Her oars are manned, her sails are trim, Whom to relenting he hath won, They wait; the Prince is on the beach, To make his friends a friendly speech, "Men of Corcyra, fare ye well! "I thank you more than words can tell"Your debtor I will ever be "For this your duteous courtesy, "Your past compassion for my woe, "That ye attempt not to detain "Whose ancient owners now require "Ladon hath told you, that the king "Determines on relinquishing "All, save this island, unto me; "And conscious that I cannot be "The partner of his blood-stained halls, "He yields his sceptre, and recalls "Me to my rightful dwelling, "Resolved to spend his latter years "We will-we will!" uprose the cry, Big were the sweat-drops that bedewed His hand was on a naked glaive, His glance was like a flame; "Make way, make way-I come to save "My Father-land from shame." Then with a blow of eager wrath He strikes the Prince to death Alas! the spent waves' lazy froth "Better this blow so fierce and dire, "So foully murderous, "Than that this youth's accursed sire "Should lord it over us." It is hoped that, if there be such a thing as a reader, he will have recognised in these rhymes, a broken outline of the singular story told by Herodotus. III. 50-53. THE BROTHER AND SISTER. -Of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow in the bosom of the earth.-King Richard II. Certainly there was something grand about the burial of Charlemagne. Above him there was but a large slab with the two words, "Carolus Magnus," engraved upon it. But in the vault below, sat the great king Karl, embalmed with marvellous art, dressed in his royal robes, crowned with his imperial crown, seated on his throne, with his sceptre in his mighty hand, as though yet alive, still influencing the destinies of his vast empire. How must the awful glare of those stony eyes have appalled the souls of the unholy intruders upon his rest! How awful! yet how mean! He sat upon his kingly throne, and the vilest of the people could spoil him of his gems. I once knew a man, who always put me in mind of the grave of Charlemagne. He was all simplicity and meekness without-all pride and scorn within. He killed his sister-he died himself broken-hearted. He had a heart, but no one knew it, till it proved its existence by destroying him. Some say he died of a decline. It is true-but his decline began from his sister's death-bed. It is a melancholy tale, but one if I can tell it right, not without an use. It has its instruction, perhaps even its comfort. Henry Burton was the only son of a rich Staffordshire gentleman, whose wife died ten years after he was born in giving birth to a daughter. Mr. Burton's temper was soured by this event, and he became a harsh and tyrannical father, but he recognised the great abilities of his son, and rejoiced in his successful career at Eton and Cambridge. Every thing that he thought it worth his while to try for, fell easily to his lot; and soon after he left Cambridge, his father died, leaving him with a splendid fortune, and guardian to his sister. From this event, may, I think, be dated the rise of his extraordinary tone of mind. Hitherto he had been remarkable for nothing beyond extreme simplicity, almost timidity of manner; for bearing his academical distinction with singular equanimity; meek and lowly was he in his manners, his voice had a plaintive sweetness, his person was small, but well proportioned and active, his face was classically perfect, with all the beauty of expression, and the fire of genius and intellect, which such countenances sometimes lack. His popularity was unbounded, but it was a popularity of a peculiar kind. He had no friends. No one knew him well. Why, none could tell, but so it was, that no human creature had ever succeeded in becoming intimate with him. Soon after he had left Cambridge I met him by chance one day in London; "Ah! Churchill," he said; "I did not know you were in town. Will you dine with me tomorrow? You will meet no one but my sister, and your friend Crawford." I gladly assented, and he passed on. The next day I went, and found no one but the persons he had mentioned, and a most delightful evening we spent together. Crawford, a clever, handsome young man was a great friend of mine. Burton's conversational abilities were unrivalled. The vast grasp of his mind could take in little as well as great things. The smallest remark, the most trifling expression, received from him a point and a grace. The melody of his voice, and the beauty of his countenance threw a charm around every thing he said. He was always gentle, but never warm. He rarely smiled, and when he did, though his lips might move, his eyes kept their keen cold look, as when a flaw of wind steals over a lake, the depths remain unconscious, and much even of the surface untroubled. His sister was the fourth who contributed to the evening's delight. Words fail me when I come to picture Helen Burton. Like her brother's, the character of her beauty was completeness and perfection. But for her soft grey eyes, she might have been thought too statuesque. There was nothing to find fault with. Every proportion was just, and refined, and delicate. So far Henry and Helen were alike. But her beaming smile, her buoyant step, her frank, yet sensitive and tender manners, shewed that she possessed besides her beauty, a warm, loving, womanly heart. Poor, poor Helen! I said that the evening was delightful, but to me chiefly |