"And thus when Silvia falls, Silvia may live again in thee, and thou, bearing her semblance, may'st cheat the eyes of the infatuated Lorenzo, and hold the love thy rival now enjoys!"

"Oh! can and may this be?" cried Zenobia. "Past doubt," replied the stranger.

and prove its infallibilty."

Essay its power,

"But yet, to win my will, must I endure to wear the form I most abhor of earth's creation? Oh! this false playing almost brings a retributive penance; for can I be flattered in the fond caresses of the loved Lorenzo, duping him of another's due? Will not my ardent love be changed to bitter hate, in the eternal hearing of his sweetest vows offered, through me, to the divinity of his adoration ?"

"And what boots his gentlest, kindest speech to Silvia? Of what will his smoothest words deprive thee?" argued the dark stranger. "The offering will be thine; while the mere odorous vapour thereof will be Silvia's portion. Art thou content to win Lorenzo on these tetms!"

"On these on any !" replied Zenobia firmly, her passion conquering all her scruples. And accepting the proffered hand of the mysterious cavalier, she entered the silver gondola, which by some unseen impulse, shot across the dark still element, like an effulgent meteor through the sky!

Dying strains of soft music, mingled with the joyous voices of the gay company, issued from the palazzo of the Marchesa D'Orsina, as they approached. Boldly and fearlessly the heartless Zenobia, accompanied by the stranger, in mask and domino, entered the saloon, where the gay Lorenzo and the unsuspecting Silvia were enjoying the pleasure of the merry dance, in the mazy evolutions of which the stranger, adroitly taking the form of Lorenzo, deluded the eyes of Silvia, and drew her away from the festive group; at the same moment Zenobia, assuming the sylph-like figure and lovely features of her rival, met the valued smile, and felt the warm and gentle pressure of Lorenzo's hand. Her heart was overflowing with joy, and delighted with the gallantries of the gay enamoured cavalier, the time flew swiftly by, and the hour of departure and a temporary separation arrived.

Zenobia looked anxiously around her as Lorenzo led her from the saloon to escort her to the gondola which awaited her; but neither the mysterious stranger, nor the injured and devoted Silvia were to be seen. With a fluttering heart she had already bidden adieu to the happy Lorenzo, and was on the point of stepping into the gondola, when, with a piercing shriek, she fell dead in the arms of her distracted suitor; for the stiletto of her minion, Dominico, had stabbed her to the heart with the blow she had intended to be aimed against the life of Silvia, whose form she bore. Twenty swords were unsheathed to immolate the heartless bravo, but he escaped their vengeance by plunging into the sea and swimming away.

Meanwhile the remorseless Zenobia resumed her proper form, and the real Silvia, unharmed, rushed to the arms of the astonished and delighted Lorenzo, who, in his surprise, quitting Zenobia, she was received in the embrace of the black stranger, who instantaneously bore her to the silver gondola, which rose to meet him; and the terrified spectators beheld the wicked Zenobia and the stranger gradually sink beneath the dark waters in the glittering ark!

THE BRIDE'S CHOICE.

BY J. AUGUSTINE WADE, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF THE PROPHECY, AN ORATORIO," ETC.

Away!-I'll wear no bridal dress,
No costly jewel bright-
I'll deck my broken happiness

In no false wedding-white!

I'll shroud me in the emerald pall
That lies beneath yon tree,

And none but Nature's tears shall fall

In pity over me!

My bed shall be the quiet ground,

My wasted form to fold

For hearts like mine it hath been found
A kind one, though a cold!

L. 36.2.

с

I'd made another resting-place
For all my hopes and fears,
But Fate has worn a frowning face,
And smiles have chang'd to tears.

They've turn'd me from my hopes away-
They've broken the sweet tie
That I wound o'er my spirit's play-
They've made me long to die!

My cheek is now a page of care,
Where Joy has once been writ ;—
Joy is the mother of Despair
When Hope's unkind to it!

So lay me in that pleasant grave,
All cover'd o'er with green;-

Though wrong'd through lifetime, I would have
My tomb as if I'd been

A happy thing, and sweets were strown
Upon my sleep-to show

That I had never sorrow known

Had never tasted woe!

I like the mockery that flowers
Exhibit on the mound,

Beneath which lie the happy hours
Hearts dreamt, but never found!

Farewell-farewell-upon the stone
That marks my gentle bed,
Oh write," Here lies a hapless one,
That lived-that loved-is dead!"

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT.
Fre sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care;
The opening bud to heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.

RICHES NOT HAPPINESS.

A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

"O! if I were but in the place of that lady," said a blooming girl, in whose countenance were depicted, in legible characters, health, peace, and innocence, as she went tripping lightly along to market, with a brace of fowls, and a basket of eggs and butter on her arm, in a fine morning; "if I were but in the place of that lady how happy should I be !"

The lady who occasioned this involuntary exclamation was rolling along in a fine chariot, sitting by the side of a middle-aged gentleman, who seemed to be her husband, and followed by two smart dressed servants on horseback.

"And pray, my pretty dear," said I, "what do you see in that lady to make you wish so eagerly to change places with her?"

"See!" said she; why don't you see she is dressed as fine as fine can be? She is sitting there at her ease, drawn by a pair of such beautiful horses that it is a pleasure to look at them, and who scamper along as if they felt no weight behind them; while I, poor I! am forced to trudge on on foot, overcome with heat, and choaked with dust; and then these fine servants to attend her, and bring her whatever she shall wish to have. I'll warrant ye she will find no more difficulty to put her hand in her pocket and pull out a guinea, aye, or ten guineas either, to buy a shawl, or a beautiful cap, when she sees one that pleases her in a shop window, than I shall find to give a halfpenny for an apple. As to the fine caps, they are not for such folks as me; we may look at them, we may admire them, but we are never suffered to enjoy them. Is it not very wrong in these saucy shopkeepers to be allowed to hang up those fine things in their windows just to tempt poor folks like me, who would not, perhaps, otherwise think of them ?"

"It may, perhaps, be wrong," said I, "my dear, in a moral point of view, to do so; and I am convinced that many innocent girls, like you, are allured thus to go astray, who might not otherwise have thought of it; but still it would be hard to deprive those persons who have money of

the power of spending it as they please: many a worthy family is, you know, supported by providing these articles for sale; and it is natural for every one to wish to display their goods to the best advantage. Even you yourself, as rigid a moralist as you are in this case, carry these fowls to market on this fine day, when you expect that their beautiful appearance will tempt some one to wish to taste such a nice bit of feathered flesh, and give you a good price for them. Had it been a rainy day you would, probably, have left them at home; and that fine butter you have in your basket, how nice it looks when wrapped up with that pure white napkin! Is not this intended to tempt the merchant? Yet you do not think there is any harm in doing this, nor ever mind, although it should induce some one to give his last shilling for it, although he would, perhaps, have judged more wisely in purchasing some plainer fare. Let us then allow the shopkeepers to do, without blaming them, what we ourselves should have done had we been in their place. But to return to the lady, what did you see about her that gave any indications to you of her enjoying a greater share of happiness than yourself? Was her complexion more blooming?-for I know you looked in the mirror this morning before you set out. Did her eye sparkle with greater brilliancy, as if her heart felt a more animating degree of sensation? You are silent; you were not, then, sensible of any thing of this sort; but you are sensible that when you feel a greater degree of happiness than usual, your countenance assumes a more animating glow than at other times; you are then lively and gay; you are delighted with the company of those that you esteem, and you are full of life and cheerfulness. Instead of that, you saw the lady sat as grave as a parson, and no object seemed to attract her notice. Would you be so, if you were as happy as you think you should be were you in her place?"

"O! no, not at all," said the girl; "were I in her place I should laugh, I should sing, I should dance for joy; I could not contain myself."

Then," said I, "my dear, you must get out of the carriage, for you could not dance there, you know. You see a carriage is not good for every thing: it confines you from