her afflicted soul burst from its earthly prison and mounted to the realms of bliss.

The happiness or prosperity of King John was not secured by his victory over Arthur: his nobles revolted; they boldly expressed their suspicions that the life of the Prince was in danger; and disdaining to hear any excuses, quitted his presence, in proud defiance of his commands that they should still remain. Faulconbridge brought him the alarming intelligence, that Lewis of France, supported by the Pope, was landed in England with an invincible army, and encamped at St. Edmund's Bury. His purpose was, to demand the throne of England in right of his wife, the Lady Blanch. The common people were full of rumour, danger, and surmise; murmuring at the idea of Arthur's imprisonment; and some hinting their fears of his safety. John, driven to the extremest verge of terror at the fate which seemed to be suspended over him, reproached Hubert with bitter acrimony, laying the death of Arthur to his charge; and accused him of being a deliberate murderer, a vile wretch, who had readily executed his orders, when he should have repulsed them. Hubert permitted him to rail for a time, and then cooly replied that he was not the deliberate, pitiless villain the monarch was pleased to consider him; one who, to purchase favour and reward, would steep his hands in the blood of youth and innocence.

When John heard that Arthur was still living, his courage and his hopes revived; he begged Faulconbridge to hasten to the revolted nobles, and lure them back. With the speed of lightning he flew on his welcome errand; he found them before the castle, where Arthur had been retained a prisoner, mourning over his body, which lay dead before the gates. The poor terrified child, fearful lest his uncle should appoint him any other torture, or that Hubert should be removed from him, took advantage of his absence, and climbing up the battlements, leaped over; but, the height being greater than he imagined, he was dashed to pieces in the fall.

No assurances of Hubert, nor even his grief could induce the nobles to believe that either he or the king were ignorant of the Prince's death; and more than ever disgusted at the idea of John's treachery, in daring to insult

them with any message respecting the safety of the murdered Arthur, they fled without delay, and joined the army of Lewis at St. Edmund's Bury. John, almost destitute of hope, prepared for battle, but his soul was loaded with guilt. His mother, whom he had left in France to watch the motions of Philip and his son, was suddenly dead: and he felt as if deserted by earth and heaven. The progress of the Dauphin was almost incredible; his reception was cordial; Dover Castle, alone, held out against him : and he soon appeared in London, where his presence was hailed with shouts of joy. Faulconbridge remained firm; he collected his forces, and led them to battle: but his troops were defeated with heavy loss; and half his remaining powers perished in their retreat, by the tide overtaking them; himself with great difficulty escaping the danger.

But all necessity for further contention seemed drawing to a close, in the approaching dissolution of the king. A fanatic monk, inspired by false enthusiasm and blind zeal, thought he should serve his God and aid the cause of religion by shortening the life of a man who had set at defiance the ordinances of the catholic faith: and though his life had never been attempted during the dreadful period of his excommunication, and when the whole nation, suffering for his crimes, was laying under an interdict; yet now, when returned to his obedience, when, according to the prediction of Peter of Pomfret,* he had voluntarily resigned his crown to the Pope's legate, and received it again as his master's gift; now when he had owned the Pope's supremacy, confessed himself his vassal, and by a most disgraceful concession consented to bow to the decrees of the church of Rome;-now his life was assailed. A monk, employed about his person, had infused into his food a poison so deadly that, in tasting it-an office de

* Peter of Pomfret, a hermit, famous for possessing the gift of prophecy, predicted that John should lose his crown on Ascension Day. He was thrown into prison; his prediction, however, proved true. John, on Ascension Day, resigned his crown to the Pope's legate, who retained it three days, and then returned it as the Pope's gift. John, who chose to misunderstand Peter's words, who had said, he would "lose his crown," not that he would voluntarily resign it, as soon as it was restored, ordered the hermit to be hanged for a false prophet.

puted to him he had presently fallen sick, and his bowels burst out: the portion which John had taken was less violent and sudden in its operation, but not the less excruciating; he was now shivering with cold, and now burning with fever; his brain was disordered, and he alternately raved, wept, and sung. His young son hung over him with tenderness, but all aid was vain. In one of his intervals of reason he expressed a wish to be removed into the open air; and was conducted into the orchard of Swinstead Abbey, where he had taken shelter for a few days; but the effect was transient. Faulconbridge arrived just in time to behold him ere he expired: he requested to hear the news of the last day's battle; but nature, exhausted, was unable longer to endure; and even while Faulconbridge was repeating the sad tale of his loss and defeat, the king expired.

Thus perished John, in the fifty-first year of his age; bequeathing to posterity a loathed name, despised and detested by his subjects, over whom he had tyrannized for eighteen years; and, in his whole kingdom, there was scarcely a heart which mourned his loss, save only his son Prince Henry, and the grateful Faulconbridge.

Ambition, thou, who dost Colossus like
Bestride the earth; whose greedy appetite,
Like the devouring sea, is never gorged
Thou fiend! cased in the human form divine;
That fattenest on destruction! Ah, no throb
Of pity dwells within thy marble breast;
Nor tenderness, nor joy, inhabits there:
A wide interminable waste, where pride
Insatiate reigns; and worlds to thee appear
Made for thy use, and for their own decay.

Yet, what avail! but a brief while, and all
This turmoil ends in powerless death. The grave
Swallows ambition; and the womb of earth
Contains in one poor little space, the pride

And brilliant pomp of splendour, power and greatness; And this the limit frail mortality

Commands; the utmost limit given to man.

Poor compensation for the loss of bliss

On earth, and hope in heaven. Then what reward
Does mad ambition yield its votaries?

The widow's tears

the orphan's cries-the good Man's scorn-the world's abhorrence! loss of peace; Self reprobation; and Almighty vengeance, Perchance unchangeable.-What mighty loss, What thriftless gain ambition leaves its slaves!

FITZ-GERALD'S WIFF.

BY D. S. LAWLOR, ESQ., AUTHOR OF "THE HARP OF
INNISFAIL," ETC.

I saw her once again. Memory still portrays the lovely mourner wrapt in sable attire; deserted, yet not alone, for the tender pledge of conjugal affection clings to a bosom now insensible to all but sorrow. If beauty interests our feelings, and misfortune claims our sympathy in the ordinary walks of life, shall we refuse it to the high-born-to the illustrious by descent-to the wedded partner of the noble and the brave! A stranger in our land, she was the adopted child of Erin; but, alas! the adopted of her misfortunes.-Personal Narrative of the Irish Rebellion, p. 152.

I SAW her in her pride of bloom,

Gazing upon her husband's face;
While her dark tresses, like a plume,

Fell o'er her in a wreath of grace;
And innocent, and pure and young,
She walked life's happy bowers among.

I saw her when the sudden blight

Had blanched her cheek and dimmed her brow,

And her heart's promise ta'en its flight
Upon the raven-wings of woe;

Making this loving, lovely thing,
A child of tears and suffering!

Her patriot lord is on the bier,

His red sword in his soldier-hand,

And in her hour of grief and fear,

She sorrows for that better land,

Where the redeeming God will speak
Comfort and succour to the weak.

For her the birds of morn impart

No pleasure in their matin hymn;
For death is in her silent heart,

And her rapt feelings sleep in him,
Who slumbers in the nameless grave,
That waits the unsuccessful brave.

Oh! woman's love and woman's grief!

Deepening through time's all-furrowing gloom

Nor living for a late relief.

Your only rest is in the tomb!

How sacred is the pure revealing

Of woman's love and woman's feeling!

THE IRISH BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY.

(Concluded from page 174.)

Surprising and inconsistent, with that morbid and painful state of feelings I have described, as the next passage of his history would appear, let no man, I would say, presume to decide on the hidden motives, the inner workings of a fellowcreature, however open his external conduct to censure or dislike. For myself, I would fain see the sunny side of each fleeting picture, and I am satisfied, with regard to Montgomery, that during the latter part of the intimacy with Mary, he had been perfectly honourable in his intentions, whatever mysterious fatality seemed to have hung over its issue; that his grief and melancholy, when that intimacy was broken off, were equally unaffected; and that it was not owing to heartless indifference, but to natural fickleness, and instability, and to the ardent spirits and warm constitution of his youth, that he soon was seen to be inspired with equal devotion to another, and as fair an object.

As for Bessy, she too had recovered from the shock her friendship had sustained, although the latter feeling remained still undiminished; and we have already noticed the number and power of the fascinations which now newly beset her. In a word, Montgomery was formed to be the bane of two gentle creatures,, with respect to whom, whether we look to their personal charms, their intellectual attractions, the inno