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Or, as her rest too long delaying,
Slumber stole over her while praying.
Yet this is not the dreamless sleep
That youth should know-the still, the deep!
See, on her cheek th' unquiet red
A sudden crimson flush has shed !
And now it fades, as colours die
While watching twilight's transient sky;
And now 'tis deadly pale in hue;
On the wan forehead stands the dew !
The small white hands are clenched and wrung :
She wakes ! how wild a look is flung
From those blue eyes which, strange and wide,
Glance, like a deer's, from side to side!
She listens : but she cannot hear,
So loudly beats her heart with fear.
Gradual she knows the lonely cell-
She hears the midnight's bell ;
She sees the moonlight on the pane,

And weary, droops her head again." It is in such paintings that our author excels. It is the real redeemed by the beautiful. One great charm in these pages are the sudden bursts of some strong emotion, suggested almost by chance; witness the very mention of the earliest Italian poet :

“ One wandered there, whose gazing eye

Deserved to mirror such a sky;
He of the laurel and the lyre,
Whose lip was song, whose heart was firem
The gentle Petrarch-he whose fame
Was worship of one dearest name.
The myrtle planted on his grave
Gave all the laurel ever gave ;
The life that lives in others' breath-
Love's last sweet triumph over death.
And tell me not of long disdain-
Of hope unblest—of fiery pain-
Of lute and laurel vowed in vain.
Of such the common cannot deem;

Such love hath an ethereal pride !
I'd rather feed on such a dream,

Than win a waking world beside." These last two lines concentrate the ideal of the heart, which is the essence of feminine poetry.

We regret that we have not space to quote more than a few stanzas of “ The Letter," which appears to us the very perfection of all that can be imagined of woman's love, gentle, silent, tender and devoted :

Once, and once only, let me speak

Of all that I have felt for years,
You read it not upon my cheek,

You dreamed not of it in my tears.
And yet I loved thee with a love

That into every feeling came;
I never looked on heaven above

Without a prayer to bless thy name.

I had no other love to share,

That which was thine--and thine alone;
A few sad thoughts it had to spare

For those beneath the funeral stone.
But every living hope was thine,

Affection with my being grew,
Thy heart was as a home and shrine,

Familiar, and yet sacred too.
How often have I watched the spot

On which thy step had only moved ;
My memory remembers not

The hour when thou wert not beloyed.
I never had a grief or care

I sought not from thine eyes to hide ;
In joy I said, ' Ah! would he were

My pleasure sharing at my side.'
I bent above each old romance, T

And seemed to read thy history there;
I saw, in each brave knight, thy glance

Distinct upon the kindled air.
Whene'er I sang, our songs they seemed

To paint thee only in the lay;
Of only thee at night I dreamed,

of only thee I thought by day.
The wind that wandered round our towers

Brought echoes of thy voice to me;
Our old hall's solitary hours

Were peopled with sweet thoughts of thee.
And yet we part—this very hour!

Ah!-only if my beating heart
Could break for both-there is no power

Could force me with your love to part.
There is no shape that pain could take,

No ill that would not welcome be,
If suffered but for thy dear sake, -

But they must be unshared by thee." We frankly confess that we have our doubts whether woman's love be quite the disinterested and intense thing that Miss Landon represents it to be; still it is an exquisite creed. We have rather dwelt on the more essentially feminine portion of the work, but it would be injustice to the writer not to give a specimen of her powers in another line. We conclude with the following bold and spirited lines :

“ The Danish Warrior's Death Song.
Away, away! your care is vain ;

No leech could aid me now ;
The chill of death is at my heart,

Its damp upon my brow.
Weep not-1 shame to see such tears

Within a warrior's eyes ;
Away ! how can ye weep for him

Who in the baitle dies?

Go ye

If I had died with idle head

Upon my lady's knee,
Had Fate stood by my silken bed,

Then might ye weep for me.
But I lie on my own proud deck

Before the sea and sky;
The wind that sweeps my gallant sails

Will have my latest sigh.
My banner floats among the clouds,

Another droops below;
Well with my heart's best blood is paid
Such purchase of a foe.

and seek my halls, there dwells
A fair-hair'd boy of mine ;
Give him my sword, while yet the blood

Darkens that falchion's shine.
Tell him that only other blood

Should wash such stains away ;
And if he be his father's child,

There needs no more to say.
Farewell, my bark ! farewell, my friends!

Now fling me on the wave;
One cup of wine, and one of blood,

Pour on my bounding grave." It has been beautifully said that “ Woman's heart is love and song united.” That heart is Miss Landon's peculiar domain. It is the inspiration of the present volume which must add to its writer's fame. We congratulate her on the production of pages

“ Where thought finds happiest voice, and glides along

Into the silver rivers of sweet song."

MARTIAL IN LONDON.
The Two Agitators, written at a Ball at Brambleburg.
GREAT Daniel O'Connell is gone to the North:
His tongue a remonstrance indignant pours forth,

And eloquence flows from his mouth.
But you, pretty Jane, with a pair of black eyes,
Come over the natives of Kent to surprise,

And agitate hearts in the South.
He fires with a word, and you fire with a look,
Head and heart thus invaded, what mortal can brook ?

Alas! there's no end to our woes.
He agitates old, and you agitate young :
Till you close your peepers, and he holds his tongue,

Poor Britain will ne'er find repose.
A Caution addressed to Lady H -n, on reading the following Adver.

tisement in the Morning Herald :". Colosseum-Various Exhibi. tions,-Sports and Fights, in which the visiters will partake.

Those Colosseum fights eschew,

Avoid the fierce attack:
Else, going there with eyes of blue,

You'll come away with black,
Nov.-VOL. XIV. NO. CLXXIX.

2 B

THE TEMPTATION OF RACHEL MORISSON. It was a clear, sunny September morning-bright and cheerful. Autumn was stealing, not striding over the landscape, and Rachel Morisson looked out upon a joyous picture as she sat within the window of her father's house.

Her two younger sisters had spread a richly-fringed carpet beneath a verandah that was curtained by clustering vines : the elder of them had filled a basket with the rich clusters of the purple grape, and held it up, a double temptation to little Miriam and a bounding, beautiful greyhound, the pet and torment of the family. Kate Morisson, the tempter, would not, however, suffer either of them to touch a single grape until she had first presented the basket to Rachel ; indeed, her youthful sisters loved Rachel dearly,—and loved her the more, for that the rose was fading from her cheek, and her lips seldom smiled as was their custom in former times. I have often observed that the love of children increases with the illness of a friend or companion,-a beautiful illustration of the disinterested nature of true love.

“ There is a bunch, Rachel,—a bunch fit for a queen! The doctor said you might eat grapes.”

“ Thank you, dear Kate ; they are very fine indeed: but you should not have tempted Miriam and Nina with them."

“ Oh!" replied Kate, laughing, “ I love to tempt them—to teaze them a little ; it does them good.”

“ No, I do not think so,” said Rachel. “ I am not fond of quoting from the Holy Scriptures on trivial occasions, but you must remember we pray not to be led into temptation ; and, Kate, looking on the temptation with which you tempted your little sister and the pretty hound, made me think

What, sister?” “Upon mine own!" “ Yours, Rachel! I did not tempt you with grapes.”

Grapes !” repeated Rachel Morisson, smiling, though there was sadness in the smile. “No, not with grapes ;—yet I have had my temptation."

“ What was it, sister ?” “I will tell you when you are old enough to understand its nature.”

“But I am old enough, Rachel. I shall be seven next month. Perhaps, sister, you were tempted to tell a story ?"

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“ To wear tight shoes at the dancing lesson ?”
" No!
To

go into the garden and gather cherries without leave ?”
No.'
“ To ride the kicking pony?”

“ Indeed, my Kate, you need not attempt to find out. Listen to me; if it pleases God that I live until you have completed your seventeenth year, I will relate to you my' temptation ;' if- listen to me, Katherine -I am taken from you into the world of spirits before you attain the beauty and incur the dangers of womanhood, I will leave a written testimony that may warn you how to avoid the sorrows which have

planted and watered the willows that are already growing over my early grave.

Kate did not quite understand what her sister meant, but she saw that her eyes were filled with tears, and so she crept silently to her side, and looked up into her face, and felt her heart sad within her. A little time, and the sharp winds of an unusually cold spring sent (the physicians said) poor Rachel Morisson to an early grave. There was one who knew otherwise,—who knew that the iron had entered her soul, and festered in its core, and that her body was too delicate to withstand the struggles of her mind. Her mother closed her eyes, and sorrowed over her bier,--but not as one having no hope, for her last blessed words were, “ I know that my Redeemer liveth !" There was much mourning in the bereaved dwelling. Kate was able to feel and to tell how truly she missed

“ The glancing of her sister's eye,

The waving of her hair,
The footsteps lightly gliding by,

The hand so small and fair.' But little Miriam soon forgot her troubles in the excitement of black frocks and a crape bonnet.

Years pass, as well as months; and when we review them, we think they pass as quickly. The retrospect of both is nearly the same ; but the prospect, how different! Katherine Morisson had completed her seventeenth year, and was already arrived at the dangerous distinction of being a belle and a beauty. She had almost ceased to remember that her sister, whose once beautiful form was now part and parcel of the earth wherein it lay, left a “ written testimony” of her trials; that she laid open her heart's feelings, hopes, and disappointments for her advantage; that, to prevent her sister's tears, she had re-shed her own— for she had torn afresh wounds which time had comparatively healed, and had again counted the drops of blood distilled from her lacerated heart. “My blessed child !” said her mother," have you forgotten poor Rachel's legacy ?-how she bequeathed you the knowledge of her temptation,' that your fate might not be as hers ?”

She laid a few leaves of paper upon her table, fairly and plainly written; and Kate retrimmed her lamp, and flung the garland from her brow, that she might read THE STORY of her dead sister.

“A woman, Kate !-a young unmarried woman's trials—are generally of the affections ;-trials of temper--trials of judgment-trials of power--come afterwards; but a young girl's trials are of the heart.

“I hope you have not yet understood what it is to love; unless, indeed, you love what is lovely,—lovely not only for time, but for eternity. The impression made on a young heart may be considered light; and yet, Katherine, it is long--oh, how long !-before it wears out: I found it so. You know the pains my dear mother ever took to impress upon us our religious duties; to teach us Christ all-in-all sufficient; and to manifest our faith by our works. I fear me that I trusted too much to my own strength-that I thought too much of my own acquirements. The pains bestowed on my education made me superior to my companions, but not, alas! superior to myself. The remembrance of your sisterof the once living reality of her who pens these lines-will, before you

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