And yet it is a lovely spot

Fit home for such fair queen;

A fairy world-where grief dwells not,
Or dwells, unheard unseen.

A world of statues, founts, and flowers,
And light lutes, touched in summer bowers.

Her dark eye glanced from tree to tree,
O'er verdant lawn and aisle,
And then her heart mused mournfully,
On her own Spain the while ;-
Her sunny Spain, where light and bloom,
Dwelt ever round her childhood's home.

She looked upon the glittering throng,
Courtiers, and ladies fair;
And then she sighed, to think among
Them, no fond heart was there;
None, whose pale cheek or drooping eye,
Would brighten if her step drew nigh.

And little did she care to know,
A throne should be her seat.

She was alone, alone, although
A king knelt at her feet.-

She was too young, too pure, to prize
Such cold and heartless vanities.

She had brought from her distant land
Full many a priceless gem;

Rich diamonds for her fair white hand,

Pearls for her diadem;

And she had brought one fair young tree,

Dearer than any gem could be.

It was a thing of life and lone,—

Like her, a child of Spain,

And more,—yet more, it bloomed alone

Amid the green-house train.

But one sweet pledge remains to prove,
How the heart's memories bloom,
A record of the deathless love.

The exile bore her home,

When dwelling, though a queen afar
From her own loved and lost Navarre.

"Well," exclaimed Harry, "I cannot but marvel at the luxuriance of a lady's imagination. All this rhyming is conjured into being by the old gardener's simple sentence, 'Et ce grand oranger, mesdames, fut planté ici par une jeune reine de Navarre, qui l'avait apporté avec elle de son pays lointain.' I should have pondered long enough ere I could have made so much out of so little."

(May.) "You would never have made it, Harry. Your spirit is of too light and independent a nature ever to feel that desolation of the heart which bows the spirit down when we live in a strange land, and look around for the light of love in vain. May you never feel it!" May's eyes were filled with tears, and Harry was at her side in a moment.

"Nay, sweet! my coz, be merry, look not so sadly, dear May. How know you that all my peevish criticism was not meant as a mask for my vanity,-that I, even I, was not the very scribbler of the lines in question?" A slight curl of May's lip, half told that she could, if she would, have wholly disproved this probability; but she spoke not, nor answered her apologist, but by a kind smile, and Lady Julian resumed her reading.

A NIGHT AT CHAILLY.

It was already night, when we drew up at the door of a miserable auberge, in this most miserable village, but the darkness prevented our seeing the poverty of the place. The horses were ready to take us on through the forest. The leader and guardian of our little party, cast a look of dismay at the broken windows and dilapidated door-way of the hostelry. "Change horses!" but he was attacked by one universal clamour. To go through the forest! the beautiful forest at night, and on a dark night! The whole party exclaimed against the folly and wickedness of such a proceeding. One, had certain ideas of reclining like the melancholy Jaques under a tree at noon; another dreamed of rambling, it might be not alone, along the meandering greensward paths shut in by high trees; and a third, already half-way out of the carriage, exclaimed, "By the mournful manes of Milton's Ladye, and the merry ones of Robinhood,-by the eyes of the arch deceiver, Rosalind, and by the hunger of sweet Imogen, fond, faithful Imogen,-by all that is sacred in history, and holy in poetry, will I never consent to such heretical proceedings!" Hereupon, our worthy director was forced to emerge from the comfortable corner wherein he had ensconced himself for a snug twohours slumber, and to drag his whole weight into the saloon of this same auberge. "Enfin, nous sommes did then look round

ici," he said, as usual, and we with something like fear, at the asylum into which

the enthusiasm (enthusiasm is always in the way of comfort) of some of our party had betrayed us. Neither did this feeling subside, when the maid, with a fichu twisted round her head, which looked as though it had at some no very distant portion of time performed the offices of duster and broom, entered to make preparations for supper. I, for one, having beheld her take from one pocket the bread we were to eat, from the other, the knives and forks we were to use, determined to witness no more such abominations, stretched myself on a thing that had once been a sofa, and shut my eyes. The memory of that supper at Chailly, will go with me to my grave. Sour leavened bread, which they only, who, for their sins, have sojourned in a provincial French village, can appreciate; meat, of which it was perfectly impossible to determine the name, and wine, such wine! the priests of Bacchus, rogues as they were, would have disdained to pour it on the ground! I retreated to my sofa, so to call it, and St. Roy told the children a marvellous story to appease their hunger,-a marvellous story of a monster that, with lashing tail, and goggle eyes, used in olden days to ravage the neighbouring forest. My sleepy ears only caught a word here and thereterrific fangs-helpless victim--crunched the bones -fiery eyes: fiery eyes were the last words that followed me out of the room, when I left it for the purpose of seeking my own dormitory. Surely, I thought, it was the den of the very wild beast alluded to;-a dirty floor, disguised neither by carpet nor matting; a window with three broken panes, stuffed with paper and rags; a ricketty three-legged bedstead, without curtains; a three-cornered looking