as well as distressed her, Sister Ursula hastened to turn the conversation to more general subjects:-"There are a great many sick people hereabouts, Dame Metsis," she said. "There are no less than three, besides your son, in this row-Beken the weaver, Valens the carpenter, and Hans the embroiderer. The two first are sadly poor, and I bring them what relief I can; but Hans is still able to sit up in bed, and we have given him employment."

Employment! What? Oh, tell me, sister, what can he do?" interrupted Quintin.

"He colours engravings for us," replied Ursula; "and although we could wish that they were somewhat better done, yet, in consideration of his industry and his illness, we are not too particular. See, here are some which I have just fetched away from him.”

better than this."

66

Only look, mother; I have succeeded beyond my expectations. Now I shall soon get well!" The aged woman understood nothing of that art, a specimen of which was here exhibited to her; but the beautiful colours delighted her eye, and as her son's work, she viewed it with wondering admiration.

"Shall I hurry with it to Ter Zieken, to show them how well thou art getting on?"

"Not until I have finished some more, mother. Give it me, I want to look at it while I paint the

next."

But surely thou wilt not colour them all exactly alike?"

No, mother dear; but there are many faults in this one which I must try to correct in the others."

The widow was as pleased and happy as if the With these words she reached Quintin some greatest good fortune had befallen her-not exrudely coloured engravings, which he thought-well, for on that point she was no judge, but actly because Quintin had painted the picture fully looked over one by one, and as he came to because he seemed so much better, so much the last, said—“Sister, methinks I could do happier, and looked so much more like himself; nay, she even fancied once or twice he began to hum one of his favourite songs. Every now and then she could not forbear fervently embracing himin her heartfelt joy. Then Quintin would smile and say, "Let me work, mother, that I may improve the faster."

"I fear not. Hans is in daily practice, having to paint the flowers for his embroidery; whereas your trade is altogether different. What can a smith know of painting?"

"Sister Ursula," replied Quintin, raising himself proudly up, "think you that any smith or embroiderer could have finished off the pump in the Glove-market as I did? You will say that is not painting either; but trust me that a son who works for his mother will find very few things beyond his powers. Let me try; something seems to whisper me that I shall succeed in this new endeavour."

"Well, be it so. Here are some engravings. Your mother may accompany me to Ter Zieken, and I will give her the pencils and colours which you will require."

"Go, mother, go!" cried Quintin. "God be praised that I can work again. If I only can succeed, I shall soon be well again, and then thou shalt want for nothing."

When four of the prints were finished, the old woman entreated so earnestly to be allowed to carry them at once to Ter Zieken, that Quintin consented, and off she started as fast as her legs would carry her, nor paused until she reached the convent. Panting for breath, she knocked at the gate, and waited with a beating heart until it was opened.

A decrepid old nun made her appearance at the lattice, and seeing that it was only a poor woman, took her time to open the gate, and then asked, "Well, and what do you want, my good woman?"

"To see Sister Ursula, if you please.”

"She is gone out. Come again to-morrow." And the nun was about to close the gate, but seeing that Frau Metsis did not move, added,

While his mother was gone with the nun, he examined each separate picture, and deter-" What else would you?" mined in himself where such or such a colour would look best, and even fancied the different shades. So busily were his thoughts engaged that the excitement drove the blood to his pallid cheeks, and lighted up his sunken eyes. The prints were coarse and ill-executed-that he could see plainly enough; for he had often lingered over drawings, and derived the idea of much of his ornamental smith's work from designs; but he fancied how he could improve and remedy all that was wanting by the colours.

The widow drew the drawings from beneath her cloak, and said, "Will you be so kind as to deliver these to Sister Ursula, and tell her that they are those Quintin Metsis the smith has painted?"

He undressed and got into bed, and on his mother's return, half sitting, half reclining, began to paint, having the prints before him on a square piece of board. His mother anxiously watched each movement of the brush, longing to behold the result of his endeavours. His progress was but slow at first, and yet in the course of an hour or so he had coloured one print with rich and tasteful hues, and delightedly exclaimed,

The nun turned them over with disapproving looks; words were not requisite to communicate her opinion to the anxious mother, who was so eagerly watching her sour countenance; but she spoke after having examined the four, one after the other, "My God! how hideous these pictures are-absolutely disgusting! I would not have them in my prayer-book for all the world."

"Are they not well done, sister?" said the poor mother humbly.

"Wel! It is perfectly shocking to paint pictures thus. I shall not get them out of my eyes this many a day. Well,' indeed!”

With a heavy heart did the widow return to her dwelling. What should she say to her son?

Must she crush all his bright hopes, all his pre-, sent happiness, and plunge him again in sadness and despair? Or should she allow him to work and hope on at least until Sister Ursula came again? She resolved upon the latter course, and prayed for strength to restrain her own tears, and appear as cheerful as she had been when she quitted him a short time since so proudly.

But all this time the poor woman was grieving herself very unnecessarily; she had misunderstood the exclamations of the old nun. The prints Quintin had painted pourtrayed chiefly sick and leprous, and plague-stricken beings, and the young smith had, by his judicious selection of colours and shades, rendered each scene so vivid and so painfully natural that the nun had shuddered as she gazed upon them, and it was the truthfulness of the groups which had drawn from her the expression, "It is perfectly shocking to paint such pictures." All this the mother had not understood, but had taken the words literally, and believed that they were, as they sounded, condemnatory of the talent of her beloved son.

Scarcely had she reached the threshold, when Quintin looked up from his occupation, exclaiming, "Well, mother, and what did they think of my pictures?"

the door, upon which four persons entered the house together. The two foremost were the Abbess of Ter Zieken and the Father Confessor, and behind them followed Sister Ursula and another nun, who carried a large book. All these persons gazed on Quintin, who, pale and faint, leaned back upon his pillows, awaiting the harsh judgment which he expected to hear pronounced upon his work. The abbess, approaching his bed-side, showed him the first of the prints which he had coloured, and inquired in gentle and benevolent tones if he had painted that?

"Yes, Lady Abbess," replied Quintin timidly; "but I trust you will forgive the faults of a novice in the art of painting, and permit me to try again. I shall improve with practice. Forgive my having spoiled these, and let me try again, I pray you, for my poor mother's sake.”

"Spoiled them!" exclaimed the Abbess. "You are too modest, young man; my errand here is to tell you that I have never been more gratified than by those very pictures."

These words came like a clap of thunder upon the young smith; a death-like paleness overspread his countenance; he gasped for breath; joy seemed more fatal in its effects than grief. But this passed away, and, looking up with an expression his mother, exclaiming— of heart-felt joy, he extended his arms towards

"My mother-thou hearest !"

All her resolutions vanished at the contrast his cheerful tones offered to her saddened heart, and her only reply was a burst of tears shed in his arms; unable to speak, she parted back the She heard, understood, and shared his feelhair from his pale forehead, and pressed her lipsings, and threw herself into his arms with murfondly on it, as if she would lead him to find mured expressions of gratitude to God, while the consolation in a mother's love; as if every trial, eyes of the by-standers involuntarily filled with every misfortune, did but serve to increase her tears of emotion. At length the Abbess broke affection, and draw closer those bonds which the silence. united them. Had it not been for the sighs which heaved her bosom, one might have deemed her tears those of joy, and those tender embraces and caresses congratulations; but Quintin felt that they were intended rather as consolations, and to lighten his disappointment, and with a deep sigh he murmured, "Alas! my mother, what will become of us? This hope too has failed!"

"My poor child!" exclaimed the widow, straining him convulsively to her bosom; "do not despair! God has mercifully relieved us this day in our utmost need, and surely that ray of heavenly hope was not sent but to render our darkness more wretched. Grieve not, dear one; when thou wert little, I worked for thee, and we were happy; as I have grown old thou hast repaid me tenfold by thy filial piety and affection; and now, if we must die, at least we have this comfort, we shall die as we have lived, together."

A long embrace followed these words, and a pause, broken only by whispered words of deep affection and fond endearment; their tears flowed silently and relieved their full hearts, and a holy calm was chasing away all earthly emotions, when voices without the door, and the question-" Does Quintin Metsis, the blacksmith, live here?" startled them.

The widow hastily dried her tears and opened

"Quintin Metsis, I have a favour to ask of you."

The widow withdrew herself from her son's embrace, and stood with clasped hands by his side, and the young man replied cheerfully— "Speak, revered lady! I am ready to obey you.'

The Abbess took the book which the nun had hitherto held, and, showing it to Quintin, inquired if he felt willing to paint the prints illustrative of the life and sufferings of our Saviour, which it contained. The young smith modestly replied that he would undertake the task with the utmost pleasure, but that he feared to spoil the valuable work. The commendations, however, of the Abbess and the Confessor at length gave him courage to undertake the commission; and the Abbess prepared to depart as soon as she had received his promise to use his utmost skill and diligence.

Sister Ursula now drew near to the bed, and pressing his hand encouragingly, whispered

"Only go on as you have begun, Quintin, and all will be well. The Abbess is delighted with your first attempts, and cannot cease speaking of them."

And in still lower tones she added

"Be not anxious about anything—your mother shall be well taken care of; so courage, young

man, and, with the blessing of the Saints, all will yet go well."

These last words filled Quintin with immeasurable joy, and, with a look of beaming gratitude, he replied

"I cannot thank you as I ought, as I fain would; but I will ever pray for you, good sister, and my mother's prayers shall blend with

mine."

When the abbess and her party had withdrawn, the widow hastened to close the door after them, and then, returning to her son, threw two pieces of gold upon the missal, crying"Look, my Quintin, the Abbess gave me that for thy paintings. Are we not rich? I will go immediately and buy all those little things which thou requirest to restore thy strength. Now thou wilt soon get well, my son; all our sufferings are at an end, and the former happy days will return."

Quintin was long employed over the book which the Abbess had left him; but when the task was completed, even he himself was astonished at the progress he had made in his new art. His employer was delighted, and a handsome reward repaid him for his skill and for the pains he had taken to render the work valuable. Fresh employment was given to him, and completed to his own satisfaction as well as that of others. But soon his ripening taste and talents rendered the merely mechanical work of colouring engraved prints irksome and tedious; his genius longed for a freer space in which to try its newly-fledged pinions. He began himself to design and draw various subjects, and at each fresh attempt his style became bolder and more truthful, his ideas more fully realized, and his paintings more distinguished by nature, energy, and fulness, as well as delicacy of colouring. "Said I not that a son who works to maintain a beloved mother finds very few things beyond his powers?" said Quintin, one day, while his mother and Sister Ursula were admiring the life-like productions of his pencil. "It was the thought of thy deprivations, my mother, first made me attempt painting; it was the finger of an all-merciful God which guided my hand to success."

It was full ten months before his health was reinstated, and this period of sickness and confinement was spent in pursuing his new art; when again he went abroad, all greeted in him the famed painter.

Poverty spread her black wings, and fled; competence, and then wealth, blessed his exertions. He removed with his mother to a handsome dwelling in one of the best parts of Antwerp, and his love towards that dear parent experienced no diminution. The widow lived to see her son's fame established, and hear him termed an ornament to his age and country, and then breathed her last sigh gratefully and happily in his arms.

Lights gleam from every window; sounds of mirth
And music, which might claim a heavenly birth,
Float thence and mingle with the still night air-
As if sweet spirit-voices whisper'd there:
Within that mansion all is revelry,
And one broad blaze of splendour meets the eye;
And lovely woman's form enchantment lends
To all, and man's less radiant beauty blends
With that bright scene, and over it there rest
Odours as sweet as Araby's the blest.
There is not, sure, amid that glittering crowd,
One heart o'er which there lingers Sorrow's cloud :
Nay, think not so; alas! there's one who feels
All mirth a mockery to the woe that seals
Her heart to happiness; and, though she smile
And mingle in the mazy dance the while,
Her throat is choked with smothered sobs, and she
Is pining still in solitude to be.

The dance is o'er; and to a far lone room,
Where trembling moonbeams only light the gloom,
Blanche steals away; and, where the casement ope's
Upon a quiet lake and wooded slopes,
She seats herself and gazes on that scene—
Calm as her heart in former days had been.
The moonlight streams in silver o'er her brow,
And o'er her cheek-pale as that moonlight now-
Mirrors itself within her large dark eyes,
And on her dazzling neck in envy dies.
How charming is the beauty of her face!
And yet upon it thou canst plainly trace
The touches of a grief that ne'er again
Can banished be when once we've felt its pain.
Where are the roses that should blushing be
Upon this cheek of lily purity?
Where is the sunny smile that dimples round
On hers it is not found;
Young beauty's lip?

From her sweet eyes the light of joy is fled,
For her heart's hopes are withered all and dead;
And on her marble brow there lies a shade,
Where once the halos of young gladness play'd.

*

She was an only child; and never breath'd
One around whom there was more closely wreath'd
Parental love; her slightest wish had power
To sway those fond ones since life's earliest hour;
Yet failed indulgence-worship-flattery,
To change a heart of angel purity.
And many woo'd her; but in vain they strove
To win that heart; it knew not what was love-
Till one there came, and to her inmost soul
His every glance with magic influence stole ;
Her hand would thrill if his it chanced to meet,
And his voice seemed to her as music sweet;
And memory treasured every word he spoke,
And love within her gentle bosom woke.
Nor did she love unsought; her image dwelt
Within his heart-a part of it-and felt
That heart as if, without her, life would be
A joyless space-a term of misery.

All was arranged; for her fond parents smiled
Upon the chosen of their darling child;

And Blanche-sweet Blanche !-was happy. Words
are faint

Her bliss-undimmed by one sad thought-to paint:
She loved with all that deep, undying love,
That triumphs time and change and death above;
That lives for ever, like a thing divine,

Within the breast which once becomes its shrine.
One short week more, and she will stand beside
That lov'd one at the altar, as a bride-
And through Love's magic glass to her appears
A future bright of long and happy years.

Alas! ere shone the bridal morn, despair
And woe, distracting, her fond bosom tear;
For tidings came, dread tidings, which laid low

Her cherish'd hopes and dreams, with one fell blow.
They spoke of her soul's idol; told that he
Unworthy was of that idolatry-

One year was past since first her ears had drunk
Those words, beneath which every joy had sunk;
And though from all the thought had passed away,
This was the first return of that sad day.
Said we from all? No, no-one poor heart still
Too well remembered it; and oh! the thrill
Of pain that memory brought, words cannot paint-
The very soul grew 'neath it sick and faint.
Poor Blanche! They missed her from the revelry,
And marvelled much where she could hidden be;
For each beloved haunt was searched with care,
As vain as anxious, for she was not there.
At length within that distant room they found
The lonely girl; they gathered voiceless round,
Deeming she slept; although so still she lay
They might have ta'en that form for breathless clay.
Her head was pillow'd on her arm; and yet
With tears late shed her marble cheek was wet;
Her eyes were closed; and o'er her shoulders fair,
Like a dark shroud, there fell her raven hair.
They touched her hand; and its most deadly chill
speak-Struck to their hearts a sudden, startling thrill;
They gazed into her face; and something there-
A fixedness-a strange, mysterious air-
Awoke their fears; for though the snowy brow
Was calm as erst, its calmness awed them now;
And though the features still were all serene,
They felt they were not what they late had been.
Ah! from that face the light of life had fled;
That heart, too fond, had broken-she was dead!

Unworthy e'en to touch her hand; his name
And black dishonour, were in truth the same.
She did not shriek, or weep, or faint, when fell
Those words upon her ear; a stony spell
Seemed cast o'er every limb; and lip and cheek,
Were paled to death's dim hue. She could not
Her very breath seemed frozen; and her eye
Grew fixed with tearless gaze on vacancy.
She never saw him more from that sad hour,
For still she lov'd, and would not trust the power-
The strength of her true woman's heart; she felt
In his dear presence each resolve would melt.
Wild as a mountain-torrent burst the tide
Of his despair, and all restraint defied;
For, fallen though the giver, Blanche had won

A love as deep as e'er in bosom shone;
And long he lingered near her; but in vain :

never saw her more-they never met again.

*

Sweet Blanche! so well she school'd her heart's wild

throes,

That many thought the memory of her woes
Was fading fast; she trained her lip to wear

A smile-so oft a covering for despair:

And if at times there would unbidden rise

A tear of burning grief within her eyes,
She suffered not the drop therein to dwell,

VOICES FROM THE SEA-SIDE AND
THE FIELDS.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.
No. III.

"THE FIELDS ARE FULL OF FLOWERS!"

Seek Nature ever! If thy heart within

A sorrow swells, which Reason might reprove,

And hushed the thoughts which called it from its cell. Or holy Purity condemn as sin,

They led her to the festal-room; and she,
With brow unruffled, joined the revelry;
And who could think so bright and fair a one
Possess'd a heart where grief its worst had done?
Ah! little did they know her; life had lost
Its every charm for her, and much it cost
That gentle bosom to preserve unseen

All that now veiled what once had joyous been;
But when the night o'er earth her pall had thrown,
And in her chamber sat sweet Blanche alone,
Her eyes the only wakeful ones around
(Sleep rarely now those snowy eye-lids bound)-
The Etna-feelings smothered in her soul
Would burst forth wildly, spurning all control;
And tears-most bitter tears-throughout the day
Repressed, traced down her cheeks their burning way;
And followed sobs, so deep that thou wouldst think
Beneath them sure her fragile frame must sink :
And she would pace her chamber to and fro,
Impetuously, or sit in silent woe,

With folded hands, fixed eyes, and lips compress'd,
And head bowed down upon her throbbing breast.
Many a time and oft grey daylight crept
On the pale girl, as still she sobbed and wept;

Or Satire mock as undiscerning love-
Then seek the country; in the verdant arms

Of forests fling thyself; while Nature showers
Her fruitful rain around, hush thine alarms-
The Fields are full of Flowers!

Seek Nature always! Mingling with thy blood
If fever or despair display their sign
Upon thy cheek, still, be it understood,

Nature hath balsams in her bounteous mine
For every ail; and he who-as a child

Seeketh its mother's bosom-to the bowers
Fleeth for comfort, meets it, soft and mild-
The Fields are full of Flowers!

Seek Nature fearlessly! her boons are given
To all who love her realms to roam across;
And he who, with a spirit rent and riven,

Turneth to God, will find amidst the moss
Or purple moor a balm of heavenly grace;

For Nature is God's book, which thro' sad hours
The wise will read, till Hope their hearts embrace→→
The Fields are full of Flowers!

Abertawey, South Wales.