And fixed the scallop in his hat before;
Then, with the rising sun, a journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But, when the southern sun had warmed the day,

A youth came posting o'er a crossing way;
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,
And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair;
Then, near approaching, Father, hail!" he
cried,

And, Hail, my son!" the reverend sire replied.

Words followed words, from question answer flowed,

And talk of various kind deceived the road;
Till each with other pleased, and loath to part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart.
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound,
Thus useful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray; Nature, in silence, bid the world repose, When, near the road, a stately palace rose. There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass,

Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides with grass.

It chanced the noble master of the dome
Still made his house the wandering stranger's
home;

Yet stiil the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive; the liveried servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate;
The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they
drown,

Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down,

At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day, Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep.

Up rise the guests, obedient to the call,

An early banquet decked the splendid hall; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, Which the kind master forced the guests to

'Twas then his threshold first received a guest

Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair;
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls,
And Nature's fervour through their limbs re-
calls;

Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wineEach hardly granted-served them both to dine;

And when the tempest first appeared to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace. With still remark, the pondering hermit viewed,

In one so rich, a life so pure and rude; And why should such-within himself he cried

Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside? But what new marks of wonder soon take place

In every settling feature of his face.
When, from his vest, the young companion

bore

And paid profusely with the precious bowl, The stinted kindness of this churlish soul!

But now the clouds in airy tumult fly; The sun emerging, opes an azure sky; A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day; The weather courts them from their poor retreat,

And the glad master bolts the weary gate. While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought

With all the travail of uncertain thought:

His partner's acts without their cause appear; 'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness

here:

Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.
Now night's dim shades again involve the sky;
Again the wanderers want a place to lie;
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh.
The soil improved around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great;
It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not for praise, but virtue, kind.
Hither the walkers turn their weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet.
Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest
guise,

The courteous master hears, and thus replies:
"Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To Him who gives us all, I yield a part;
From Him you come, for Him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer!"
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed;
When the grave household round his hall re-
pair,

Warned by a bell, and close the hour with prayer.

At length the world, renewed by calm repose, Was strong for toil; the dappled morn arose; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near a closed cradle where an infant slept, And writhed his neck the landlord's little pride,

O strange return! grew black, and gasped, and died!

Horror of horrors! what! his only son! How looked our hermit when the fact was done!

Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part,

And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart.

Confused, and struck with silence at the deed,

He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed; His steps the youth pursues: the country lay

way;

A river crossed the path; the passage o'eer Was nice to find; the servant trod before; Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, And deep the waves beneath them bending glide.

The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin, Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in ;

Plunging he falls, and rising, lifts his head, Then flashing turns, and sinks among the

dead.

While sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes,

He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries: "Detested wretch!"--but scarce his speech began,

When the strange partner seemed no longer

man!

His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; His robe turned white and flowed upon his feet;

Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And wings, whose colours glittered on the
day,

Wide at his back their gradual plumes display.
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight,
And moves in all its majesty of light.
Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew,
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do;
Surprise, in secret chains, his word suspends,
And in a calm, his settling temper ends;
But silence here the beauteous angel broke-
The voice of music ravished as he spoke!

"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice
unknown,

In sweet memorial rise before the throne: These charms success in our bright region find,

And force an angel down, to calm thy mind;
For this, commissioned, I forsook the sky;
Nay, cease to kneel-thy fellow-servant I.
Then know the truth of government divine,
And let these scruples be no longer thine.
The Maker justly claims that world He made:
In this the right of Providence is laid;
Its sacred majesty through all depends,
On using second means to work his ends
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye,
The power exerts his attributes on high;
Your action uses, nor controls your will,
And bids the doubting sons of men be still.
What strange events can strike with more sur-
prise,

Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes?

Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just,

And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust.

Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,

And feels compassion touch his grateful soul.
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead,
With heaping coals of fire upon its head;
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below.
Long had our pious friend in virtue trod,
But now the child half-weaned his heart from
God-

Child of his age-for him he lived in pain,
And measured back his steps to earth again.
To what excesses had his dotage run!
But God to save the father took the son.
To all but thee, in fits he seemed to go,
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow.
The poor fond parent humbled in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.
But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack,
Had that false servant sped in safety back!
This night his treasured heaps he meant to
steal,

And what a fund of charity would fail!
Thus heaven instructs thy mind: this trial

o'er,

Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more.”

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew,

The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew;
Thus looked Elisha, when, to mount on high,
His master took the chariot of the sky.
The fiery pomp ascending left the view;
The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too.
The bending Hermit here a prayer begun:
"Lord as in heaven, on earth thy will be
done."

Then gladly turning, sought his ancient place,
And passed a life of piety and peace.

THOMAS PARNELL.

THE LADY ROHESIA.

The Lady Rohesia lay on her death-bed! So said the doctor, and doctors are generally allowed to be judges in these matters; besides, Dr. Butts was the court physician.

"Is there no hope, doctor?" said Bea trice Gray.

"Is there no hope?" said Everard Ingoldsby.

"Is there no hope?" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri. He was the Lady Rohesia's husband; he spoke the last.

The doctor shook his head. He looked at the disconsolate widower in posse, then at the hour glass; its waning sand seemed sadly to shadow forth the sinking pulse of his patient. Dr. Butts was a very learned Ars longa, vita brevis!" said Dr.

man.

Butts.

"I am very sorry to hear it," quoth Sir Guy de Montgomeri. Sir Guy was a brave knight, and a tall, but he was no scholar. "Alas! my poor sister!" sighed Ingolds

by.

66

Alas! my poor mistress!" sobbed Beatrice.

Sir Guy neither sighed nor sobbed; his grief was too deep-seated for outward manifestation.

"And how long, doctor- ?" The af flicted husband could not finish the sentence.

Dr. Butts withdrew his hand from the wrist of the dying lady. He pointed to the horologe; scarcely a quarter of its sand remained in the upper moiety. Again he shook his head; the eye of the patient waxed dimmer-the rattling in the throat increased.

"What's become of Father Francis?"

whimpered Beatrice.

"The last consolations of the church," suggested Everard.

A darker shade came over the brow of Sir Guy.

"Where is the confessor?" continued his grieving brother-in-law.

"In the pantry," cried Marion Hackett, pertly, as she tripped down-stairs in search of that venerable ecclesiastic; "in the pantry, I warrant me."

The bower woman was not wont to be in the wrong; in the pantry was the holy man discovered at his devotions.

"Pax vobiscum!" said Father Francis, as he entered the chamber of death.

"Vita brevis!" retorted Dr. Butts. He was not a man to be browbeat out of his Latin, and by a paltry Friar Minim, too. Had it been a Bishop, indeed, or even a mitred abbot-but a miserable Franciscan. "Benedicite!" said the friar.

"Ars longa!" returned the leech. Dr. Butts adjusted the tassels of his fall

"Pious soul!" ejaculated Father Francis. A thousand marks, she said"If she did, I'll be shot," said Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

"A thousand marks," continued the confessor, fixing his cold, grey eye upon the knight, as he went on, heedless of the interruption; "a thousand marks, and as many aves and paters shall be duly said, as soon as the money is paid down."

Sir Guy shrank from the monk's gaze; he turned to the window, and muttered to himself something that sounded like, "Don't you wish you may get it?"

The bell continued to toll. Father Francis had quitted the room, taking with him the remains of the holy oil he had been using for extreme unction. Everard Ingoldsby waited on him down-stairs.

"A thousand thanks," said the latter. "A thousand marks," said the friar. "A thousand devils!" growled Sir Guy de Montgomeri, from the top of the landingplace.

But his accents fell unheeded. His brother-in-law and the friar were gone; he was left alone with his departing lady and Beatrice Grey.

Sir Guy de Montgomeri stood pensively at the foot of the bed: his arms were crossed upon his bosom, his chin was sunk upon his

VOL. III.

breast; his eyes were filled with tears; the dim rays of the fading watchlight gave a darker shade to the furrows on his brow, and a brighter tint to the little bald patch on the top of his head, for Sir Guy was a middle-aged gentleman, tall and portly withal, with a slight bend in his shoulders, but that not much; his complexion was somewhat florid, especially about the nose; but his lady was in extremis, and at this particular moment he was paler than usual.

"Bim! bome"! went the bell. The knight groaned audibly. Beatrice Grey wiped her eyes with her little square apron of lace de Malines; there was a moment's pause,-a moment of intense affliction; she let it fall, all but one corner, which remained between her finger and thumb. She looked at Sir Guy; drew the thumb and forefinger of her other hand slowly along its border, till they reached the opposite extremity. She sobbed aloud. So kind a lady!" said Beatrice Grey. "So excellent a wife!" responded Sir Guy. "So good!" said the damsel. "So dear!" said the knight. แ So pious!" said she. "So humble!" said he. "So good to the poor!" "So capital a manager!" "So punctual at matins!" "Dinner dished to a moment!" "So devout!" said Beatrice. "So fond of me!" said Sir Guy. "And of Father Francis!" "What on earth do you mean by that?" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri.

The knight and the maiden had rung their antiphonic changes on the fine quali ties of the departing lady like the strophe and antistrophe of a Greek play. The cardinal virtues once disposed of, her minor excellences came under review. She would drown a witch, drink lamb's wool at Christmas, beg Dominie Dump's boys a holiday, and dine upon sprats on Good Friday. A low moan from the subject of these eulogies seemed to intimate that the enumeration of her good deeds was not altogether lost on her-that the parting spirit felt and rejoiced in the testimony.

"She was too good for earth," continued Sir Guy.

"Ye-ye-yes!" sobbed Beatrice. "I did not deserve her," said the knight. "No-0-0-o!" cried the damsel. "Not but that I made her an excellent husband, and a kind; but she is going, and -and-where, or when, or how-shall I get such another?"

"Not in broad England-not in the whole wide world!" responded Beatrice Grey

63

that is, not just such another." Her voice still faltered, but her accents, on the whole, were more articulate. She dropped the corner of her apron, and had recourse to her handkerchief; in fact, her eyes were getting red-and so was the tip of her nose.

Sir Guy was silent; he gazed for a few moments steadfastly on the face of his lady. The single word, "Another!" fell from his lips like a distant echo. It is not often that the viewless nymph repeats more than is ne

cessary.

"Bim! bome!" went the bell. Bandylegged Hubert had been tolling for half an hour. He began to grow tired, and St. Peter fidgety.

"Beatrice Grey," said Sir Guy de Montgomeri, "what's to be done? What's to become of Montgomeri Hall?—and the buttery? and the servants? And what-what's to become of me, Beatrice Grey ?" There was pathos in his tones, and a solemn pause succeeded. "I'll turn monk myself," said Sir Guy.

"Monk!" said Beatrice.

believe there is a creature now would care a button if I were hanged to-morrow!"

"Oh, don't say so, Sir Guy!" sighed Beatrice; "you know there's there's Master Everard, and-Father Francis

"Pish!" cried Sir Guy, testily.

Another pause ensued: the knight had released her chin, and taken her hand. It was a pretty little hand, with long, taper fingers and filbert-formed nails; and the softness of the palm said little for its owner's industry.

"Sit down, my dear Beatrice," said the knight, thoughtfully; "you must be fatigued with your long watching. Take a seat, my child." Sir Guy did not relinquish her hand, but he sidled along the counterpane, and made room for his companion between himself and the bedpost.

Now this is a very awkward position for two people to be placed in, especially when the right hand of one holds the right hand of the other. In such an attitude, what the deuce can the gentleman do with his left? Sir Guy closed his till it became an absolute fist, and his knuckles rested on the bed, a little in the rear of his companion. "Another!" repeated Sir Guy, musing

The knight seemed undecided. His eye roamed gloomily around the apartment; it paused upon different objects, but as if it saw them not; its sense was shut, and there was no speculation in its glance. It rested at last upon the fair face of the sympathizing damsel at his side, beautiful in her grief.

Her tears had ceased, but her eyes were cast down, and mournfully fixed upon her delicate little foot, which was beating the devil's tattoo.

There is no talking to a female when she does not look at you. Sir Guy turned round, he seated himself on the edge of the bed, and, placing his hands beneath the chin of the lady, turned up her face in an angle of fifteen degrees.

"I don't think I shall take the vows, Beatrice; but what's to become of me? Poor, miserable, old—that is, poor, miserable, middle-aged-man that I am! No one to comfort, no one to care for me!"

Beatrice's tears flowed afresh, but she opened not her lips.

"Pon my life!" continued he, "I don't

was talking to his thought, but Beatrice Grey answered him

"There's Madame Fitzfoozle."
"A frump!" said Sir Guy.
"Or the Lady Bumbarton."
"With her hump!" muttered he.
"There's the Dowager"

"Stop-stop!" said the knight; "stop one moment." He paused: he was all on the tremble: something seemed rising in his throat, but he gave a great gulp and swallowed it. "Beatrice," said he, "what think you of"-his voice sank into a seductive softness-" what think you ofBeatrice Grey?'"

The murder was out-the knight felt infinitely relieved; the knuckles of his left hand unclosed spontaneously, and the arm he had felt such a difficulty in disposing of found itself, nobody knows how, all at once encircling the jimp waist of the pretty Bea trice. The young lady's reply was express ed in three syllables. They were, "Oh, Sir Guy!" The words might be somewhat in definite, but there was no mistaking the look. Their eyes met: Sir Guy's left arm contracted itself spasmodically. When the eyes met at least, as theirs met-the lips are very apt to follow the example. The