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Each finer feeling of my soul excite
Of heaven was there infused from the sky,
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!
The waters of that gelid stream contain
Can turn his once delicious draught to pain.-
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
When virtuous thoughts the mortal breast inspire,)
Requires new food for his diurnal joy,
As sweet in fragrance, and in hopes as high;
Ah! may no secret, unsuspected fiend
Ere then disturb its smooth and placid course;
Whate'er of beauty to those glassy waves ;-
A devil tortures, but an angel saves :
I loved but with a brother's pure regard,
And fatal cankers from its heart discard !
Now Philomela, tender bird of eve,
Let me be sad, and listen to thy song;
For one unlike thee, as I stroll along.
Its accents of sincerity and woe,
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.
THE THREATENED CURSE;
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
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,"
“ Loud and hoarse his cataracts uplift
Has tones of touching sweetness.”
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