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And bitter hours to come might bring
Fresh venom to its ceaseless sting.

Oh! it was more than grief, to trace

The dark, deep lines of care
That mark'd her pallid brow and face,

And stamp'd them with despair
Joy from her throbbing heart had fled,
Where all, save hope and fear, were dead.-

I marvell'd that the gentle Maid

Should dwell with one so stern : Then long'd my soul, yet half-afraid,

Her name, her fate, to learn :-“ Maiden, why dwell'st thou thus with one, Whom all that see would fear, and shun?

“ Leave that mis-shapen, monstrous form !

Seek the green earth with me; Come to my home, where lours no storm.".

“Stranger it may not be : Alas ! from Him I ne'er can sever, Together link'd, we're link'd for ever!

“ Yes ! through the countless ages past,

O’er earth and boundless main,
Our hapless fates together cast,

Our only birthright pain,
We've wander'd far, o'er ev'ry clime,
Since Man could note the flight of time.

“ The east, the west, the north, the south,

Together we have ranged,
Through winter's cold, and summer's drouth,

Yet ne'er to be estranged !-
I loathe my gaunt companion's heart,
Yet feel the curse,—we cannot part !”

She ceased, and from her eyes again

Burst forth the swelling tears ;
The hot blood, gushing o'er her brain,

Went like a flame that sears :
While throbb’d her breast with boding dread,
To all that wins and charms us dead.

6 Tell me,” I cried, “your names—your race ?”

The maiden's tearful eye
Rose slowly to my burning face,

As came the brief reply :
While flash'd the Monster's eyes with fire,
As thus he spoke with scorn and ire :-

“ Mortal, depart! thou see'st the bane

That poisons all the springs of life! We were, we are, we shall remain

The Undivided, though at strife ! As yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, Thou know'st us, mortal-Sin and SORROW."

J. BIRD, ESQ.

Bonaparte - Wellington.

Sir R. Newdigate's English verse prize, which had been gained by Mr. Arnould, of Wedham, was read by him on the occa:ion of the recent Installation of the Duke of Wellington at Oxford, from the rostrum. The subject is “ The Hospice of St. Bernard.” The beautiful sentiments and the polished and elegant numbers of the writer, were applauded highly by the whole audience. The following passage is surpassingly beautiful :-

But when the lamp burns faintly, and the guest Seeks his low cell, and homely couch of rest, Dim with the mists of time before his eyes, Majestic forms of other days arise, And to his ear the night-winds waft along Names that have lived in story or in song.

Once more the foe of Rome, from height to height, Cheers his dark host, impatient for the fight, And where yon plains expand in boundless gloom, He bids them seek an empire or a tomb. With nodding plumes, bright helms, and glittering

spears, Lo! Gaul's great emperor leads his knightly peers ; Hush'd is their iron tramp, and moonbeams dim Show'r on each ghastly brow and mail-clad limb. He too is there, who, slain on victory's day, Besides their altar sleeps, the young Dessaix ;

And there his chief, whose name of terror spread
Wide o'er the world, and shook mankind with dread,
Curbs his proud steed, and waves his warriors on
To Piedmont's vales, yet “ bright with Lodi's sun;"
Unlike the despot Lord of after days,
Youth on his cheek, and ardour in his gaze ;
E’en now his spirit, from the fields of fight,
The shout of triumph hears, the rush of flight,
As from Marengo's plain, “ th' invading horde”
Flies the keen vengeance of his conqu’ring sword
Chang'd is his brow, what loftier visions roll,
What dreams of empire crowd upon his soul !
Lo ! prostrate nations tremble at his sway,
Kings quail before him—Thrones in dust decay;
Dominion crowns what conquest has begun,
And Fortune, smiling on her favourite son,
Wreathes round his tyrant brow the glittering toy,
Her fatal dower, that shines but to destroy.

If, in that hour of pride, and fervid youth, Such were his dreams, mankind has mourned their

truth;

O'er seas of blood bis sun of glory rose,
And sunk, at length, ʼmid tempest to repose.
When on that field, where last the eagle soar'd,
War's mightier master wielded Britain's sword;
And the dark soul, a world could scarce subdue,
Bent to thy genius-CHIEF OF WATER LOO !

The Red King's clarning.

Historians relate that the death of William Rufus, in the New Forest, was preceded by several predictions clearly announcing his fate. The statement in the second line of this piece, that the hunt commenced at noon, is in accordance with the fact.

With hound and horn the wide New Forest rung,

When the Red William at the bright noon-day, Girt by his glittering train, to saddle sprung,

And to the chase spurr'd forth his gallant grey : O'er hill, o'er dale, the hunters held their track;

But that grey courser, fleeter than the wind, Was foremost still—and as the king look'd back,

Save Tyrrell, all were far and far behind. Slow through a distant pass the train defiled;

Alone the king rode on-when in mid course Lo! rush'd across his path a figure wild,

And on his bridle-rein with giant force Seized—then swift pointing to a blighted oak, Thus to th' astonish'd king in words of thunder spoke.

“ Curb thy race of headlong speed,

Backward, backward turn thy steed!
Death is on thy onward track,
Turn, oh turn, thy courser back!

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