The victor hears it not. When the breath rose that blew that note, he lived-its peal has rung, and his spirit has departed. Heath!-thou shouldst be a soldier's pillow. Moon! let thy cold light this night fall upon him. But morning!-thy soft dews shall tempt him not-the soldier must wake no more. sleeps in the sleep of honour. cause was his country's freedom, and her faith. He is dead! The cross of a Christian knight is on his breast his lips are pressed to his lady's token!-Soldier, farewell! Amulet.

:

Original Poetry.

CONRAD AND ROSINA.
A Serious Tale.

ROSINA was noble, was virtuous,

fair,

and

Earl Rossenwald's favourite child; From an infant he made her his sedulous

care

Not a fault her fair bosom defiled.

Now sinking with honour and age to the

grave,

Rosina alone cheer'd his heart; Ev'ry pleasure and comfort that mortal could crave,

Rosina to him did impart.

And oft, with a tear, the old Earl would exclaim,

'Kind heaven prolong but my life, To see my dear child hold the heart and

the name

Of a man who deserves such a wife.

And left him to horror and care.

Like a madman he wander'd the country round,

His beauteous wife to regain, But, alas! fair Rosina no more could be

found,

Nor the villain who her did detain.

This loss was too much for the father to

bear;

Death frown'd, and too soon seal'd his

doom:

His heart-strings asunder were burst with despair,

And in sorrow he sank to the tomb. In monotonous gloom months and years away roll'd,

But Conrad no more saw his bride; In gaming and drinking he squander'd his gold,

Nor thought on what ill might betide.

At length when his fortune was nearly expir'd,

And poverty star'd in his face, Heart-broken and sad to a cot he retir'd,

And timely escap'd from disgrace.

'Twas one night when the thunder tremendously roll'd,

And blue flames lit the dark atmosphere, That a shriek near his cottage a sufferer

With pity he listen'd, and soon at his door
A voice faint and hollow thus cried,
For the love of the Virgin your aid I
implore,

Oh, do not my cravings deride.

Quick! quick! or I perish-expos'd to the rain,

Far, far have I wander'd in grief;

My limbs totter 'neath me with sickness and pain,

In mercy then lend me relief.'

Saying this, he a poniard plung'd deep in his heart,

And died while repeating her name. Next morning some peasants the cold bodies found,

Lock'd firm in each other's embrace ; And in sorrow their corses were laid in the ground,

While sorrow bedew'd ev'ry face.

Beneath a lone willow the couple repose, As many with pity relate;

the door,

Ab, horror! why answer'd she not to his cries?

Why so awfully still was her breath? Her paleness, alas! what a truth it implies; This stupor, what is it?'tis death!

6 Rosina!" he cried, in a tone of despair; Look on me!-oh, speak, I implore! Rosina!' he utter'd again in her earBut, alas! she existed no more.

Without food had she wander'd by day and by night,

By sorrow depriv'd too of rest; And Providence sent her to Conrad's wild sight,

But to sink and to die on his breast. Long, long, Conrad gaz'd on his cold breathless wife;

Not a tear from his eyelids could burst; Ev'ry prospect was banish'd that charm'd him to life,

And madness his intellects curst.

Rosina! I join ye no more for to part'In distraction did Conrad exclaim.

shows,

And oft drop a tear for their fate. Thos. Prest.

TO MISS S. M. B.

My lips are parch'd with thirst, dear maid,

But, ah! 'tis not for wine;
Their fever'd heat must be allay'd
By kisses, soft as thine.

The soft, the sweet ambrosial dew,
That dwells upon thy lip,

So ripe and tempting to the view,
"Tis that they fain would sip.

Say, what were wine compar❜d to this,
In it what joys can live,
To equal the enrapt'ring bliss

That thy sweet kisses give.

Then, dearest girl, oh! let my lip
Drink deeply of the bliss;
That it so thirsts, so longs to sip
The sweet endearing kiss.

J. W. F. Burden.

A WORD OF ADVICE TO YOUNG LADIES.

On fancy's wings let lovers mount, Whilst they their favourites charms recount,

Exceeding every other;
Let them their fair ones strive to move,
By swearing that they'll constant prove,
And never love another.

Let them write sonnets upon eyes,
And swear that more than life they prize,
And never can deceive them :
But, my dear girls, be not too blind,
Or soon, too soon, alas! you'll find,
You ought not to believe them.
J. W. F. Burden.

In the town of Bar, in Alsace, there formerly lived an old man called Pierre Dobinet, who was the sexton of the church there. This old man, by living very carefully, had saved a very great sum of money; and to keep it as safe as possible, he locked it in a box, which he kept in the belfry of the church, where nobody ever went but himself. However, he went so often to look at his money, that the woman, in whose house he lodged, became curious to know why he went so very frequently. So one day she followed him, unperceived, to the church, and up the stairs of the steeple, till she saw the old man go into the belfry, and peeping through the key-hole, beheld him counting his money.

Now Jeanette, for that was her name, was a very wicked woman, and she thought that if old Pierre was dead, she could get all his money and marry her lover, Jacques No. 107.-N. S.

Le Noir, who was just as bad as herself,She lost no time in telling him what she had seen; and one night when Pierre went to the belfry, she and Jacques followed him.

The old man suspecting no harm, left the door half open, and when he was busy in counting his gold they came in. But the old man heard them-and snatching up a pistol, which he always carried with him, fired at them. He missed Jeanette, who sprung out of the way, but Jacques was shot dead on the spot.

But now the old man had nothing further to defend himself with, and Jeanette, who was a young and very active woman, seized him by the throat and strangled the poor old man. Then she broke open the money box, for it was too heavy for her to carry away, and she filled the old man's hat with gold, and got out of the belfry as fast as she could, much grieved for the loss of Jacques.

She had scarcely got out of the church-yard, when she met five men, carrying torches. These she knew to be the companions of Jacques Le Noir-and they seeing her, came up to her, and wanted to know what she had got in the hat. She refused to show them, but they insisted on looking. When they saw the money, they were in no hurry to part with it, and in spite of all she said, they, for they were very bad men, went off with it, threatening to kill her if she ever spoke about the matter. Jeanette, in revenge, went immediately to the judge, and accused them of murdering old Pierre.

The next day they were all taken by the officers of justice, and the gold being found on them, every body believed them to be the murderers. And it seemed the more likely, on account of the body of Jacques Le Noir, their companion, being likewise found in the belfry.

They, however, denied the charge, and accused the woman of the murder, telling how they had met her with the hat. And some people came forward who had seen Jeanette going out of the church-yard. So that the judge did not know who was guilty, or what to do.

At last he desired all the prisoners and the woman to be brought to the steeple. Then they went into the room where the bell ropes were, and the judge pretended to rub the bell ropes with something which he poured from a bottle. Now,' said he, let each of the prisoners pull the rope, and whichever is the murderer will not be able to toll the bell.'

The five men pulled the rope, one after another, and they all tolled the bell; but when Jeanette's turn came, she was so frightened, because she knew that she was guilty, that she lost all strength, and could not pull the rope. She tried three times in vain, and then she fainted

away with fear and remorse. Upon this every body set up a shout, and the judge ordered the woman to be put to death for the murder. And the five men, who had taken the money from her, and were found with it, were shut up in prison, and kept to hard work for the rest of their lives.

The Christmas Box.

THE MANIAC MINSTREL. An Original Tale.

A long lost lover, when return'd,
Will ease the female's frenzied brain.
Pomfret.

A young lady, whose parents were in a respectable rank of life, and resided upon a free farm of their own in the neighbourhood of Inevary, in the Highlands of Scotland, formed an attachment to a young sailor. He was about twenty-one, and she nineteen years of age.

Her parents were against the match on account of the lover's profession, and his consequent precarious income. However a compromise was entered into. The young sailor was appointed to command a ship belonging to a merchant at Glasgow-and he agreed to wait two years, when, if he had realized the sum of two thousand pounds, he was to settle on a farm, marry his Mary, and spend his days in connubial happiness on shore. souls of the lovers were joined in one. Every voyage from which he returned, he paid a visit to his beloved Mary, brought her presents, and cheered her with the prospect of his wealth accumulating so fast, as to leave no doubt of his being able, at the appointed time, to 'claim her as his bonnie bride' at last.

The

For his skill and bravery, he was made commander of a ship, mount

1

ing thirty-two guns, meant to trade on the coast of South America, and, if necessity required, to fight her way. Mary's heart sank upon receiving this news. She gloried that her lover's merits were so highly appreciated and rewarded-but she trembled for his fate in war-she knew him to be impetuously brave; and as the ship carried a letter of marque, or a privateer's commission, she thought his spirit would soar above trade, and be looking after enemies.

Mary went to Greenock to bid him adieu, where his gallant ship was riding, fully and finely equipt for the sea, manned with hearts capable of braving the billows and the foe.

He assured her that this voyage would be his last; the two years would expire before his return-but he expected to gain more wealth by this than he had got by all his former voyages, and be able to marry, and place her in independence, superior to her parents caprice, and the frowns of fortune.

Poor Mary assented, but was not convinced-she would have been happy with him in a cabin of turf and clay-but his prospects seemed so bright and congenial to his feelings, that she remonstrated very little-but bowed her head with hope, as the passion flower does to the last sun of autumn, and closing its petals, awaits its revival to life by returning spring.

The spring-time of happiness for Mary, was decreed to be retarded by a long winter. She saw the sails raised upon the masts-she heard the shrill whistle of the boatswainand when her lover waved his white handkerchief from the poop, she returned the signal, and silently wandered away.

I know not, and I speak from experience, a more sad sensation than that a sailor feels when parting

from the girl of his heart, with a prospect that he may never return. He knows he is going to face danger in the cannon's mouth. She knows it also-and every tie that binds heart to heart is stretched as if upon the rack- and if not watered by tears, the string of love would snap, and the vision of happiness and life pass away.-Joy and sorrow are ever on the extremes, and few have fortitude to temper them. But to my story.

A year after Mary separated from her lover, accounts arrived, that he, and many of his officers were killed in attempting to board a Spanish ship in boats. The account was credited. Mary drooped, wept, became calm, and finally deranged.She was harmless in her ways-and her sole delight was to play upon a pair of highland pipes, and sing a song she wrote at her lover's departure. It was a song recommended by its pathos if not its poetry-and the tear of pity fell from every eye who saw her, by the way-side, in her little flower-garden, pouring forth the melody, as if unconscious that any one was looking or listening. She was unconscious of any feeling but that of sorrow, and a broken-hearted recollection of him she never hoped to see again. In a short time she wandered from her home; rewards were offered in vain, ponds and rivers dragged-and she was given up as totally lost.

One summer's even, a gentleman sitting on the shores of Pomona's Isle, in the Hebrides, and gazing on the Hill of Hoy, or rather cliff, which rears its perpendicular height seven hundred feet above the ocean, heard the sound of a shrill pipe and a voice sung the following wod:

A long adieu, and must we part,

And shall I see that face no more;
Will it not break my aching heart,
To lose the lover I adore.