philip is that nothing? Oh, no, the thought is dreadful, I do believe him. Yes, he has foretold the future, and told it truly. Could I persuade Philip? No! he has vowed, and is not to be changed-I know him well. And yet, if it were taken without his knowledge, he would not have to blame himself. Who then would he blame? Could I deceive him? I, the wife of his bosom tell a lie. No! no! It must not be. Come what will, it is our destiny, and I am resigned. I would he had not spoken. Alas! we search into futurity, and then would fain retrace our steps, and wish we had been in ignorance."

"What makes you so pensive, Amine?" said Philip, who some time afterwards walked up to where she was seated.

Amine replied not at first. "Shall I tell him all ?" thought she. "It is my only chance-I will." Amine repeated the conversation between her and Schrifter. Philip made no reply, he sat down by Amine and took her hand. Amine dropped her head upon her husband's shoulder. "What think you, Amine?" said Philip after a time.

"I could not steal your relic, Philip; perhaps you'll give it to me." "And my father, Amine, my poor father-his dreadful doom to be eternal! He who appealed, was permitted to appeal to his son, that that dreadful doom might be averted. Does not the conversation of this man prove to you that my mission is not false? Does not his knowledge of it strengthen all? Yet, why would he prevent it?" continued Philip, musing.

"Why, I cannot tell, Philip, but I would fain prevent it. I feel that he has power to read the future, and has read aright.'

"Be it so; he has spoken, but not plainly. He has promised me what I have long been prepared for. What I vowed to Heaven to suffer. Already have I suffered much, and am prepared to suffer all. I have long looked upon this world as a pilgrimage, and selected as I have been, that my reward shall be in the other. But Amine, you are not bound by oath to Heaven, you have made no compact. He advised you to go home. He talked of a cruel death. Follow his advice and avoid it." Feb.-VOL. LV. NO. CCXVIII.

"I am not bound by oath, Philip; but hear me; as I hope for future bliss, I now bind myself—"

66 Hold, Amine!"

"Nay, Philip, you cannot prevent me; for if you do now, I will repeat it when you are absent. A cruel death were a charity to me, for I shall not see you suffer. Then may I never expect future bliss, may eternal misery be my portion, if I leave you as long as fate permits us to be together. I am yours, your wife; my fortunes, my present, my future, my all are embarked with you, and destiny may do its worst, for Amine will not quail. I have no recreant heart to turn aside from danger or from suffering. In that one point, Philip, at least, you chose, you wedded well."

Philip raised her hand to his lips in silence, and the conversation was Lot resumed. The next evening, Schrifter came up again to Amine. "Well, lady?" said he.

"Schrifter, it cannot be," replied Amine; "yet do I thank you much."

"Lady, if he must follow up his mission, why should you?"

"Schrifter I am his wife-his for ever, in this world, and the next. You cannot blame me."

"No," replied Schrifter, "I do not blame, I admire you. I feel sorry. But after all, what is death? Nothing. He he!" and Schrifter

hastened away and left Amine to herself.

1838.

ELEGIAC TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF
L. E. L.

BY MRS. C. B. WILSON.

"Only one doom for the Poet is recorded."*

ONLY one doom! writ in misfortune's page
For earth's most highly gifted ;-does the lyre,
To those who woo it, such a fate presage
To damp the kindling thoughts, that would aspire,
Prometheus-like, to sport with heavenly fire?—
Alas! 'tis even so!-Fame's laurel wreath
Distils its poison on the brow beneath!

Thy grave is made, under a foreign sky,
And in a stranger soil;-thine ashes rest
In a far-distant clime ;-no kindred eye
Soften'd thy death-pangs,-saw thy heaving breast
Gasp its last sigh, or caught the fond bequest
Thy murmuring lip had breathed to friends afar ;-
Lone was thy setting, Genius' " Polar Star!"+

"The Death of Camoens," by L. E. L. Vide New Monthly Magazine, June,

+ Vide L. E. L.'s last published poem, in the New Monthly Magazine for January,

1839.

There should have knelt around thee, mourning friends,
With anxious hearts, in that all-fearful hour
When weeping Love in silent prayer ascends
To Heav'n, that it will raise the drooping Flower
(A "broken reed," to save is human power);
And the last murmur of thy parting groan
Should not have pass'd, unheeded and unknown!

This Fate forbids!—but in thy lyric page
Thine epitaph is written ;-down the stream
Of gliding years, to many a distant age,
Shall float thy magic numbers ;—as a dream,
Haunting the mem'ry with sweet sounds, that seem
Like snatches of some old familiar strain,
Waking fond thoughts of childhood's hours again!

For thou wert Feeling's own impassion'd child!
Her girdling spells were on thee ;—and thy heart
Was as a living lyre, whose chords the wild
Soft breezes kiss'd to music;-forth would start,
At NATURE'S touch (for thou disdainedst ART),
The gushing stream of Song;-the kindling flame
Breathed on by thee, in answering numbers came.

But mute is now that lyre! hush'd as the heart
Whose pulses were its echo ;-for the strings,
Of both, alas! are broken.-As depart
Day's beams, and o'er the dial twilight flings
The dusky shadow of her brooding wings,
So, from the world, thy lyric light hath pass'd,

And Death has hush'd the Swan's sweet notes at last!

Jan. 4, 1839.