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V.

Mangled and bleeding at each pore, denied the bliss to die,
Coiled round that dread machine he lies, in fearful agony;
Three days exposed to sun and storm, and bleaching in the blast,
Those ghastly limbs have struggled there; but this will be the last.

VI.

Not his the crime for which he writhes,—not his the fatal dart
Launched with unerring aim that lodged in Albert's tyrant heart;
He would have braved him in the field, defied him in his might,
Not tracked his lone defenceless path, with felon shaft to smite.

VII.

He would have pierced him mid his band on Zurich's castle wall,
Or bearded him with grim delight in his own palace hall;
But thus to steal upon his steps in murder's fellest guise
It was a deed his knightly soul could spurn at and despise !

VIII.

His innocence availed him not:—they knew the quenchless hate
He bore that tyrant's iron sway, and dragged him to his fate;
Then stormed his undefended towers, and left of all his train
Of friends and vassels,—kin and kind,—but one to soothe his pain.

IX.

Yet not in pity was SHE spared from that remorseless slaughter,
'Twas but to glut the hate refined of Austria's vengeful daughter;
But ere their purpose was complete, she glided from their power,
And flew to lighten with her prayers, her Rodolph's parting hour!

X.

And bending o'er her dying lord, that glorious woman stands
With pallid brow, dishevelled hair, and clasped, beseeching hands;~~~~
The mercy that's denied on earth, she craves from one above,
And, sure, if mortal prayers avail, her's will not bootless prove!

XI.

They brained her babe before her eyes, even smiling in its sleep ;—

They wrenched her Rodolph from her arms,—she shrieked, but did not weep ; She heard the sentence of their hate, yet still she shed no tear ;

They marred her beauty with their chains ;—she burst them and is here!

XII.

See! with what tender care she wipes the death-damps from his brow,
Moistens his parched and pallid lips, and spreads her mantle now,
To shield his torn and languid limbs from that fierce, blistering sun,
And shade his failing sight from beams 'twould vainly strive to shun.

XIII.

Awed by such more than mortal love the ruffian slaves around,
Even to the horrid man of death are silent and spell-bound:-
They dare not for their souls approach what to their wondering eyes,
Seems like some radiant seraph form descended from the skies!

XIV.

Well may they deem her not of earth, for earth hath seldom seen
Such holy love, such fervid faith-so suffering yet serene!
But when the cloud of blight descends of darkness and despair,
Upon the trusted head and heart what will not woman dare?

XV.

The scene is all deserted now;-that martyr's pangs no more,
And she who solaced him till death-her watch of life is o'er;
For when her last sad hope was gone, her stricken heart to hide,
She sought a covert from her foes-wrenched out the dart-and died.

W.

LEAVES FROM A JOURNAL.

No. II.

It should seem that the leading feature of the French character is love of ridicule, however disguised beneath professions of zeal for your service, protestations of consideration or sympathy, in short, in whatever embroidered cloak the Frenchman mantles his propensity, there be assured it lurks; and the English wight, especially, (whether he come in contact with the French peer or the French peasant,) may content himself with the certainty of contributing his portion of nutriment to this ever craving appetite. In an encounter of small wit, our neighbours have invariably the advantage.

One summer evening, as we were winding our way through the grass grown streets of Fontainbleau, intending to enjoy a walk in the skirts of its beautiful forest, my shawl was nearly pulled off by the claws of a miserable kitten, which clung to me with the most piteous cries; I took it up; it was a mere skeleton, and it was not because I have any particular affection for the feline race, but that it is painful to see any living creature in a state of torture, more especially when the sufferer makes so direct and imperative appeal to one's humanity as this little kitten did to mine, that I regarded the wretched mass of skin and bones I held in my hand with a sensation of real distress, in which my companions fully participated, and we resolved to indulge ourselves with the luxury of seeing the animal eat. In the fulfilment of this purpose, we valiantly exposed ourselves to a brisk fire of that peculiar species of impertinence in which the French excel. proached a committee of ancient gossips, who had ranged themselves

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in a line under a tailor's shop-board, and to whom Les Angloises were already, evidently enough, the objects of discussion and amusement, and held up some pence, requesting one of them would take the trouble to procure the kitten some meat, promising to reward her compliance; one of the old ladies instantly departed on the mission, but her associates, flanked by the tailors, now began to pour in a round of persiflage One of them expatiated on the beauty of the creature which Mesdames had selected for their protegée; another affected the grimace of sympathy, and half-closing her eyes and keeping her hand to her bosom, cried, "La pauvre miserable! Ah bon Dieu! Cela me fait` mal au Cœur." A child belonging to the tailor came forth with its supper of smoking bread and milk in its hand, and humanely invited poor famished pussy to partake, but starved as it was, pussy shook her whiskers, and recoiled from the scalding food-"Ah! voila donc!" cried one of the tailors, " Comme l'intelligencc de cet animal est admirable! Elle sait Choisir Cela n'accorde pas avec ses idées." It really required patience and courage to stand the brunt of this small shot; yet we held our ground heroically, albeit we were right glad to see our old messenger return with some raw meat from a butcher's stall, and no less so was the poor kitten, who sprang upon the woman with all the keenness of famine. It was now observed, with a very demure look, that it was a thousand pities the cat had so little command of her appetite, as it could not but justify the apprehension of her being attacked during the night by a very severe fit of indigestion. All this quizzing was performed with the utmost gravity, and in a style worthy professors of the art;-we, meanwhile, affecting carelessness, or utter ignorance of their meaning, and smothering as well as we might our internal consciousness, resolved that to stand for a quarter of an hour en butte to the success and ridicule of our fellow-creatures, be they of whatever class, country, or condition, is not a pleasant predicament; and yet I have since felt indebted to the poor kitten for the opportunity she afforded me of making my observations on the peculiar humour of a people. The French always loved ridicule, but, I believe that before the Revolution the propensity was more tempered by the alleged national politeness; at present, amongst the lower classes at least, it partakes of a bitter, acrimonious spirit.

It is but candour to acknowledge, that in all probability, the anecdote of the cat might have exposed us to the animadversions of honest John Bull himself; but instead of admiring the discrimination of a kitten's ideas, or anticipating for it an indigestion, he would have pitched his song to a minor key, and it would have run somewhat in the following strain : "Aye! Who thanks them for making such a fuss about a bit of a beast! I warrant if it was a Christian it might starve and welcome." Which charitable conclusion would be grunted forth under the sanction of a countenance as gruff as the sentiment. Is it national prejudice that makes me a thousand times prefer the blunt sulkiness of the latter to the refinement of Gallic persiflage.

H.

SONNETS TO CAPTAIN PARRY.

BY THE REV. W. B. CLARKE.

I.

WHEN dark December in his robe of snow,
And with his storms was frequent at our gate;
When all the fields were drear and desolate,
And wrapped in ice each mountains silvery brow;
We thought on thee, brave Parry! who didst go
To climes of cold, and realms intemperate;
To lands where winter holds supreme his seat;
And Death rides victor on all winds that blow.

Aye! whilst we piled our Christmas faggot high,
And gathered round its blaze, we thought on thee
Housed in thy vessel, 'neath a Polar sky,

And like a rock moored in a solid sea.

We blessed our home and hearth, and prayed that He Who guards our cottage roof might thy protection be.

II.

And when again the snow-drop slyly peeped

From the white curtain which was 'round the earth;
Whilst nature wakened to a second birth,
And with its loosened wave the streamlet creeped
Down the gay meads that wintry floods had steeped,
In one deep deluge, whilst with voice of mirth
The budding forest rang, and on the hearth
No more the turf or customed log we heaped:

Even then a thought returned of thee afar,
A prisoner still in that relentless spot;
And when we gazed upon the polar star,
The only solace in thy bitter lot,

We fondly deemed, that it to thee might bear

The grateful thoughts of hope that made thy fate our care.

3.

The summer came, and in our garden bowers

Hung bloom and fruitage, whilst the voice of song
Thrilled throngh their branches, and the merry throng

Of mirthful insects revelled 'mid the flowers.
Meanwhile, thou passed'st thy unsocial hours
In toilsome service, to be driv'n ere long

To harsher perils. Yet thy mind was strong
In him who guides when disappointment lowers;

And when the south-wind wantoned in thy sails,
Breathing of climes more genial, thou, in thought
Didst wander backward to those lovely dales

That nursed thy valor; till thy spirit caught
Some glimpse of hope, amidst the darksome night,
That hung around thee in thy pale affright!

IV.

But gloom and pain no terror have for him

Who looks beyond the bound of human things;
Whose spirit loves the task that duty brings,
His lamps in darkness never can be dim :
Lo, armed 'gainst fate, didst thou thy vessel trim,
Fearless as when the daring eagle springs
To meet the thunder on unwearied wings,
And through the cloudy sea of storms to swim.

Once more thy foot is on old England's shore,
Once more her green hills open on thy view,
Once more, thy perils and thy hardships o'er,
Thy welcome presence shall our joy renew;

From thousand tongues the summons glad goes forth,
That greets the dauntless pilot of the North!

East Bergholt, October 1823.

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