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I met its large beseeching eye

Turn'd to mine, as in prayer ;
I follow'd, such was its strange power,

Its circuit through the air.
It led me on-before my path

The tangled branches yield;
It led me on till we had gain'd

The morning's battle field.
The fallen confused, and numberless !

“O grief! it is in vain, My own beloved friend, to seek

For thee amid the slain." Yet paus'd the falcon, where heap'd dead

Spoke thickest of the fray;
There, compass’d by a hostile ring,

Its noble master lay.
None of his band were near, around

Were only foes o'erthrown;
It seem'd as desperate he rushid,

And fought, and fell alone. The helm, with its white plumes, was off;

The silver shield blood-stain'd;
But yet within the red right hand

The broken sword remain'd.
That night I watch'd beside, and kept

The hungry wolves away,
And twice the falcon's beak was dipp'd

In blood of birds of prey. .
The morning rose, another step

With mine was on the plain ; A hermit, who with pious aid

Sought where life might remain. We made De Valence there a grave,

The spot which now he prest;
For shroud he had his blood-stain'd mail-

Such suits the soldier best.
A chestnut-tree grew on the spot;

It was as if he sought,
From the press of surrounding foes,
· Its shelter while he fought.
The grave was dug, a cross was raised,

The prayers were duly said,
While perch'd upon a low-bung bough

The bird moan'd overhead.
We laid the last sod on the grave,

The falcon dropp'd like lead ;
I plac'd it in my breast in vain,

Its gallant life was fled.

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· THE RETURN. The unusual sound of a post-chaise, as its tortured wheels rumbled and floundered over the disjointed pavement of Elmsmere, drew one day the inhabitants of that remote village to their doors and windows. The elderly part of the spectators contented themselves with gazing after it, till some projecting point in the winding and irregular street concealed it from their view ; while the younger fry, that forms so large a proportion of village population, pursued it with shrill cries, and, gathering about the door where it stopped, watched with silent wonder the descent of the single traveller it contained. There was not much in his appearance to excite or to gratify their juvenile curiosity, and after making way for him with the respect due to a man who travels in a post-chaise, they transferred their attention entirely to the vehicle itself. Some of the seniors who had sauntered to the spot to learn what news was stirring in the world, were still less taken with the

stranger's figure, and turned away, muttering somewhat contemptuously—“a return chaise;" but the landlord of the little inn, who had formerly been a corporal of militia, and consequently enjoyed proportionable opportunities of becoming acquainted with genteel life, touched his hat respectfully to the traveller, and opened the door of the parlour with his own hands. The stranger was apparently a man bordering on thirty. He wore a white straw hat, blue jacket and trowsers, and boots. At a little distance he might have been taken for a sailor; but a close observer, in spite of his dress and sunburnt, weather-beaten countenance, would have easily detected, in his erect figure and firm step, the denizen of a less unstable element. The fineness of the materials, too, of which these common habiliments were made, had not escaped the sharp eye of mine host; and the golden opinion brought by that air of gentility he prided himself on being able to discover at a glance, probably received no small weight from the rich heavy-looking silk handkerchief which was tied loosely about the traveller's neck, and the massive gold chain suspended from his watch-pocket. The landlord lingered in the room manoeuvring among common remarks touching the weather and the crops, to edge in some question which might satisfy his curiosity as to the whence and whither of his guest; but the latter, with equal skill, parried every thrust, retorting, in his tarn, with inquiries that seemed naturally to grow out of his opponent's. At last, fairly vanquished in the struggle, the host gave himself up to the will of the conqueror, "and speedily poured forth the whole history of the country-side, as far as it was visible from the parlour window; the traveller only sliding in a word occasionally to direct his course.

“ And the large house, rising among the trees on the brow of the hill-it seems new-some stranger, perhaps ?” said the traveller, inquiringly.

“Aye, aye, strange enough,” replied the landlord ; "on that very spot stood the cottage in which the squire was

born,no squire in those days—but the son of a plain honest man, who died as he lived, poor and friendless. But the son was wiser, in the wisdom of the times, and a sharp, proud, obstinate boy he was from his very birth. When he had put his father below ground, away he set, without a good-bye, or a God bless you, to carry abroad with him into the world,-away he set, alone and pennyless, nobody knew where. New tenants came to the cottage, old fellows died, and young ones grew up; and at length the lost lad returned a man in the prime of life. Who then but he ? The old house was pulled down, and yon palace rose proudly on its ruins; the gentry flocked to see him, and balls and dinners were the order of the day, He is now the very prince of the land, and in not many days, I reckon, will carry up to the grand house, as its mistress and his queen, the best and the loveliest lady within a hundred miles.”

The traveller started, and looked earnestly at the land, lord, as if to inquire without words what farther he had to tell.

“Married,” said he at last, “to-to

“ To Miss Stanley," said the landlord_"heaven bless her, for she is the pride of them all. Her father lives in yon old-looking mansion you may see, farther on than the hall, as they call the grand building, and half concealed by its new-fashioned offices. Her father was once what Mr. Clifford is now, the head of the county; but what with speculation in mines, and losses by bankrupts with whom he had placed his money, he has been sinking and sinking for many years past, and now it is thought hasi much to do to keep up the appearance of his thin and threadbare gentility.”

“Then he, no doubt, is anxious about this match-or does she does Miss Stapley "

“Report goes that her heart does not quite lie to it, and some talk of another love that is in the way, although the lad is dead and gone."

“ Aye,” said the traveller, with a sudden glow, and giving a long sigh, like one who had held his breath for some time, “and so there is a dead lover in the way?”

“Yes," said the landlord; "young Mortimer, the son of our curate, and a fine spark in his day, as people tell, although I knew but little of him myself. Some said he was to have married Miss Stanley; but even half-a-dozen years ago the curate's son was no match for the squire's daughter, for the decay of the Stanleys was then only beginning: and so, after many a promise, I have heard say, and plenty of tears and kisses, the young people separated, once and for ever, as it turned out,-for the lad went into the world to push his fortune, and died in foreign parts."

The traveller shoved his chair from the table, and suddenly catching up his hat, drew it over his brow; then musing for a moment, threw down some money, and telling his entertainer that he would probably return and sleep there that night, went hastily out.

The traveller took the road towards the scene of the landlord's histories, but, though guided more by memory than chance, it was with a good deal of difficulty he hit the point. Half-a-dozen years had wrought many changes even in the physical aspect of the country, and the fields that his foot had been so familiar with when a boy, were now strange land. At length he gained the road, at the place from which the great avenue leading to the hall diverged ; and Mr. Stanley's house, with its gray time-worn front, half-raised out-houses, and neglected pleasure-grounds, stood before him. Here he slackened his pace; the feelings which seemed to have given wings to his speed, now suddenly deserted him, and his burning cheek became cold and pale.—“ And it is for this,” thought he, “I have returned! For her I became an exile and a wanderer; deserted home, parents, every thing—strove, conquered, suffered. I made her the guiding star of my life; every thought was centred in her; my heart was shut even to the voice of friendship, and my eyes closed to the smiles of

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