Original. MONODY

TO MRS. SARAH L. SMITH.

By Mrs. L. H. Sigourney.

This devoted Missionary, who died in the autumn of 1836, at Beyroct, in Syria, testified in early life, the deepest regard for the Heathen, and turned from these gaieties that are wont to fascinate the young, to instruct a remnant of the tribe of Mohegan Indians, who have their residence a few miles from Norwich, her native city.

So Syria hath thy dust-thou who wert born Amid my own green hillocks, where the voice Of falling waters and of summer winds Mingled their music. How thy full, dark eyc, Thy graceful form, thy soul-illumin'd smile Return upon me, as I muse at eve

'Mid the bright scenery of remember'd years.
-I hear the murmur'd echo of thy name
From yon poor forest-race. 'Tis meet for them
To hoard thy memory as a blessed star-
For thou didst seek their lowly homes and teach
Their roving children of a Saviour's name,
And of a clime where no oppressor comes.
Cold Winter found thee there, and Summer's heat,
Unwearied and unblenching.-Tho' the sneer
Might curl some worldling's lip, 'twas not for thee
To note its language, or to scorn the soul
Of the forsaken Indian, or to tread

Upon the ashes of his buried kings,

As on a loathsome weed. Thine own fair halls
Lur'd thee in vain, until the hallow'd church
Rear'd its light dome among them, and the voice
Of an anointed Shepherd, day by day,
Did urge those wanderers to the peaceful fold
Of a Redeemer's righteousness,

And then,

Thy way was on the waters, and thy hand
Close clasp'd in his, who bore the truth of God
To sultry Asia.-Yes-thy venturous way
Was o'er the deep!

Strong ties withheld thee here-
Home, father, sightless mother-sister dear-
Brothers and tender friends-the full array
Of love and hope.-But what were these to thec,
Who on God's altar laid the thought of self,
With prayerful incense, duly, night and morn?
What were such joys to thee, when duty bade
Their crucifixion?

O! Jerusalem!

Jerusalem! and do I see thee there-
Pondering the flinty path thy Saviour trod,
And humbly kneeling where his prayer arose,
All night on Olivet? or with meek hand
Culling from pure Siloam's marge, a flower-
A simple flower, that yearly lifts its head,
To fill its petals with as fresh a dew

As when poor banish'd Judah wore the crown
Of queenly beauty ?-Next thy foot explores
Where the sweet harper in his boyhood kept
His father's sheep, before the cares that lodge
Within the thorn-wove circlet of a king

Had twin'd the tresses on his temples grey,

And gnaw'd his heart-string.

Lo, thy tent is pitch'd
Near Jordan's waters and the bitter wave
Of the Asphaltites.
Back to thy place,

Among the Syrian vales-to thy lov'd toil
'Mid the poor Heathen!-For the time is short.
Perils upon the waters wait for thee,
And then another Jordan, from whose shore
Is no return. But then, with lip so pale,
Didst take the song of triumph and go down
Alone and fearless, thro' its depths profound.
Snatches of heavenly harpings made thee glad-
Even to thy latest gasp.

And so the grief

DIM is the eye and pale the check

Which once the rose's hue outshone; And she-the once-lov'd-mildly meek, Lingers-deserted and alone.

For she had trusted, earth above,

And prayed for blessings on his head:
And, in an hour of phrenzied love,
The angel of her shame had fled!
But why recount the chilling tale-
Alas! so often told before?
Entomb it in Oblivion's vale!
She never saw her Henry more.

The soothing tones of Friendship's bland,
Nor Pity's notes a tear could start;
For Grief had swept, with hurried hand,
The diapason of her heart.

Oh! could her vile seducer feel
The half of agony she felt,
More bitter than the pointed steel,
His icy heart would surely melt.

How vain the wish! The sun is setting,
And she is sinking in repose,
Calmly and silently-forgetting,

In that sweet slumber all her woes.

Now fixing with a vacant stare,

Her listless eyes upon the token

Of his first love-a miniature

She droops her head-her heart is broken.

And now-apart from all that clings

To love and memory-she sleeps Where yonder pensile osier flings

Its shadow-and its vigil keeps.

We'll try the issue.

Fran.
True, guilty as thou art, thou did'st not dare
To trust e'en me, thy secret instrument.
With fearful step thy study thou dost enter!
I see thee there, Count-thou dost sit and write,
Change e'en poor letters to base counterfeits,
Lest they confront thee. Thou dost sign no name,
Well judging that the errand will reveal
The prompter of it. Now thou risest up—

Thy coward soul exulting in its safety!

I see thee fold the letter-every thought

Merged in thy joy at most successful cunning.
Forgetful, certain, thou dost fear no more,

And stamp'st thy private seal! Look here-look here!

Then be it so.

Fran. Why should I live, an outcast from my kindA hell within-contempt and scorn without— Cursed at each step I tread!-no vanished joys To bless remembrance, naught of present good, And a bleak hopeless future! Let me dieWhy have I lived so long, save for this endTo pay my debt to thee! I now can crush theeThee, proud in honor's wealth, and power about thee!

O let me kindle with a blazing torch

Thy towering edifice of rank and state,
And gaze upon its burning; I will stand
Unfearing 'mid the scorching element !
Shout as the crackling timbers fall about me!
And when the lofty dome comes crashing down,
Unshrinking look, and glorying in destruction,
Perish beneath the ruin!

Of this good sword thou gav'st me, and the skill I've won from thee to use it. So-have at thee! [They fight. Albrozzi conquers, knocks Francisco's sword from his hand, forces him to the floor, and points his weapon at his breast.]

Alb. Braggart, I give thee here a moment's pause To curse thyself for bringing this upon thee, And then thou diest!

Fran. [Muttering with emotion.] Die-I cannot die! Count, stay thy hand! Nay, I pray thee do not strike! I have to tell thee! Hear it ere thou strikest!

Fran. No, no! A moment more! 'Tis this-'tis this! Wait-hear me. Know another, a sworn friend,

Has of this little scroll, a copy, Count;

With my full writ confession of my deeds;
And, if thou slayest me, he, for my revenge,
Goes to the Doge of Venice!

Alb. [Aside. Dropping his sword. Fran. rises.]
Foiled again!

Of all thou art possessed of-naught beneath it. Alb Extortioner, I will not give it thee! Fran. As is thy will. Farewell.

Fran. I pause not now for all thy fortune, Count.
Alb.
[Rushing and drawing him back.]

I give thee half! Francisco, stay; I yield.
Fran. Too late! too late!

Alb. [Kneeling.] Here on my knees, I pray thee! Tear the confession-go not to the Duke!

That thou did'st foster there? Can thy wealth quench
The fires of Hell wild raging in my breast?
Then think not, while I live to hide thee from me!
Though high the foaming cup of vengeance mantled,
Though every drop went maddening through my veins,
Yet I've not had enough—not half enough!

Nor thought to feel it-and that want of thought,
Now I do love, has swelled love's rolling stream,
To be a torrent in me! I am loved!-
Loved by a being only fit for heaven,
While I stand here, all quivering with guilt!
O, when I clasp her spotless hand in mine,
Mine-stained with blood, a freezing shudder runs
Through all my frame! I curse myself for loving-
Would tear myself away-and in my shame
Hide me for ever!-but I meet the gaze
Of those dear eyes, and, 'raptured, love the more!
Pie. I wonder at thee-thou, so long unmoved,
Become thus softened.

Fran.
O, speak not 'gainst love!
When it can start cold drops upon the brow
Stamped by the seal of guilt-make the eyes dim
With melting tears, were lit by Passion's fires;
Wrest the stern purpose from the guilty heart-
Bend down the stiffened knee, that ne'er had bent
To heaven or man-ay, make the bloody hand,
E'en of the murderer, tremble like a child's;
Breathe not a sound 'gainst love!

Of what has been of life!-let it be buried
Down, deeper far than hell! I would forget
There's blood upon these hands!-Of this enough.
Farewell, old man; I may not see thee more.

Would thou wert other than thou art. Change, change.
Thy head is hoary, and decay awaits thee.
Change-change, old man! I've heard thee scoff at
death,

And the dread future 'yond the gaping tomb.

Thou may'st be right-but what if thou art wrong!
Thou may'st be safe-but what if thou art doomed!
Change change!—for though thy spirit may not live,
'Twere better far to fill a good man's grave,
With tears not curses for thy requiem,
Than meet the miscreant outcast's lone repose!
And if there be the dread, untold hereafter,
That men, e'en while they scoff, do tremble at,
Would'st brave as thou art? Change-change, I say!.
Farewell, old
man, farewell!

same.

AFRICAN CELEBRATION OF MARRIAGE. "AFTER a short march we met some horsemen, one of whom led a richly-harnessed, dazzling white horse, whose mane and tail were dyed with henna orange color, and the rest of the body decorated with spots of the Soon after appeared some gaily-dressed Bedouins, of whom the foremost carried a striped red and white banner, which he pranced about in the most graceful manner, and displayed his skill by sundry evolutions -sometimes raising it over his head, sometimes sinking it to the ground. Several other horsemen now met them from the opposite side, and at last all united upon an open place, and performed various sports and military exercises. We amused ourselves a while with watching them, and then learned that they were celebrating a wedding, and that the female part of the company, though themselves unseen, witnessed the spectacle from an arbor."-Adventures in Algiers.

A TALE OF WOMAN'S LOVE.

It was a fine sunny day in autumn, when a pale and melancholy man wandered among the glades and valleys of Lynmouth, a spot of which it has been truly said that nowhere else is to be found so much picturesque beauty of water, foliage, stones and banks within so small a space. From the point where the water separates, the stream glides smoothly and clearly over a very gently declining bed to the termination of an insular mass, where it suddenly descends, leaving a darker edge that curves inwards reaching the foot of a bank; the whole length of this curve the water falls over in all the richness of bright jewellery, partaking of the colors of the stone and variegated moss beneath it. It is like the flowing of liquified topaz and emerald, here blended, and here separated slightly by bands of gold, transparently embrowned. About half a foot from the edge the descent is broken by the hollowness, or rather the inward retiring, of the rock, and forms under the surface

a fringe as of the brightest silver running entirely across; this ever moving fringe as of frosted silver, is here and there connected by the light threadlines that rise within the darker water above the edge. In this scene of beauty and of poetry the sad Sir Alfred wandered, as in a fine school, “wherein the mind may learn nobility, cast off with shame every littleness of pursuit or fancy, and from humility learn to be great. Nature's poet may here worship and have his reward; and praise, too, nature's God that he has made her so beautiful, and given us capacity to perceive and to enjoy it." Sir Alfred had retired from the world sated and tired of

its false delights. He was not above five-and-twenty, but he had had much experience. He had been left an orphan in his childhood, and came into the possession of an extensive property when he attained the age of twenty-one. The sharpers with which the metropolis

abounds marked him for their prey, and he, being unacquainted with the tricks of the knaves of high life, became an easy victim. He discovered his error, however, in time to save himself from absolute ruin, but not until he had lost enough to embitter him almost against society.

Sir Alfred was not naturally misanthropic, nor had his misfortunes destroyed all the fine social traits of his character, nor deadened his generous feelings, though they might have obscured them. In the retirement and solitude of the far West he was but little observed, and it was a kind of melancholy pleasure to him to wander through glade and valley, on hill-top and by the river's brink, and enjoy in imagination pleasures which he did not expect in reality.

grass, and scarcely expecting any intruder. A Blenheim spaniel which the ladies had been fondling, suddenly ran towards Sir Alfred and jumped about him, and evidently recognising him, and being pleased to see him. Sir Alfred, to his surprise, found it was one which he had lost while in London many months before. He did not wish to occasion any embarrassment to the party, and he was therefore passing on, but the dog continued to jump about him, and evinced a disposition to follow him. The calls of the elderly gentleman and those of the young ladies were unheeded, the spaniel continued to bound on before its old master, and Sir Alfred then thought it best to return and explain the circumstance. This was done in few words, and the elderly gentleman was disposed to waive his claim to the animal; the ladies also acquiesced, but Sir Alfred saw that it was with great reluctance, and he refused to accept it. The father was pleased with the manner of the young stranger, and invited him to accompany them

to their residence at a short distance. The offer was

accepted, and the arm of Julia Willoughby for the first time reposed upon that of Sir Alfred Percival.

For the first time since his self-expatiation from the world, Sir Alfred felt a regard for his fellow creatures—

for the first time for many months he deemed it possible

for human voices to speak consolation to his wounded spirit. They walked together to the mansion of Sir Bernard Willoughby, Julia and Sir Alfred Percival, and neither of them dreamed of the sequel of that first meeting.

Sir Alfred passed the day at Willoughby Hall. Sir Bernard recollected having met him once in London at

the soirée of a fashionable Countess, and recalled the circumstance to Sir Alfred's recollection, by mentioning a droll occurrence at ecarté. Sir Alfred felt more at his ease, and when the hospitable old Baronet pressed

him to repeat his visit he did not decline the invitation; the soft blue eyes of Julia Willoughby met his, and he promised to return on the following day.

The seeds of love were already implanted in his heart, and he was sad till he again stood in the presence of her who was to influence all the after-actions of his life. It were idle to describe the growth of love-how insensibly it steals upon the heart, making its presence known only when it has established itself too firmly there to be expelled. Julia and Alfred loved. They each entered upon a new existence-and for a few brief moments they were happy.

Sir Alfred became a different being, he no longer shunned society and the companionship of the world; the clouds had passed away from his sun of happiness, and the after part of his life, it seemed, would be unchequered by care or sorrow.