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A Fragment.
THERE'was a time when did that soft blue eye

Each finer feeling of my soul excite
To admiration; for it seem'd, the light

Of heaven was there infused from the sky,
And lent a holy brightness to each glance,

to bless—or to destroy, perchance.

I loved you then; nor deem'd that on my head

The fatal lightning of that glance should fall;Ah! happy then! in woman's looks unread,

The cup of sweetness yet unmix'd with gall! Now dear experience teaches me to know

The perfect cunning of each artful lookTo trace the demon ever hid below

The heavenly aspect of that placid brook Whence oft I've tasted draughts of deepest joy, And deem'd them pure-unmingled with alloy. Thine eyes are like the current of a bright

And graceful stream-not pure, but seeming pure, Fair wandering, and refreshing to the sight

Of panting travellers whom its waves allure. Sweetly it seems its smiling course to hold

In gentle windings through the peaceful vale, Touching in kindness, not abrupt or bold,

The flowery banks that joy to bid it hail!
Suspicion bows his head, nor dares to think

The waters of that gelid stream contain
One drop unblest that, should the pilgrim drink,

Can turn his once delicious draught to pain.-
He drinks, alas !-and, ah, too late detects

The bubbling demon at the fountain's head: There sits he, grimly smiling, and directs

The streamlet's course—too faithfully obeyed; Slow-working poison mingles from his hands, Pollutes the stream, and stains the yellow sands.

If, too, at eve, the exhausted pilgrim stays

And slowly lifts his weary eyes along The margin where that fairy current strays,

And seeks those flowers so blooming and so youngThose blossoms that, like early hopes, looked gayWhither, ah! whither did they fade away? Yes—they are faded ne'er to bloom again, So wither hopes, nor with so little pain ! 'Tis not the chill of evening that has so

Descended on these blossoms, and destroyed Their noontide freshness sadly at a blow,

And killed the promise of this morning's pride :-

The dew of night had fostered them and given

Fresh strength and vigour for to-morrow's fire
(So earthly hopes receive support from heaven,

When virtuous thoughts the mortal breast inspire,)
The demon's work is this; whose fickle heart

Requires new food for his diurnal joy,
Fresh flowers, as fair, to-morrow will impart,

As sweet in fragrance, and in hopes as high;
But to decline, as these have lately done,
So each fair crop its short bright course must run,
Till cold Satiety shall wake that spirit's dream,
And Time disturb the clearness of the stream.

Ah! may no secret, unsuspected fiend

Ere then disturb its smooth and placid course;
For there's an airy figure I have ween'd-
(How much unlike the demon at the source !)
That fits across my wandering fancy still,
Whom it were heavenly to shield from ill!-
Her influence gives whate'er there is of joy,

Whate'er of beauty to those glassy waves ;-
Can she be conscious that those waves destroy ?

A devil tortures, but an angel saves :
Oh! were she mortal, and the sister whom

I loved but with a brother's pure regard,
'Twere sweet to cherish still that rose's bloom,

And fatal cankers from its heart discard !

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Now Philomela, tender bird of eve,

Let me be sad, and listen to thy song;
With thee in resignation let me grieve

For one unlike thee, as I stroll along.
And as thy story pours upon my ear

Its accents of sincerity and woe,
Teach me with thee to make the night less drear,
And soothe my heart with music while I

Thy mate will come ere long to thee, and join
His notes of touching melody to thine;
I wander still a solitary bard,
No friend to cheer, or make my lot less hard.


EGYPTIAN SUPERSTITION.-Among the singular superstitions of the Egyptians is one which renders yawning particularly obnoxious, they believing that the devil is apt to leap into a gaping mouth.


A Tale of Real Life.

“I never will forgive thee, Harry,” said old Farmer Stancome to his only son, as they were sitting by a cheerful fire on a cold and frosty night in the winter of 17 “ No, I never will forgive thee if thee'st marry Mary Bradley—what! the daughter of thy father's old shepherd !” “Well, well, father,” exclaimed the young man, after a few minutes of deep thought, “ I would not anger you, but consider—" 6 Consider thy father's curse, Harry, which thy foolish marriage will bring down on thee.” Saying these words, the old man left the apartment; and as he slowly ascended the stairs which led from the common sitting-room to his chamber, poor Harry heard him at every pause, mutter curses on his devoted head, if he dared to disobey him. A thousand painful thoughts rushed in rapid succession through his brain. Love for his victim-for alas! her fondness for him, and his solemn promises of marriage had led to her ruin. Yet fulfill his plighted vows, and marry her he would ; but then the horror of a father's curse—that father, harsh though he was whom he had never disobeyed—could he bear his eternal curse? Then would cold prudence whisper the difference of their stations—which in the height of his passion he had overlooked—and he remembered that while he was the only son of a wealthy farmer, she was the orphan of a moorland cotter, poor and friendless. When he aroused himself from his sad contemplations, the fire was out and the lamp on the table, the flame of which was low and quivering, threw a faint and sickly light through the large and wainscotted hall. Starting from his chair, he hastened to his room, in the vain hope of finding there a temporary forgetfulness of his sorrows; or perchance, to plan some wild and visionary remedy for his unfortunate situation. In the morning when the family assembled to their early breakfast. he was not in his accustomed place. His sister was sent to seek him, but he was not in his chamber, and none of the servants had seen him. “Well, well,” said the old man, “Harry and I had some words last night, and no doubt he is gone to his uncle's at the Ford for a few days; poor fellow, I was rather harsh to him, but he'll be back to us soon, no doubt.” Saying which the farmer got him to his usual occupations; and although he might have remembered his truant son, yet he never for a moment entertained a fear for his safety ; but as he watched his busy labourers, sometimes a feeling of anger would cross his mind that his Harry was not there to bear his part, and when the toil of the day was over, doubly did he regret that he was not beside him at their blazing fire, by his merry jest and joyous laugh to cheat the lagging hours of the winter night. Several days thus passed on, and the old man felt no alarm at his son's absence; but on the following market-day, meeting his brother at the neighbouring town, he learnt with dismay that he had never been at his uncle's house. Then did they seek the young man in all his favourite haunts—’mid the fastnesses of many a giant Tor, and in the deep and rocky glens of the desolate moor; but vainly did they wander through its wild solitudes—its woody and rocky dells and tangled brakes--no trace of him was to be found; and though no hut for miles on that barren and enormous waste, but was visited on the charitable errand by the sympathizing in compassion for the heart-broken parent

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yet fruitless was their search- 1-none had seen him, and they returned in despair to the wretched man, who, feeling assured that his threat had driven his only son to destroy himself, lost all interest in his usual occupations, and though for a time he wandered about the village, or followed his men to their daily labour in the field, yet was his vacant eye unconscious of the scene before him; and if from time to time faint murmurs escaped his pallid lips, it was but the whispered name of his beloved son. A few short months after the loss of his boy the once hale and upright man, bent more by sorrow than by years, sunk to the grave, and slept in peace in the little church-yard of his native place.

Years past on, and the Manor Farm still continued in the family, being rented after his death by his son-in-law. The fate of poor Harry Stancome had almost faded from the mind of men, or was remembered but as a tale of wonder, to lighten the heavy hours of a gloomy evening, as the simple dwellers on the moor gathered round some neighbour's fire. Soon, however, it gave place to other tales. War had been busy; the usurper of the throne of France was in his glory; battle after battle had been gained by his victorious troops, when Wellington, the “hero of a thousand fights," with his immortal followers, checked his mad career, and became the theme of every tongue; and not alone in the court of his admiring sovereign, amid the noble and high-born, or in the cities of his native land, was his name heard among the multitude, but even on the sterile moor it was breathed amid the depths of its “stream-fed vales," and echoed from clift and crag-now startling the plover from his reedy nest, in the wild shelter of some dark morass, then scaring the falcon from the rugged brow of some enormous rock; then too, within the solitude of the once silent wilderness,

“ Harp ou harp was heard of sweetest melody, and some pursued Severest lore, and followed with firm step Thee Science-thee Philosophy-aud gave

The bours to Wisdom,"
though pent within the gloomy pile—that living tomb of hapless
thousands, whom the chances of disastrous war hard placed within our
power. In the summer of 18– when not only the prison of Dartmoor
was full, but several of the little towns in the neighbourhood had French
officers residing at them, on their parole; the Manor Farm was often
visited in the warm summer evenings by a fine manly-looking general
officer, with his young and beautiful wife, who had got their parole
extended, to enable them to wander o'er the heath-covered hills which
skirt its sheltered fields, and through the delightful woods which clothe
the banks of the rock-strewed Dart-where

“ Loud and hoarse his cataracts uplift
Their roarings to the woods; but, oh! how sweet,
The music of its gentler tones, for he

Has tones of touching sweetness.”
Often it the course of their evening rambles did they call at the farm,
where they would sometimes rest, and even partake of the humble fare
of the honest couple; until by degrees they became so familiar, that he
would relate many scenes of his eventful life. Would tell them of the
warm Isles of the Tropics—of their gaudy flowers and luscious fruits
or charm them with a recital of his adventures by land, or by sea; of
the battle field, or the changing ocean, and they were never tired of
listening to his tales--related in the purest English. The scene at the
farm would often at the close of a sultry day in summer, have been a
study worthy the pencil of a Wilkie. The ancient hall, wainscotted
with the dark shining oak, in which the party was assembled; the

general seated in the arm chair, carved with antique devices, and lined with crimson damask ; his slight and beautiful wife on a low stool beside him, with her clear blue eyes eagerly fixed on bis eloquent features, shewed how well she understood every word of our harsh language, although she spoke it not : wbile her bright and glossy ringlets, brown as the last rich tints of autumn, hung in full clusters over a neck white as the Alpine snow; the farmer himself, leaning against the massive stone frame of the old-fashioned bay window, with his faithful dog crouched at his feet, his good dame, in her quiet mob cap, coloured gown, and clean white apron, seated knitting on the window bench, more intent on the wonderous tale of the foreigner, than observant of her little hand-maiden, who at the wide fire-place, was leaning forward with lips apart, endeavouring to catch every syllable which fell from the lips of the strangers—while the thin wheaten cakes for the evening meal, which she was set to watch, were burning on the hearth beside her : many were the hours thus passed after the labour of the day was over; and often too he would ask about the dwellers on the moor, listen wlth pleasure to their homely joys, or lighten by his bounty. their humble sorrows-and of the moor itself,

“ The Tor, The hallow'd cairn, the everlasting rocks, Moulded by time into a thousand shapes

of beauty and of grandeur," he was never weary of hearing. One evening, when no one but the farmer and his wife was present, he asked the good dame if she had a brother. “Oh! no, Sir, I had one-poor Harry, he was the darling of every one; even of his father, whose cruelty drove him to an untimely end." “ Indeed! how so,” said ihe general. “Ah! your honour, it is a short, but a melancholy story; but if you have any curiosity to hear it, and will stay and partake of our humble supper, I will tell you all we know of his unhappy fate.” He expressed his anxiety to hear it, and was soon made acquainted with Harry Stancome's unfortunate love, aud mysterious disappearance. That he had destroyed himself, every one living in that remote country, who had not altogether forgotten him, believed, and none more strongly than his brother-in-law and sister. Vainly, therefore, did the Frenchman combat the idea, first by shewing the possibility, then the probability, that he was still alive ; and lastly, to the astonishment of his hearers, declaring himself to be the very Harry Stancome of the Manor Farm. But in vain were all his assertions to convince the honest couple of his identity.

“ What! his honour-a grand French officer-he, Harry Stancome, the son of a moorland farmer; he, the possessor of estates in the Indies, vineyards in France; horses, carriages, and servants! he, poor Harry Stancome, who had left bis home, broken-hearted and pennyless; no, no, she never would believe it—he must be joking with her. What! the husband of the beautiful lady by his side, a countess in her own country—as his servants had told her-he to have been the lover of a cotter's orphan, no, no, she never would believe it.” “But” said her guest, brother no mark, by which you would have known him if he were here." “Yes,” she exclaimed, “ he had a scar on his right arm, just below the shoulder, which he got by falling on a stone from a tree in Hazlegrove Coppice, that he had climbed after a jay's nest, and the mark of which the doctor said he would carry with him to his grave." On hearing this, the general bared his arm, and there, to the amazement of his brother-in-law and sister, (for such they really were), was the scar in the

very spot she had described it to be; all doubts now vanished, and

6 had your

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