many men in the hands of Dionysius. Though for the moment successful, the tyrant perceived that the day of his power was nearly over; and thinking that the gods must be against him, he ordered sacrifices to be made, incense to be burned in their honour, and the train of virgins to go through the sacred rites. These orders being given, he commanded the prisoners to be brought before him. Melancthon obeyed the edict; and, loading the unfortunate men with abuse, to which they made such bold answers as to incur the wrath of Dionysuis, he directed the whole of them to be impaled on the rocks, within sight of their compatriots. By this means he hoped to terrify the besiegers. As the soldiers were about to meet their doom, Dionysius hastened to the temple ; when Melancthon, who felt sorry for the captives, caught the sound of a familiar voice, no other that of Phocion-Euphrasia's husband-who, under the garb of a prisoner, had found his way into the interior of Syracuse, in hopes of seeing his wife and Evander. Melancthon, fearful lest Phocion should be detected, hastily told him that Evander lived, and that Euphrasia was with him ; with the same breath he informed the warrior of the entrance to a subterranean passage, by which the Greeks could enter Syracuse. He desired Phocion to return to Timoleon, to tell him of the secret, and to surprise and capture the tyrant in the heart of his own city. A mist of blue incense filled the gorgeous temple; the train of virgins were holding service to the gods. To the left there stood a tomb, and in the centre of the edifice a monument. With eyes red with weeping, Euphrasia knelt before the tomb-it was her mother's last resting place. Upon it she burned some viands and sprinkled it with wine, as a tribute to the memory of her lost parent. At length the virgins all retired, leaving Euphrasia alone amid the brazen statues of the gods. With hasty steps she walked up to the monument, and from it, her old and infirm father, Evander, the dethroned king of Sicily, came forth. But their meeting and sacred converse soon was interrupted ; a step was heard, and Philotas appeared. His head was bowed down with reverence on beholding the old monarch, and he asked forgiveness from him, for acting in consort with the troops of Dionysius--a part he was compelled to perform. He expressed such bright hopes of the future, that Evander wished to show himself to his people, and trust for support to their gratitude ; believing that he should thuswise rally his followers, secure his crown, and prevent the bloodshed that would inevitably ensue, if he could only gather his honours by battling with Dionysius. But the old king, persuaded by his daughter, resolved not to hazard so great a chance; and, as they could hear a messenger approaching, he reposed his confidence in the breasts of his friends, and re-entered the monument. The new-comer was Calippus, who commanded Euphrasia to seek the presence of Dionysius; and she, with many misgivings as to the tyrant's purpose, bowed to the imperial mandate. Dionysius, surrounded by his warriors, stood upon the citadel. The usurper, on being told that a lieutenant from Timoleon waited without, desired the presence of the visitor, who, upon being introduced to his majesty, informed him that his master requested an armistice of one day's duration, so as to enable both armies to give the killed an honourable burial. After some hesitation Dionysius granted the request, and summoned Euphrasia. She stood before him with downcast eyes, and the monarch, dissembling, desired to know if she would like to see her father, who he said, since his imprisonment had had every attention paid to his person. The brave daughter, knowing that if the guards went to look for Evander in the cave, they would find him not, and remembering that if such an event happened, her plans would be frustrated, made a prolix reply; in which she said, that dutiful as she was, loving as she was, she could not torture her bosom with the sight of her fallen parent, but reserved her caresses, until she could bestow them on Evander with the crown of Sicily on his brow. This answer stung Dionysius to the heart; he told her to keep for other ears her insolence, and to note that if she wished the crown of Sicily to pass to her boy, as he had no heirs, her only plan of success would be to ask her husband, Phocion, to advise Timoleon to unmoor his ships and return to Greece. To do this she refused ; the throne of the isle, after her father's death, would, by right, belong to her son ; and on no account should he accept of it from a robber. Her husband, Timoleon, like a true hero, fought in an honourable cause, and until the Greeks either conquered or were vanquished, she would claim and maintain her just and equitable rights. “If that be so, cried Dionysius, your father this night, and before your eyes, shall meet his end,” and saying this he left her. “ This night,” she said inly, “ this night, usurper and tyrant, shall witness thy downfall and death.” A thick gloom hung within the temple as Phocion and Melancthon met. In pursuance to the advice of Melancthon, Phocion entered the monument, hoping to converse not only with Evander, but also with Euphrasia, his wife. A little while after Euphrasia entered upon the aisles, and she, too, drew near to the monument, out of which came Phocion, though in the darkness it was some time before the couple recognised each other. When they did so, Euphrasia's first question was about the boy; he, thank the gods, was safe. Evander, led by Melancthon, now stole upon their presence ; he had been to prostrate himself at the foot of the altar. Great was the joy of this meeting ; but there was no time for lorg embraces or kisses ; the sounds of war were audible, and Phocion hurried back to Timoleon, whose troops, it appeared, while engaged in the burial of the dearl, had been attacked by those of Dionysius, and the act thus made patent the usurper's intention in granting the armistice. In the middle of the night Dionysius called Euphrasia. He told her to prepare for death, and summoning Philotas commanded him to execute Evander but, to the murderer's surprise, the victim was already dead; the emperor asked for the king's head; Philotas, had, unwittingly, thrown the whole body into the sea. Revenge fell upon the old man's child; Philotos was told his duty, and Dionysius left them. Instead of performing the orders he had received, Philotas, who had ever hated the spoiler, told Euphrasia the true story; she would find her parent in the monument; thither she must repair and await the completion of their schemes. That very night, upon the battlements, Dionysius delivered a harangue to his followers; he conjured them to strike for the liberty of their land, the honour of their wives, and the safety of their childrenall was fair in war; and now, whilst the veil of sleep overshadowed the eyes of the Greeks, let them go; a glorious victory would be their reward, the valour of their forefathers would be sustained, and the narra tive of their bravery gildthe pages of history. Whilst he was delivering this oration, an officer, wildly excited, rushed before him, and declared that already the Greeks wrought havoc in the city, they having entered it by a subterranean passage. The roar of the tumult swelled louder, the fury of the combatants vented itself in horror and blood; and Dionysius, beaten back, sought refuge in the temple. There he beheld Euphrasia, and raised a dagger to stab her, but was prevented from so doing by a slave. Not satisfied with this base attempt, he, in the midst of the wild din and clatter, fell upon Evander, and already was the old man about to fall beneath the glittering weapon, when Euphrasia, uttering a loud cry, rushed between them, and plunged, up to the very hilt, her dagger into Dionysius's breast. A stream of crimson blood gushed over the white hand; Phocion embraced his wife and child. Peace was proclaimed through Sicily; and the love of Euphrasia, along with the singular act by which she saved her father from starvation, have been handed down for the admiration of posterity; so that we may hear of her unexampled virtue, and learn to emulate the Grecian daughter. LADY MARY. Lady Mary, tall and stately, What she goes there for. Tall and fair is Lady Mary, None so proud may be. Mighty store has she of riches, But repels one more. Titles has she, castles, manors, Wonderful to see. Yet this proud and noble maiden, Chosen, culled with care; Culled with care, and fitly chosen Shuns the public view. An humble dame is she, and olden, Wrinkled, deaf, and all but blindOnce her locks were soft and golden, Fairer scarce you'd find. She had reared one only daughter, Than her mother comelier still, Restless as the rippling water Of a mountain rili. As the summer swallow tameless, Rustling through the trees. But this daughter fled one morning To the dame, to say ; That ber child lay weak and dying, That she could not die Could not die until her mother Haply she might live. But he came not, and in sorrow To the eternal shore. On the bleak hill-side they laid her, Not a prayer was said. Not a word of hope was epoken Coffin, clay to clay. Silently they all departed : As she bowed her head Bowed her head, and homeward turning, Secretly she swore, |