A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes

Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er; And her head droop'd as when the lily lies

O'ercharged with rain: her aummon'd handmaids bore Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes;

Of herbs and cordials they produced their store,
But she defied all means they could employ,
Like one life could not hold-nor death destroy !

Days lay she in that state, unchanged, though chill-
With nothing livid, still her lips were red;
She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still;
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead:
Corruption came not, in each mind to kill

All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred
New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul-
She had so much, earth could not claim the whole.

The ruling passion, such as marble shows

When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; O'er the Laocoon's all-eternal throes, And ever-dying Gladiator's air, Their energy like life forms all their fame, Yet looks not life, for they are still the same.

She woke at length-but not as sleepers wake-
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new,
A strange sensation which she must partake
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view
Struck not her memory, though a heavy achie

Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat, still true, Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, For, for a while, the furies made a pause.

She look'd on many a face with vacant eye,
On many a token without knowing what;
She saw them watch her, without asking why,
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat;
Not speechless, though she spoke not: not a sigh
Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat
Were tried in vain by those who served--she gave
No sign, save breath, of having left the grave.

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not;
Her father watch'd-she turn'd her eyes away-
She recognized no being, and no spot,

However dear or cherish'd in their day;
They changed from room to room, but all forgot,
Gentle, but without memory she lay:

At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning
Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning

And then a slave bethought her of a harp;
The harper came and tuned his instrument;

At the first notes-irregular and sharp

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent;

Then to the wall she turn'd, as if to warp

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart resent; And he began a long low island song,

Of ancient days-ere tyranny grew strong.

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall

In time to his old tune; he changed the theme,
And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all
Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream
Of what she was, and is, if ye could call

To be so, being: in a gushing stream
The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain,
Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.

Short solace!-vain relief!-thought came too quick,
And whirled her brain to madness: she arose
As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick,
And flew at all she met as on her foes;
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek,

Although her paroxysm drew towards its close:
Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave,
Even when they smote her-in the hope to save.

Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense;

Nothing could make her meet her father's face, Though on all other things with looks intense

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence

Avail'd for either; neither change of place, Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her Senses to sleep-the power seem'd gone for ever.

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show

A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'd;
And they who watch'd her nearest could not know
The very instant, till the change that cast

Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow,
Glazed o'er her eyes-the beautiful, the black-
Oh! to possess such lustre-and then lack!
She died-but not alone; she held within
A second principle of life-which might
Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin;
But closed its little being without light,
And went down to the grave unborn, wherein
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight;
In vain the dews of heaven descend above
The bleeding flower, and blasted fruit of love.
Thus lived-thus died she; never more on her

Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, Which colder hearts endure till they are laid By age in earth; her days and pleasures were Brief, but delightful-such as had not staid Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well By the sea-shore whereon she loved to dwell.

That isle is now all desolate and bare,

Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away, None but her own and father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay; Ye could not know where lies a thing so fairNo stone is there to show-no tongue to say What was; no dirge, except the hollow seas, Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.

LORD BYRON.

Fresh air was admitted, though it would be difficult to guess by what means, since the sound of gliding water, such as is heard at the lower part of a ship when sailing with a gentle breeze, indicated but a thin partition between the subterraneous cabinet and the river. Here, then," said Don Julian, offering a chair to the dean, and drawing another for himself towards a small round table, "we have only to choose among the elementary works of the science for which you long. Suppose we begin to read this small volume." The volume was laid on the table, and opened at the first page, containing circles, concentric and eccentric, triangles with unintelligible characters, and the well-known signs of the planets. This," said Don Julian, "is the alphabet of the whole science. Hermes, called TrismegistusThe sound of a small bell within the chamber made the dean almost leap out of his chair. "Be not alarmed," said Don Julian; "it is the bell by which my servants let me know that they want to speak to me." Saying thus he pulled a silk string, and soon after a servant appeared with a packet of letters. It was ad dressed to the dean. A courier had closely followed him on the road, and was that moment arrived at Toledo. "Good Heavens!" exlaimed the dean, having read the contents of the letters; "my great uncle, the Archbishop of Santiago, is dangerously ill. This is, however, what the secretary says from his lordship's dictation. But here is another letter from the archdeacon of the diocese, who assures me that the old man was not expected to live. I can hardly repeat what he adds. Poor dear uncle! may Heaven lengthen his days! The chapter seem to have turned their eyes towards me, and-pugh! it cannot be--but the electors, according to the archdeacon, are quite decided in my favour." "Well," said Don Julian, "all I regret is the interruption of our studies; but I doubt not that you will soon wear the mitre. In the meantime I would advise you to pretend that illness does not allow you to return directly. A few days will surely give a decided turn to the whole affair; and, at all events, your absence in case of an election will be construed into modesty. Write, therefore, your despatches, my dear sir, and we will prosecute our studies at another time."

Two days had elapsed since the arrival of the messenger, when the verger of the church of Santiago, attended by servants in splendid liveries, alighted at Don Julian's door with letters for the dean. The old prelate was dead, and his nephew had been elected to the see by the unanimous vote of the chapter. The

elected dignitary seemed overcome by contending feelings; but, having wiped away some decent tears, he assumed an air of gravity, which almost touched on superciliousness. Don Julian addressed his congratulations, and was the first to kiss the new archbishop's hand. "I hope," he added, "I may also congratulate my son, the young man who is now at the university of Paris; for I flatter myself your lordship will give him the deanery which is vacant by your promotion." My worthy friend, Don Julian," replied the archbishop elect, "my obligations to you I can never sufficiently repay. You have heard my character; I hold a friend as another self. But why would you take the lad away from his studies? An archbishop of Santiago cannot want preferment at any time. Follow me to my diocese; I will not, for all the mitres in Christendom, forego the benefit of your instruction. The deanery, to tell you the truth, must be given to my uncle, my father's own brother, who has had but a small living for many years; he is much liked in Santiago, and I should lose my character if, to place such a young man as your son at the head of the chapter, I neglected an exemplary priest, so nearly related to me. "Just as you please, my lord," said Don Julian; and began to prepare for the journey.

The acclamations which greeted the new archbishop on his arrival at the capital of Galicia were, not long after, succeeded by a universal regret at his translation to the see of the recently conquered town of Seville. "I will not leave you behind," said the archbishop to Don Julian, who, with more timidity than he showed at Toledo, approached to kiss the sacred ring in the archbishop's right hand, and to offer his humble congratulations, "but do not fret about your son. He is too young.

I have my mother's relations to provide for; but Seville is a rich see; the blessed King Ferdinand, who rescued it from the Moors, endowed its church so as to make it rival the first cathedrals in Christendom. Do but follow me, and all will be well in the end." Don Julian bowed with a suppressed sigh, and was soon after on the banks of the Guadalquivir, in the suite of the new archbishop.

Scarcely had Don Julian's pupil been at Seville one year, when his far extended fame moved the pope to send him a cardinal's hat, desiring his presence at the court of Rome. The crowd of visitors who came to congratulate the prelate kept Don Julian away for many days. He at length obtained a private audience, and, with tears in his eyes, entreated his

eminence not to oblige him to quit Spain. "I am growing old, my lord," he said; "I quitted my house at Toledo only for your sake, and in hopes of raising my son to some place of honour and emolument in the church; I even gave up my favourite studies, except as far as they were of service to your eminence. My son-"No more of that, if you please, Don Julian,' interrupted the cardinal. "Follow me, you must; who can tell what may happen at Rome? The pope is old, you know. But do not tease me about preferment. A public man has duties of a description which those in the lower ranks of life cannot either weigh or comprehend. I confess I am under obligations to you, and feel quite disposed to reward your services; yet I must not have my creditors knocking every day at my door; you understand, Don Julian. In a week we set out for Rome."

With such a strong tide of good fortune as had hitherto buoyed up Don Julian's pupil, the reader cannot be surprised to find him, in a short time, wearing the papal crown. He was now arrived at the highest place of honour on earth; but in the bustle of the election and subsequent coronation, the man to whose wonderful science he owed this rapid ascent had completely slipped off his memory. Fatigued with the exhibition of himself through the streets of Rome, which he had been obliged to make in a solemn procession, the new pope sat alone in one of the chambers of the Vatican. It was early in the night. By the light of two wax tapers which scarcely illuminated the farthest end of the grand saloon, his holiness was enjoying that reverie of mixed pain and pleasure which follows the complete attainment of ardent wishes, when Don Julian advanced in visible perturbation, conscious of the intrusion on which he ventured. "Holy father!" exclaimed the old man, and cast himself at his pupil's feet: "Holy father, in pity to these gray hairs do not consign an old servantmight I not say an old friend?-to utter neglect and forgetfulness. My son"By St. Peter!" ejaculated his holiness, rising from the chair, "your insolence shall be checked-you my friend? A magician the friend of heaven's vicegerent! Away, wretched man! When I pretended to learn of thee, it was only to sound the abyss of crime into which thou hadst plunged; I did it with a view of bringing thee to condign punishment. Yet, in compassion to thy age, I will not make an example of thee, provided thou avoidest my eyes. Hide thy crime and shame where thou canst. This moment thou must quit the palace, or the next closes the gates of the Inquisition upon thee."

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Trembling, and his wrinkled face bedewed with tears, Don Julian begged to be allowed but one word more. "I am very poor, holy father," said he: "trusting in your patronage I relinquished my all, and have not left wherewith to pay my journey." "Away, I say," answered the pope; "if my excessive bounty has made you neglect your patrimony, I will no farther encourage your waste and improvidence. Poverty is but a slight punishment for your crimes." But, father," rejoined Don Julian, “my wants are instant; I am hungry: give me but a trifle to procure a supper to-night. To-morrow I shall beg my way out of Rome." "Heaven forbid," said the pope, "that I should be guilty of feeding the ally of the prince of darkness. Away, away from my presence, or I instantly call for the guard.” 'Well, then," replied Don Julian, rising from the ground, and looking on the pope with a boldness which began to throw his holiness into a paroxysm of rage, "if I am to starve at Rome, I had better return to the supper which I ordered at Toledo." Thus saying, he rang a gold bell which stood on a table next the pope. The door opened without delay, and the Moorish servant came in. The pope looked round, and found himself in the subterraneous study under the Tagus. "Desire the cook," said Don Julian to the maid, "to put but one partridge to roast; for I will not throw away the other on the Dean of Santiago."

From the Spanish.

THE TWO FOUNTAINS.

I saw, from yonder silent cave, Two fountains running side by side; The one was Memory's limpid wave, The other cold Oblivion's tide. "O love!" said I, in thoughtless dream, As o'er my lips the Lethe pass'd, "Here in this dark and chilly stream,

Be all my pains forgot at last."

But who could bear that gloomy blank, Where joy was lost as well as pain? Quickly of Memory's fount I drank,

And brought the past all back again; And said, "O Love! whate'er my lot,

Still let this soul to thee be trueRather than have one bliss forgot, Be all my pains remember'd too!"

THOMAS Moore,

MASTER AND MAN.

[Thomas Crofton Croker, born at Cork, 15th January, 1798; died at Brompton, London, 8th August, 1854. His Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland, the first edition of which appeared in 1825, remains the

standard work on the fairy lore of the author's country. Sir Walter Scott, in his Demonology and in a note to Rob Roy, speaks of it in terms of the highest admiration. Mr. Croker's fame was established and main tained by this book, although he wrote and edited several other works, and was a frequent contributor to the Gentleman's and Fraser's Magazines. He was the author of the popular story of Daniel O'Rourke. In an interesting memoir written by his son, Mr. T. F. Dillon Croker, and prefaced to his gossiping Walk from London to Fulham, it is mentioned that the tales of Barney Mahoney and My Village versus Our Village, which are usually attributed to Mr. Croker, were in reality written by his wife. His writings are full of humour and imagery.]

Billy Mac Daniel was once as likely a young man as ever shook his brogue at a pattern, emptied a quart, or handled a shillelagh; fearing for nothing but the want of drink, caring for nothing but who should pay for it, and thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it: drunk or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy Mac Daniel; and a mighty easy way it is of either getting into or ending a dispute. More is the pity that, through the means of his thinking, and fearing, and caring | for nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into bad company; for surely the good people (the fairies) are the worst of all company any one could come across.

It so happened that Billy was going home one very clear frosty night, not long after Christmas. The moon was round and bright: but although it was as fine a night as heart could wish for, he felt pinched with the cold. "By my word," chattered Billy, "a drop of good liquor would be no bad thing to keep a man's soul from freezing in him; and I wish I had a full measure of the best."

"Never wish it twice, Billy," said. a little man in a three-cornered hat, bound all about with gold lace, and with great silver buckles in his shoes, so big that it was a wonder how he could carry them; and he held out a glass as big as himself, filled with as good liquor as ever eye looked on or lip tasted.

'Success, my little fellow," said Billy Mac Daniel, nothing daunted, though well he knew the little man to belong to the good people; "here's your health, any way, and thank you kindly, no matter who pays for the drink:" and he took the glass and drained it to the

VOL. I.

very bottom without ever taking a second to it.

"Success," said the little man; "and you're heartily welcome, Billy; but don't think to cheat me as you have done others; out with your purse and pay me like a gentleman."

"Is it I pay you?" said Billy; "could I not Just take you up and put you in my pocket as easily as a blackberry?"

"Billy Mac Daniel," said the little man, getting very angry, "you shall be my servant for seven years and a day, and that is the way I will be paid; so make ready to follow me.'

When Billy heard this he began to be very sorry for having used such bold words towards the little man; and he felt himself, yet could not tell how, obliged to follow the little man the livelong night about the country, up and down, and over hedge and ditch, and through bog and brake, without any rest.

When morning began to dawn the little man turned round to him and said, "You may now go home, Billy, but on your peril don't fail to meet me in the Fort-field to-night; or if you do, it may be the worse for you in the longrun. If I find you a good servant, you will find me an indulgent master."

Home went Billy Mac Daniel; and though he was tired and wearied enough, never a wink of sleep could he get for thinking of the little man: and he was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he got in the evening, and away he went to the Fort-field. He was not long there before the little man came towards him and said, "Billy, I want to go a long journey to-night; so saddle one of my horses, and you may saddle another for yourself, as you are to go along with me, and may be tired after your walk last night."

Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and thanked him accordingly. "But," said he, "if I may be so bold, sir, I would ask which is the way to your stable, for never a thing do I see but the Fort here, and the old tree in the corner of the field, and the stream running at the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog over against us."

"Ask no questions, Billy," said the little man, "but go over to that bit of bog and bring me two of the strongest rushes you can find."

Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man would be at; and he picked out two of the stoutest rushes he could find, with a little bunch of brown blossom stuck at the side of each, and brought them back to his master.

"Get up, Billy," said the little man, taking one of the rushes from him, and striding across it.

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