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istence remained. For nobody could ever persuade him that he had not been for three months Mr. BallicaĪli Chaw, of Ballicalli Park, in the county of Northumberland, and he never would marry for fear of those three months of his life being rediscovered, and Lady Kitty Ballicalli prosecuting him for bigamy.
O’er the gorgeous room a luxurious gloom,
Like the glow of a summer's eve, hung;
The fountain its coolness flung ;
And on gem-studded carpets around
To their instruments' eloquent sound;
With coffers of coin by his side,
Till each in his gratitude cried,
An embassage audience craves;
• We will look on the face of our slaves !"
Lead the messenger Lords of the Greek.
But they bow to the Arab right meek ;
They ask if he audience bestow.
Have ye brought us the tribute you owe ?
This message our monarch doth send :
She could ill with thy pieces contend;
Holds her power and place on the board :
And no longer he owns thee for lord.
This to tell thee, O King of the World,
And a bundle of sword.blades he hurl'd
As the Caliph glared round on the foe-
Clove the bundle of falchions right through.
Ere the sun that now sets rise again,
With many a myriad of men.
But by Allah, and Abram our sire,
Writ in bloodshed, and famine and fire !
As the sun dropt in night by the murky torch-light,
There was gathering of horse and of man:
And the mighty of far Khorasan-
Round the Prophet's green banner they crowd,
Like the locusts' calamitous cloud;
Is forbidden, however assail'd.
And he was that instant impaled
On o'er valley and hill, river, plain, onwards still,
Fleet and fell as the desert-wind, on!
Every vestige of verdure was gone !
With the speed of the wild ass or deer,
Hung for miles like a cloud in their rear.
Till afar booms the ocean's hoarse roar,
Heraclea, that sits by the shore !
There was mirth at its height in thy mansions that night,
Heraclea, that sits by the sea !
And the banquet was wild in its glee !
That night was betrothed to her mate,
And the blood of the Island-kings great.
And with features that pallidly glared,
Rush'd in, and the coming declared
A faint tumult afar, the first breathing of war,
Multitudinous floats on the gale ;
And the trumpet's long desolate wail,
And the murmur of nations of men.
She shall fall, and shall rise not again;
The green grass shall grow in her ways,
And herself be a sign of amaze,
'Tis the dawn of the sun, and the morn-prayer is done,
And the murderous onset is made;
Fearfully plying the blade.
Like the slumberless roll of the sea.
Breathless, in desperate glee ;
The Greek's quenchless fire, the Mussulman's ire
Has hurled over rampart and wall.
Where, fiercest and fellest of all,
But day rose on day, yet Nicephorus grey,
And Theseus, his daughter's betrothed,
Of the Moslem insulted and loathed.
Till the Caliph with rage tore his beard;
An oath which the boldest ev'n fear'd.
And picked for the onslaught a few.
But, however, young Theseus they slew,
There was anguish and bitterest grief.
Though the stunn'd heart refused its belief;
Striking every one breathless with fear.
Thou art young to be laid on the bier."
In an ecstasy haggard of woe,
And fitful her lips mutter low
The distraction of grief cast aside,
Ay, and, marry, right terribly plied.
And nerved with a giant-like power,
Where she does but appear the foe cower.
Till the ditch is choked up with the dead.
Made a dreadful repast that night as they fed
Retrieved the next morning their might ;
Had proclaimed through the camp in the night,
The city that bearded their power,
And ten thousand zecchines as her dower.
Like lions, with long hunger wild.
And Nicephorus bold, and his child,
When before him Nicephorus came,
Thou'rt as bold as unskilled in the game.
Now, Infidel, say, wherefore should I not slay
The wretch that my vengeance hath sought ?"
Give me drink.” At his bidding 'tis brought ;
“ Thou art safe till the goblet be quaffed !"
Dashed down on the pavement the draught,
So he granted the captive his life,
To the warrior who won her in strife ;
She would die ere her hand should be given,
Such a foe to her house and to Heaven.
But, resolute, spite of their power,
And her father went mad from that hour.
G. E. INMAN.
The streets of Paris after midnight are, at best, no very pleasant quarters ; but on the 15th of last February they were even less agreeable than usual. It was a most awful night. The fierce black firmament whooped and grinned ghastfully as it spat its lightning over the earth, and the wind scampered along, raving like a mad thing. Not a sound reigned in the deserted streets saving the roar of the contending elements. At one time the ear caught only the sputtering of the rain against the window-panes; at another, this was stifled in the wild howl of the blast ; and anon nothing was heard but the deafening thunder crashing through the skies, loud, startling, and awful as the dread peal of the last trump.
Late on this terrible night, in the antiquated salon of an ancient mansion in the Faubourg St. Germain, sat an old man, who by his looks numbered some three-score years and odd. The few hairs which the meddling fingers of Time had left unplucked on his head were hoary with the frost of age; while in his face the same busy hand, or the rougher one of Care, had scored many a deep and sorrowful wrinkle. It was evident by the stripes of riband decorating his coat that he was one of no mean rank in his country. A book lay open on the table before him, but matter of a more important and less pleasing character than its pages appeared to engross his mind; for his eyes were abstractedly fixed on the fire, his brows
were knitted closely together, his face was half buried in his hands, and occasionally certain indistinct and angry mutterings burst from his lips.
The clock on the mantel-piece, tinkling the hour of four, aroused the old man from his revery. He started wildly from his chair, and rapidly pacing the apartment, exclaimed—“ Four !—four! and he still absent !-Yes! now it must be as I feared. What else could detain him till such an hour ?—and on such a night, too!
Ay! it is too plain--too glaring to be mistaken. He is-0 God! is what I would sooner that he had died than ever lived to be."
The old man stood still, and covered his face with his hands for a while. Presently he again burst forth
“ I have long suspected it. The late hour at which he has returned home for many nights hinted as much to me. And to-night -this terrible night, when all hell appears to have broken loose, and to be rejoicing over his perdition, assures me of the fact. My son ! —my only son!”
And the aged man sank upon the sofa in a paroxysm of despair. His feelings were, however, far too fierce and poignant to allow him to rest.
“ There is but one-one stern and most humiliating way to be pursued to save my boy from toppling headlong down the dread abyss, on whose brink he now stands unconsciously tottering. But it must-ay! and though the heavy task crush me, it shall be done -anything rather than live to look upon my son debased to that basest of all base creatures, a-”
A loud knock at the outer door of the house cut short the old man's speech. His limbs trembled as if palsied, and tottering towards his chair, he exclaimed, in a faint voice, “ 'Tis he! tis he!”
The door of the salon opening ushered into the apartment a youth, rich with the bounty of some twenty summers.
He was evidently the old man's son, and betrayed on entering not a little surprise to find his aged parent occupying the room at such an hour.
“What has made you thus late, Alphonse ?" inquired his father, as he motioned the young man to be seated.
“I was with some friends, sir,” he replied
“Friends !" sarcastically exclaimed the Count. Oh, most goodly friends !-most staunch friends !-most disinterested and infallible friends! I'd stake my life upon their fealty. Wouldn't you, Alphonse ?"
“I do not comprehend you, sir,” said his son.
“Not comprehend me! How should you, boy, when I speak upon so incomprehensible a subject as the friendship of your last night's companions? Come tell me now, good Alphonse, where were you all last night ?"
“I told you before, sir," replied the young man, evidently vexed at being thus doubted, “ at the house of a friend."
“At the house of the devil, sir !” vehemently retorted his father, “where, doubtlessly, you were taught to lie thus unblushingly."
*I lie not," exclaimed the youth.
“Then, sir, if you do not," responded the Count," it is because you have of late become so intimate with the dark fiend that you