"Moyna! Moyna!" exclaimed Harry O'Reardon, rushing forward, and overturning a policeman by the energy of his movements; "Moyna, lay no blame to the charm, for it was me you saw! Moyna, was it not me you thought of?"

The English assembly caught Harry's enthusiasm at the very moment that he caught Moyna to his bosom; and the English gentleman, who would not yield the eighth of an inch of his right to the correct side of the road, felt his eyes uncomfortably moist and misty. After the lapse of a few minutes, O'Reardon glanced from Moyna's beautiful face to his own thread-bare coat, and desiring that no shadow of suspicion should for a moment rest upon her, he drew himself up and addressed the magistrate.

"Plase your honour, I was uncomfortable last night in my bed, and I don't deny but I thought a good deal of the different way I used to spend Holly-eve, and so I got up and dressed myself, and as it was a fine night I wandered down to the near churchyard, and at the far corner of the wall I saw a policeman looking over it; and as I had a small acquaintance with him I asked him what he was looking at, and he told me he had been for ever so long watching a young woman who kept going round and round the churchyard. And then I looked over, little thinking who it was; and as the lamp shone on me, she saw me distinctly enough, for when she came opposite she screamed, but before the policeman could get over to her she had disappeared."

"Can you tell me what policeman witnessed this?" inquired the magistrate;" because, if Moyna was really in the churchyard at the hour the robbery was committed, and engaged in the foolish superstitions that have been described, there is not even presumptive evidence against her."

"I saw her," said the officer O'Reardon had tumbled over; "I was on duty, your worship, and observed her before this man came and spoke to me. I thought she was crazed at first; but there's no being up to the ways of these wild Hirish. The next time," he added, turning to O'Reardon," that you intend to walk over a man, it would be as well that you pulled the nails out of your brogues."

66

"I feel it my duty to state thus publicly," said Mr. Maberley, who was present, so perfectly convinced am I of Moyna's innocence, that I am quite willing she should remain at my house until Miss Dalrymple's return. We must, however, cure her of her superstition, and inquire into the character of the apparition that distured her midnight walk. The Liverpool churchyards are not, I fear, as safe for those excursions as the Irish ones."

Moyna blushed, and cried, and curtsied, but was too much overpowered by her mingled feelings to speak. Harry remained in court to give his evidence, and felt, notwithstanding his threadbare coat, as if his star had passed the horizon. I hope he was right.

SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES.
BY L. E. L.

What seek I here to gather into words?
The scenes that rise before me as I turn
The pages of old times. A word—a name—
Conjures the past before me, till it grows
More actual than the present: that-I see
But with the common eyes of daily life,
Imperfect and impatient; but the past
Out of imagination works its truth,
And grows distinct with poetry.

I.

PETRARCH'S DREAM.

Rosy as a waking bride

By her royal lover's side,

Flows the Sorgia's haunted tide
Through the laurel grove,-
Through the grove which Petrarch gave,
All that can escape the grave→→→
Fame, and song, and love.

He had left a feverish bed

For the wild flowers at his head,
And the dews the green leaves shed
O'er his charmed sleep:

From his hand had dropp'd the scroll
To which Virgil left his soul

Through long years to keep.
Passion on that cheek had wrought,
Its own paleness had it brought;
Passion marks the lines of thought:
We must feel to think.

Care and toil had flung their shade
Over that bright head, now laid
By the river's brink.

Youth that, like a fever, burns;
Struggle, scorning what it earns;
Knowledge, loathing as it learns ;
Worn and wasted heart!
And a song whose secrets are
In its innermost despair ;-
Such the poet's part!

But what rises to efface

Time's dark shadows from that face?

Doth the heart its image trace

In the morning dream?

Yes; it is its light that shines

Far amid the dusky pines,

By the Sorgia's stream.

Flowers up-springing, bright and sweet, At the pressure of their feet,

As the summer came to greet

Each white waving hand.

Round them kindles the dark air;
Golden with their golden hair,

Glide a lovely band.

Spirits, starry Spirits, they,
That attend the radiant day,
When the freed soul burst the clay
Of its prison wall:
Distant visions they appear;
For we only dream of, here,
Things etherial.

But one glideth gently nigh,
Human love within her eye,-
Love that is too true to die,-

That is heaven's own.

Let the angel's first look dwell
Where the mortal loved so well,
Ere yet life was flown.

To that angel-look was given
All that ever yet from heaven
Purified the earthly leaven
Of a beating heart.

She hath breathed of hope and love,
As they warm the world above;-
She must now depart.

Aye, I say that love hath power
On the spirit's dying hour,
Sharing its immortal dower,
Mastering its doom:

For that fair and mystic dream
By the Sorgia's hallow'd stream,
Kindled from the tomb.

II.

THE BANQUET OF ASPASIA AND PERICLES.

Waken'd by the small white fingers,
Which its chords obey,

On the air the music lingers

Of a low and languid lay

From a soft Ionian lyre ;—

Purple curtains hang the walls,
And the dying daylight falls

O'er the marble pedestals

Of the pillars that aspire,
In honour of Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.

There are statues white and solemn,
Olden gods are they;

And the wreath'd Corinthian column
Guardeth their array.

Lovely that acanthus wreath,

Drooping round the graceful girth :
All the fairest things of earth,
Art's creations have their birth-
Still from love and death.
They are gather'd for Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.

There are gold and silver vases
Where carved victories shine;
While within the sunlight blazes
Of the fragrant Teian wine,
Or the sunny Cyprian isle.
From the garlands on each brow
Take they early roses now;
And each rose-leaf bears a vow,

As they pledge the radiant smile
Of the beautiful Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.

With the spoils of nations splendid
Is that stately feast;

By her youthful slaves attended-
Beauties from the East,

With their large black dewy eyes.

Though their dark hair sweeps the ground,

Every heavy tress is wound

With the white sea-pearl around;

For no queen in Persia vies

With the proud Aspasia,

The bright Athenian bride.

One hath caught mine eye-the fairest ; 'Tis a Theban girl:

Though a downcast look thou wearest,

And nor flower nor pearl

Winds thy auburn hair among:

With a white, unsandall'd foot,

Leaning languid on thy lute,

Weareth thy soft lip, though mute,

Smiles yet sadder than thy song.
Can grief come nigh Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride?

On an ivory couch reclining
Doth the bride appear;

In her eyes the light is shining,

For her chief is near ;

And her smile grows bright to gaze

On the stately Pericles,

Lord of the Athenian seas,

And of Greece's destinies.

Glorious, in those ancient days,

Was the lover of Aspasia,

The bright Athenian bride.

Round her small head, perfume-breathing

Was a myrtle stem,

Fitter for her bright hair's wreathing

Than or gold or gem;

For the myrtle breathes of love.

O'er her cheek, so purely white,

From her dark eyes came such light

As is, on a summer night,

With the moon above.

Fair as moonlight was Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.

These fair visions have departed,
Like a poet's dream,

Leaving us pale and faint-hearted
By life's common stream,

Whence all lovelier light hath fled.

Not so they have left behind
Memory to the kindling mind,
With bright fantasies combined.
Still the poet's dream is fed
By the beauty of Aspasia,
The bright Athenian bride.

III.

RIENZI SHOWING NINA THE TOMB OF HIS BROTHER.

It was hidden in a wild wood
Of the larch and pine;

It had been unto his childhood
Solitude and shrine,-

There he dream'd the hours away.
On the boughs the wood-dove hover'd,
With her mournful song;

And the ground with moss was cover'd,
Where a small brook danced along
Like a fairy child at play.

Thither did Rienzi bring

The loved and lovely one;

There was the stately Nina woo'd,

There was she won.

Reeds and water-flags were growing

By the green morass;

While the fresh wild flowers were blowing

In the pleasant grass,

Cool, and sweet, and very fair.

Though the wild wind planted them

With a careless wing,

Yet kind Nature granted them

All the gifts of Spring.

Nought they needed human care.

They grew lovelier in the looks

Of that lovely one;

While the Roman maid was woo'd,

While she was won.

In the pines, a soft bewailing
Stirr'd the fringed leaves,
Like a lute whose song is failing,
Loving, while it grieves
So to die upon the wind.

Ivy garlanded the laurel,
Drooping mournfully;
Poet-warrior-read the moral
Of the victor's tree,

Lonely still amid its kind!