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drops of a half hidden fountain sparkled and revelled in the sunbeams, and filled the heart with all soft images of peace and hope. For one moment, as I listened to the trickling waters, and looked on the quiet bower, I longed to be the denizen of so sweet a resting place; but I thought of its three last owners, - Marie Louise, Josephine, and Antoinette, and checked the idle wish.

"It is pleasant," said Lady Julian, "thus to pursue royalty into its retirement. Yet, I confess, this royal workyday room, pleases me less than the one we visited at Brussels. Do you remember, May, how every thing there seemed to intimate that a queen could occupy, as well as amuse, her leisure? Do you recollect, Violet, the old piano, and the Raffaelle hanging near the door, with a copy opposite, painted by the queen of the Netherlands, and how we all fancied her and the princess Mary, divested of white satin and pearls, sitting down to their quiet employments, and to the enjoyment of each other's society?"

"Mamma, dear," said Emily, "I wish we had some employment now, for I am tired of listening to that fountain, and looking on those fading trees. Oh! mamma, the red portfolio! why should we not look at it now? I am sure there must be something in it by this time."

So the precious case was sent for, and soon made its appearance. Sir Mark, our guard, guide, and director, stretched himself in the sunniest corner of the softest couch for a doze, and Frà Diavolo, the most sensible spaniel that ever set forth to see the world, followed his example.

Lady Julian took the portfolio, which, composed of such heterogeneous materials, had been finished with some degree of elegance by the neat-handed May; and after a little rustling and turning of leaves, said, inquiringly, "Poetry or prose, good people?"

"Ye gods! what a question," answered Harry, "in so poetical a spot. Why, there is poetry all around us; she sighs among those wavering autumn leaves, bends over the murmuring fountain, smiles pensively in the half averted countenance of the graceful statue, and flutters in every throb of every pulse that animates my fair and right well beloved cousin Violet Fane. Poetry, by all manner of means! But what is this?" he continued, after a moment's pause, "May has not half finished her work; what is a book without a motto ?—a bottle of wine without a corkscrew a box of money without a key — a play without a bill of fare. Here is a sentence which I cut out of a right venerable volume, written by one Simon Waterson, in the year 1623; just the thing. 'Booke makers are full wise folke, who paine and pine themselves away by writing to subject themselves to the censure of such, who will pick and pull them by their words, phrases, and lines, when some of them themselves have not one graine of honesty ; unmannerly guests, who, when they have been well and kindly entertained, flinch away, never giving thanks, but despising and dispraising their courteous entertainment.””


Lines suggested by a Painting representing Louise la Vallière at the age of sixteen, receiving a coral cross from the hands of Pére Anselme, as the reward of a charitable action.

Beautiful! beautiful! thy pensive face,
Lovely the flowing of thy golden hair,
Faultless thy form of soft and sylph-like grace,
Matchless the moulding of thy features fair;
Yet 'tis not this that lends thee interest rare.
In the rapt eyes that gaze upon thy brow,—
It is the charm of innocence that there
Reposes and smiles on thy cheek of snow.

who could dream of sin while gazing on thee now !

Soft are they, soft and pure, those orient pearls
Like frozen tears on pity's cheek that lie ;
They seem to love to cluster 'mid thy curls,
Yet may we more of purity espy

In the deep quiet of thy dove-like eye!
Louise! thine is the depth of happiness,
Approved by him, the man of sanctity,

Whose sweetest task it is to watch and bless
The soft o'erflowings of thy young heart's tenderness.

And thou, in all the pride of youth didst kneel

By the rude couch where Want his watch was keeping,
Didst bend with all thy loveliness to heal

The wounds of her whose tears that couch were steeping,
Subdued at thy approach was all her weeping.

For thou didst tell her of a home on high,
Where the reward of earthly sufferance reaping,
She would not shed a tear nor heave a sigh,
But live in perfect bliss through all eternity.

It is deep grief and bitterness to turn
To the rich pageant of thy after days,
When thy young modesty was forced to learn
To meet the ardour of a people's gaze;

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And he thy monarch-suitor - loved to raise Blushes of beauty on thy soft rose-cheek,

Waked by the warmth of his impassioned praise, And sought sweet words of blandishment to speak, The which to disbelieve, thy heart was all too weak.

Few years are pass'd no more a village maid;
Such things scarce live within thy memory now.
Thy home is in a marble palace made,

Where softest flowers of foreign nurture grow,
And lulling fountains musically flow,

Waking sweet melody. While o'er them bent,

Hang Parian statues,- wanting but the glow

Of life to make them perfect; here are blent

All things that make life sweet-save one, the heart's content.

And thou art queen-like in thy rich array,

Thy vest of satin, and thy pearl decked zone ;
Fall thy soft glances on whate'er they may,

Gem, palace, fountain, flower, all are thine own;
The gifts of him, whose tenderness alone
Gives to them value in thy woman's eye,

For desert were to thee his home and throne;

If he - thy fond heart's idol were not nigh,

To give thee smile for smile, and tender sigh for sigh.

A festival! —and thou art gayest there,
Moving like beauty through the airy dance;
While all proclaim thee fairest of the fair,

By the fixed pleasure of their steadfast glance,
And thine own youth and joyousness enhance,

The beauty and the brilliance of the scene;

While he looks on, more proudly pleased, perchance, To think his Eden hath so fair a queen,

Than in the battle field, where he hath victor been.

Thine after hour,—and passed the pageant by

Thy wearied hand supports thy snowy brow. What! tears upon thy cheek! and thy deep eye Droops it in sorrow more than langour now? Gone are the flatterers of thy midnight show, Absent the idol of thy erring heart;

And, hushed the pleading of his passioned vow, Memory hath no pure pleasures to impart,

To one who dwells from virtue's holy ways apart.

And what is that on which thy tearful gaze
Is fixed with such intensity of thought?

Ah, me!

a record of thine early days,

Ere splendour thy life's happiness had bought, And mournful visions to thy soul are brought, Of fair green fields, and gay and sunny skies; Of a bright hearth at home, where love, untaught By worldly love, made its own paradise ;

A cross,

a coral cross - before thy tear-dimmed eyes

Has placed these memories of bye-gone days,
Memories that often sleep, but never die,-
Like that fair spirit in the harp that stays,
And wakens when the wild winds murmur by.
Alas! tears soothe,- they do not sanctify
To-morrow, and this lesson given in vain,
The world resumes it's hollow empiry,

And thou, enfettered by its golden chain
Wilt beits victim and its votary again.

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