if my breathing would stop, the moment I enter that horrible vault. Dear mother, tie the rope round my waist my hands want strength-you must support the whole weight of my body. Merciful Allah! my foot slips! Oh, mother, leave me not in the dark !' "The vault was not much deeper than the girl's length; and upon her slipping from one of the projecting stones, the chink of coins scattered by her feet, restored the failing courage of the mother. 6 There, take the basket, child-quick! fill it up with gold,feel for the jewels,-I must not move the lantern. Well done, my love! Another basketful and no more. I would not expose you, my only child, for. yet, the candle is long enough: fear not, it will burn five minutes.... Heavens! the wick begins to float in the melted wax: out, Zuleima!.... the rope, the rope! .... the steps are on this side!" "A faint groan was heard. Zuleima had dropped in a swoon over the remaining gold. At this moment all was dark again: the distracted mother searched for the chasm, but it was closed. She beat the ground with her feet; and her agony became downright madness on hearing the hollow sound returned from below. She now struck the flints of the pavement, till her hands were shapeless with wounds. Lying on the ground a short time, and having for a moment recovered the power of conscious suffering, she heard her daughter repeat the words, 'Mother, dear mother, leave me not in the dark! The thick vault, through which the words were heard, gave voice a heart-freezing, thin, distant, yet silvery tone. Fatima lay one instant motionless on the flints; then raising herself upon her knees, dashed her head, with something like supernatural strength, against the stones. There she was found lifeless in the morning. the "On a certain night in the month of December, the few who, ignorant that the house is haunted, have incautiously been on the spot at midnight, report that Fatima is seen between two black figures, who, in spite of her violent struggles to avoid the place where her daughter is buried alive, force her to sit over the vault, with a basket full of of gold at her feet. The efforts by which she now and then attempts to stop her ears, are supposed to indicate that, for an hour, she is compelled to hear the unfortunate Zuleima crying, Mother, dear mother, leave me not in the dark!" This very pretty story is enough in itself to recommend the Forget me Not. A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR AN BY JAMES MONTGOMERY. I loved thee, daughter of my heart! Thy days, my little one, were few- The eye, the lip, the cheek, the brow, The hands stretch'd forth with gladness, All life, joy, rapture, beauty now, Then dash'd with infant sadness; Till, bright'ning by transition, tears, She sees them still, and still she hears Thy mother's darling treasure? Thy tones of pain or pleasure; Hush'd in a moment on her breast, Life at the well-spring drinking; In rosy slumber sinking. In many a vain vagary, Like still-born babes to perish. Mine perish'd on thine earthly bier → No,-changed to forms more glorious, They flourish'd in a higher sphere, O'er time and death victorious; Yet would these arms have chain'd thee, Sarah, my last, my youngest love, The crown of every other, Though thou art born again above, Then, thou in Heaven and I on earth, May this one hope delight us, That thou wilt hail my second birth, When death shall re-unite us; Where worlds no more can sever, Parent and child for ever. THE LOVER'S LEAP. The Dargle, in the county of Wicklow, has long been celebrated for its wild and romantic beauties. To this chosen retreat the citizens of Dublin repair to regale themselves with a cold dinner, in Grattan's cottage, and to enjoy a rustic dance on "the flowery sod." A steep promontory on the northern side of the glen, commands an extensive view of the beautiful scenery attached to the domains of Lords Powerscourt and Monck. This fearful eminence, which is called the Lover's Leap, is an object of peculiar interest to all young men and maidens, both from its romantic situation, and the melancholy story which has given rise to its name. BEHOLD yon beetling cliff whose brow Is told of that same fearful spot; Her parent's and her husband's pride; And ere its parting beams glanc'd down, They laugh'd and revell'd, till the sun His steps were watched, his way pursued, Borne on the wings of bliss elate, A rash and sudden blow was dash'd; The struggle was for life or death. The weapon pierc'd young William's breast, The murderer then the deed to hide, A mangled corpse. Maria's grief, Was silent, but beyond relief; She kept her maiden widowhood For three sad years-and when at last At last she died-and time roll'd on, Had chas'd the stormy night away, In deep remorse and agony, Since then he'd wander'd round the earth Such is the melancholy tale, ROCKITES-OR, A SCENE IN IRELAND. I HAVE promised, in a former letter, that those gentry should form the subject of one of my "hours" and as fortune (however singular, always fortunate to a literary gossip) has placed it in my power to lay before your readers a scene-quorum pars parva fui-which, I flatter myself, they may not consider uninteresting, I hasten to redeem my pledge. I was sitting quietly in the house of an acquaintance (a county of Limerick gentleman,) about twelve o'clock at noon, on a fine, still, sun-shiny day the good lady of the mansion was busily engaged in preparing luncheon: the master, a quiet, inoffensive, timid kind of man, who by his neutrality during the disturbances had secured himaelf against injury on all sides, was poring with eyes aghast, and a countenance surcharged with expression which he vainly endeavoured to suppress, over the columns of the last Limerick Evening Post, where in all the authenticity of neat long primer, the doings of the last week were recorded, not in the most soothing strain to the self-alarmist, when Pat Cahil, a gentleman who did my friend the honour of officiating as groom of his stables, burst into the chamber, hatless, coatless, and shoeless-his whole frame evidently agitated by the extremity of consternation. It was some time before he could articulate-" Mr. Wardow! there they are all !-gone up to the cross by the forge!" "Who?" exclaimed my friend, endeavouring to preserve an appearance of dignified calmness. "The boys, Sir-the boys! and 'tis thought they're going to do something that's bad, Sir, by the Peppards,* Sir, now the army arn't to the fore.""Where are the military stationed!" I asked. "Och, your honour, there isn't a sodger near to us than Adare; and it's but a poor account you'd have o' the business be the time you'd get there, let alone the road back." The distant report of a shot instantly convinced us that this was but too true. I rushed toward the door, however, rather rudely flinging back my friend, who opposed himself to my exit with the most haggard and woe-begone look of entreaty Ï ever beheld. In a few minutes I reached the hill of Lisnamuck, a place which cut rather a conspicuous figure as a place of rendezvous on the nocturnal occasions of those people, and in some part of which, knowing folks will tell you with * It may be necessary to remark, that this attack on those gentlemen, and their manly resistance, is pure history. a wink and a nod, an old cavern serves as an armoury to the worthy General's forces; but at all events I reached the summit of the hill, and in an instant the scene of battle lay before me. Cappa House, the residence of Mr. Peppard and his two sons, was an elderly-looking edifice, and apparently well calculated to sustain a seige in which musketry were the heaviest modes of assault to be apprehended. It was situated rather on a low ground, with a slope on one side leading to a plain still lower, and surrounded by a lofty wall, the only entrance through which was a small narrow gateway. It fact it had the appearance of a regular little fortress. I afterwards found by the public papers, that the elder Mr. P. was, at the time the Rockite party suddenly came upon the house, outside this gate, and unarmed. On seeing them approach he ran toward it, and closing it after him, made what haste he could along a narrow straight passage which led directly from it to the back-door of the house. This was open. Before he reached it he heard behind him the grating of the blunderbusses against the iron railing as the ruffians poked them through to take a deliberate aim, and he sprung towards the door. It was shut in his face! The alarm had been given in the house. Unconscious of Mr. P.'s absence, and imagining that the assailants had made good their entrance into this inner passage, they slapped to the door, and left him to the mercy of the men without, or rather of their blunderbusses, for these had more than their owners, and contrived to throw their contents harmlessly all around him. Indeed his escape was *almost miraculous. The door, the panels and jams of which were perforated by slugs, so as scarcely to leave a hair's-breadth more than the space necessary for his preservation, was for a considerable time afterwards an object of intense curiosity to numerous visitors. Before the discharge could be renewed, however, he was placed beyond its reach. The aggressors now (and it was just at this juncture the scene presented itself to my sight) retired from the gate, and commenced firing upon the windows. Only con ceive the impression which such a spectacle must have produced on the mind of a stranger, in the deep stillness of a summer noontide, and in a populous country where there was something like civilization and civil government talked about! Every man went as coolly and openly to work as if the grey frieze on their backs had been regular, protracted, loyal scarlet, and the resisting housekeepers the proscribed men of the law. Very soon after, and while the clouds of smoke were rolling towards a clump of trees on the south, two of the windows were suddenly thrown up, and as suddenly a reciprocal discharge was commenced from within. The battle now began to wax earnest; the Rockites sent forth a yell with every discharge, which came over the still champagne around with almost a redoubled loudness; and the advantage of the housed warriors became quickly apparent. With all the credit for discipline which the Rockites have achieved, their mode of battle on this occasion was not very imposing: they regularly, after discharging a volley irregularly, ran down the slope a briglia sciolta, and squatted themselves behind a hedge, reloaded, and readvanced to the charge in any thing but marching order. Then, again unburthening their firearms with all the serious silence in the world, they again sent forth a shout, and scampered off to prepare for a new volley. One only among them seemed to despise this pusillanimous procedure: he appeared to command the band, and, in fact, did so, as was afterwards found; but he was only distinguished from the rest by a white handkerchief tied round his hat. He remained during the whole affray in the same spot, but he did not continue to expose himself with impunity : as his party advanced to the charge for the last time, he was in the act of raising his musket, when a ball from one of the windows struck him on the arm, and the piece fell to the ground: he instantly tore the handkerchief from the hat with his left hand, and bound it round the other, accompanying every twist with what Hotspur lusciously calls "a good mouth-filling oath," alter nately directed, in a tremendous roar, to his poltroons, as he called them (for they now evidently showed symptoms of tergiversation, and no very equivocal ones,) and to the bandage, which he did not find ready enough to assist the awkward efforts of the left hand. He was the last who left the scene of fight, and he walked off sulkily down the slope, and across an adjacent bog, trailing his dishonoured musket after him. In a few minutes they all united at the Cross of Lisnamuck, within rather a scanty distance of the spot where I now lay. There were loud voices for a moment, and words of reproach exchanged in their vernacular tongue. Then ensued the silence and sullenness of defeat-disgraceful discomfiture; and they walked down the road in a body towards Curra Grove, the estate of Sir Aubrey De Vere Hunt, which, during the occasional absences of this amiable proprietor, was made a frequent place of meeting by those miserably misguided creatures. They entered the wood, and I lost them. EMMA'S GRAVE. By T. W. KELLY. SLOWLY approach yon yew-tree shade And read the silent record there, Oh! if some swain of pity's mould, Then memory to his generous mind Or further to his fancy trace Perchance more faithful still may tell And o'er her grave mark many a print Of warbling words with soft impress, Where many a rose of richest tint Has blush'd in nature's loveliness. And one more fair than all beside, In peeerless beauty, nature's gem, At fall of eve this rose I viewed, Like Emma, was this short-lived rose, Oh, could the sun's soft glow alone, SONG. AH! could I then, could I then bid thee farewell! No, no, lovely girl, something wrong appears in it, Or why does it sound on my heart like a knell? Why could I not bid thee farewell every minute? Yet, dearest, I could, and how sweet would the sound be Of farewell, if whisper'd to meet thee again; To meet thy pure love in the charms that surround thee, And know that my passion is breath'd not in vain; And, oh! I could love thee, love, though rejected, Like Adam, when sadly from Paradise driven, To gaze on his home he turn'd lone and dejected, So could I gaze on thee, my Eden, my Heaven! And when for some rival your coldness dismisses, My love, as transgressing, annoying and vain, Should I once be refresh'd by the dew of your kisses, I'm sure I should sweetly transgress, dear, again; For in my fond bosom eternally lies A feeling, spell-bound; but I cannot tell whether 'Tis charm'd by the lip, or the star of thine eyes, But I know that 'twill make me adore thee for ever. |