other was taken from the lonely plant which grows amid the withering airs of the desart. Milton might literally be said to ride the storm, serene and contemplative in the most agitating scenes, whilst the lightening flashes around him, and the thunder rolls at his feet. The uniform expression of his countenance, like that of the archangel, is solemn and sublime. But Dante is borne impetuously forward, by the living energy of his own emotions, his countenance appears to darken and brighten under the influence of passion, like the changing firmament, and the springs of his genius, like the wheels of Ezekiel's chariot, are instinct with life.

A WINTER'S EVENING TALE.

A December evening was falling fast, when a traveller left the Inn of Kilworth, to pursue his journey by moonlight over the solitary mountains which divide the Counties of Cork and Tipperary. He was a man of middle age, of an athletic frame, silent and reserved in his manner, and of a singularly stern and forbidding aspect. He was apparently a stranger in the country, and his whole appearance bespoke him a traveller, rather for business, than for pleasure. He was wrapped in a large horseman's cloak, well mounted on a powerful black horse, and carried pistols in his holsters.

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As he was leaving the village, his horse cast a shoe, which compelled him to halt at a neighbouring forge. The smith was a man little liked by his neighbours, and many strange reports respecting his former avocations were afloat in the country.-The traveller and he took but little notice of each other until the horse was shod; but when the smith was receiving payment, a large scar on the stranger's right hand attracted his attention.He raised his eyes to his face with an expression of surprise, but the instant he caught the dark stern visage of the traveller, bronzed by the ruddy light of the forge, the blood fled from his cheek, and, with a half smothered cry of horror, he dropped the money on the ground.-The eyes of the stranger literally flashed fire, and his dusky form half seen by the flickering light, seemed to dilate with very rage.-Hush! said he, in a deep voice, that the smith recognized right well,--and there was dead silenceThe smith looked fearfully round as if he thought the very walls had ears."Oh! blessed Virgin" said he, in a low voice, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, "are you come for me at last," ogh and its little them that's watching for you in the mountains, know who the're waiting for,"-" and must I go wid you?"--" Is not the hour come!" said the stranger sternly. "Sure enough," said the smith with a groan," you'll be met on the road” added he, in a lower voice, “for as I tould you, there's them waiting that thinks to stop you-and the loading of your pistols is drawn--and the road over the mountain is set."-The brow of the stranger grew dark as midnight, but he spoke not a word. He drew the pistols from the holsters. The smith had told him truth, the charge was gone but the priming was untouched. The smith watched him with an anxious eye as he turned towards the fire, and loaded them again. A faint and ghastly smile curled his lip for a moment, contrasting strangely with the deep gloom of his brow. The very heart of the smith died within him. The stranger replaced his pistols, and walking slowly to the door of the hut, looked forth into the night. It was dark and gloomy-the moon had not yet arisen the clouds were gathering in shapeless and heavy masses, above the tops of the lofty mountains, and the wind came along, with that moaning, melancholy sound, which forebodes a coming storm. "In an hour" said he, the moon will rise; "'till then I will remain here, and at twelve to-night, you will see me again."-So saying he closed the door, fastened his horse to the wall, and wrapping himself in his cloak, sat down on a stone bench opposite the fire.-The smith took his seat at some distance, and both relapsed into perfect silence.

At length the moon appeared struggling with the huge and shadowy

masses of clouds, that racked along the sky. The stranger again looked forth into the night. Then turning his horse, drew the girths, and led him to the door. The smith watched him in silence. The stranger, before he mounted again, slowly turned towards him, fixing his eyes upon him with the strange expression I have already noticed. The wretched smith hid his face with his hands, nor did he stir until the sound of the horse-tramp, as it rang bollowly on the frosty ground, assured him that the stranger was gone. He watched him as long as he was in sight,-his tall dark figure still taller and darker in the moonlight, as his horse strode at a rapid pace up the mountain road. At length he disappeared in the distance, and the smith retumed to his hut. He closed and barred the door, accumulating every possible fastening, with the quick and nervous haste of one under the influence of overpowering fear; but suddenly stopping-" ogh its all no use," said he, "its all no use, and sure I know it," "I might as well strive and keep out the wind;" and with that, he sat, or rather sank down on the seat he had left.

The traveller was pursuing his road, and had reached the top of the mountain. He reined his horse, and cast his eyes around. The prospect was dreary and wild to the last degree. A wide extent of barren and uninhabited bog, lay on either side of the road, its monotonous uniformity, only broken by patches of snow, or piles of rocks. Lofty mountains of the same cheerless and dreary character occupied the distance, and the only vestige of human habitation, was a ruined and roofless cabin, which stood by the roadside, at a short distance; its low black walls scarcely distinguishable, even in the moonlight, from the bog, of which they once had been a part. The traveller drew his right-hand pistol from his holster, cocked it, and gathering up the reins, proceeded at a slow pace, keeping a watchful eye on the ruined hut, yet not so as to attract attention. As he passed the door, a man sprang into the road. He had a blunderbuss in his hand, but while he was actually in the spring, the traveller laid him dead at his feet. He replaced his pistol, and deliberately alighted from his horse.-The moon had broken from the clouds, and was shining bright and clear. He turned the dead man on his back- the pale clear light fell full upon his face.— His eyes were fixed and staring, and though he had passed without a groan, the parting pang had left an horrible expression on his livid features.The stranger bent over his victim, his dusky form and sallow brow, yet darker in the shade.-He gazed on him intently; and as he looked, he laughed, until the very rocks rang back the echo of his ghastly mirth. He left the dead man where he lay, and remounting his horse returned to Kilworth. It was almost twelve when he reached the inn. He rapped loudly and long. At length the door opened-"Where is your master?" said he to the waiter. "In bed, sir, these two hours."-" Call him" said the stranger, "I must see him immediately."-There was something of working in his tone, as he spoke."I durst not, sir," said the waiter, evidently disconcerted"I could not rouse him now for any one."-" You are right, friend," said the stranger, "it will take a louder voice than your's to waken him now, but if you have a mind to try your skill, you will find him on the top of yonder mountain. "So saying, he turned his horse from the door, leaving the waiter rooted to the spot. -Of the rest of that fatal night, nothing is known. In the morning the body was found, and a warrant was issued for the apprehension of the smith. But his forge was closed, his cabin deserted, and he was heard of in that country no more.-I, myself have seen that

ill-omened forge. It is in ruins. Its situation is wild and solitary in the extreme: The grey-headed peasant who pointed it out, told me the singular story I have just related.--He remembered well the very night. When he had done, he lowered his voice, and swore by the Holy Cross, that he himself had often heard, when passing that spot, in the deep gloom of a Winter night, the clang of sledge and anvil sounding from the ruined forge.

LE BOUQUET.

Come to my bowers-I'll cull for thee,
The fairest things that eye can see,
All those whose beauty charms the fair,
And those whose sweetness scents the air;
First, from my fragrant myrtle-grove
The leaves of truth, and flowers of love-
The Hyacinth in sculptured pride,

And that which crowns the youthful bride;
The orange-bud, whose breath exhales
A perfume rich as Indian gales;
Auriculas, both rich and rare,

And golden globes, and snowdrops fair;
And dark bright flowers of foreign dye
Glowing in nature's revelry.—

The sunflower, to her lover true,

Convolvulus with robe of blue;

And flinging round her young perfume

Richly to solitude and gloom,

The tender "beauty of the night,"

And all that's young and sweet and bright.—
And violets with their deep blue eyes,

And she, the queen of all the flowers,

Who wreathes our brows, and decks our bowers,
Whose odour never dies:-

And lilies in their silver light,

Like royal maids with bosoms white;

And that young meek one of the vale,

That droops its bells so slight and pale,
And shrinks within the leaves' dark green,
As some fair girl, who pines unseen.—
And drooping flowers that look like grief;
The sweet briar with its wilding leaf,
And mignionette, whose odours fly
As sweet and pure as fairy's sigh;
And tulips with their thousand dyes,
Anemonies, like evening skies,
Blue, crimson, purple, richly drest,
Looking like butterflies at rest.—

Oh, come thea to my gay parterre,
For Spring has flung her riches there;
It looks as if the King of flowers
Had slept some night within my bowels.

JEPHTAS' DAUGHTER.

The tears upon her cheek were dried,
Her song of mourning ceased to swell,
And its last cadence gently died,

In that dark word of grief-farewell;
The virgin clung in fond embrace,
But on her calm and saintly brow,
No earthly feeling left a trace,

For all was sacred triumph now.

Like some sweet flower, on whose pale bloom,
The shadowing rain-drops lightly fade,
When trembling from the tempest's gloom,
It smiles in Summer-pride arrayed.
'Twas thus the victim, on whose head,
The garland shone,-each grief beguiled,

As brighter hopes their glory shed,—

In her pale beauty, sweetly smiled.

She kissed her father's hand, which shook
With pain above her bosom's swell;
She fixed above her steadfast look,

And like the wounded dove she fell. 'Twere vain to tell the joy disclosed,

In her dark eye;—the triumph sweet, Ere yet the trembling lid had closed,

And her young heart had ceased to beat.

Then rose a wild and deep lament,

From those who clasped her hands in death,

But he who madly o'er her bent,

Could he lament-could he forget?

They wailed by Galilee's dark strand,

O'er Sion's hill, and Jordan's water,

And many a year thro' Judah's land,

They mourned the fate of Jephta's daughter.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

Thou lov'st another-and we part,
Another passion lights thy heart-

Oh, speak not,-look not such a tale again,
Yet let me doubt that I must love in vain.

Though anxious fears may wear away
My sinking form by slow decay,
Still I can live,-and dread the worst:
In certainty, my heart would burst.