A TRUTH IN RHYME. in that immense city? and she cannot know of your illness. No, no, that cannot be." "Not dead!" screamed Mary in agony, surely not dead." "Oh, "when I left "I know not," was the answer, the village he was very ill, nay rapidly sinking. His most earnest wish was to see you once again, and to exhort you to repent, to leave your present guilty ways. But if you wish to see him alive you must hasten and prepare—if indeed you can leave your present abode.' This conversation, most distressing to Lucy Gray, was now interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Asheton, who came to pray with the sick man: most welcome was his arrival to both parties, and it was with a lowly curtsey that Lucy set a chair by the bed-side, and retired from the apartment. What passed between the worthy pastor and the "And it is I," sobbed she, " I, who have hassick patient need not be detailed. suffice it to say that Mr. Asheton had most kindly hastened to in-tened his death, but let us lose no time, let us go form him that he had discovered Mary Ross's place of residence in London, where she was living with her protector in guilty splendour, and that he promised to inform her of her father's illness, and to implore her by the remembrance of her once maiden purity and innocence to hasten once more to her village home, and to receive the last sigh of that father, whose death she had undoubtedly hastened by her guilty flight. III. SPLENDOUR AND MISERY. The bright rays of the setting sun glanced through the purple curtains of a splendid apartment, furnished with the greatest luxury, and adorned with the most voluptuous taste; and on a silken couch lay the form of one-once innocent as fair-once happy as good-Mary Ross. And was she happy? Did the adoration of her betrayer compensate for the agony she endured when she thought upon her desolate and lonely father? Did the splendours of her new residence efface all remembrance of that quiet home, and of that peaceful village where she had been the greatest joy of her parent, and the most beloved by all her companions? No, no, the guilty are never happy, never at rest. She was waiting the return of Mr. d'Erenzy, and sadly thinking of times gone by, when her thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of a footman in gorgeous livery, who addressing her as Mrs. Lumley, stated that a gentleman in black, who looked like a clergyman, and refused to give his name, insisted upon seeing her immediately; and requested to know whether he was to be allowed to enter. "Indeed!" said the lady, “it is very strange— do you not know him?" "No, Madam, he seems as if from the country." "Well, you must show him up, I suppose; but it is very strange." And, as the servant retired, she arose from the purple couch, and with a pale countenance awaited the stranger's entrance. The She did not wait long, a step sounded on the staircase which seemed familiar to her ear. door opened, and the clergyman of her native village, Mr. Asheton, appeared. Mr. Asheton!" exclaimed Mary, and her whole face was mantled with the blush of shame, "oh! surely you bring bad news-my father-is he ill? Oh! tell me.' "Mary!" said he earnestly, yet sadly looking in her eyes, "Mary, have you then any wish to hear of him? can his welfare or misfortune concern you? Speak!" "Ah, yes! Heaven knows I have never been happy since I left him. Oh, dear Mr. Asheton do tell me." "Alas! he is ill." instantly." "And have you no arrangements to make? is there no one to be consulted-Mr. d'Erenzy, where is he? will he permit you to leave him so suddenly?" 66 Ab, yes! I will write him a farewell letter, Oh! that I had But come, Mr. and then never see him more. been dead before he met me. Asheton, come, I am ready. A hasty preparation was made, and in a very short time after this conversation Mr. Asheton, with the weeping Mary, were on the road to L IV. THE CLOSING SCENE. Antony Ross had been dead one day when his daughter, attended by Mr. Asheton, reached the cottage. And it was with the agony and remorse which only those who have sinned like her can feel, that she threw herself upon the dead body, and kissed those closed eyes which, when last she saw them had beamed with a father's love-afather's affection. "For week's after that day the life of Mary But when at last she did Ross was a blank. recover and become sensible of the unfailing care and attention with which she had been treated by the kind Lucy Gray and her compassionate neighbours; when at last she was able to listen and attend to the soothing words of Mr. Asheton; then it was that she felt the only way to expiate her crime was, by bearing her trials patiently and without repining; by a constant search for that brook whose waters are healing and full of peace, and by an unfailing watch for that time when a merciful and all-just Father should summon her from this world-never more to return. Years have passed since that time. The grass grows green and the wild flowers flourish over the graves of Antony and Mary Ross, and few remember the sins of that beautiful girl, once so fondly called "The Lily of the Valley"—" The Pride of the Village." CLEON. ABSENCE. INSCRIBED TO MISS C. D Sadness bath seized my spirit and I weep,- A watch of love, unbounded and unmeasur'd,- On thy sweet face till love is part of life :- Like thee so kind, so beautiful, so fair; Those sparkling eyes-that dark and flowing hair, And that expression on thy brow and cheek Whose silence to my heart a spell doth speak? 'Tis said, that on the night ere Salem fell, The high priest, watching by the treasur'd things Heard a sweet mournful voice sigh forth" Farewell" Then, 'mid the rushing as of mighty wings, And in a tone which smote him to the beart, He heard an Angel cry aloud" Depart." And from the holy temple and the shrine The heavenly host departed; so from me Goes the last blessing I had fancied mine,"My stay and staff"-and o'er the troubled sea Of bitter thoughts and musings, a deep strain Of mournful music falls, like winter's rain. I sit me down in sorrow in my room I speak not, move not, and my eyes are fix'd Upon a fancied scroll, on which my doom Is written thus-" Thy joy shall e'er be mix'd With bitter pain;-thy hopes shall flit away, And thou shalt ask-how vainly !-where are they? And thou shalt love, but ever love in vain, For when thy hopes are brightest then Despair Shall mock thy vision with a broken chain, And thou shalt gaze upon a face more fair Than her's whom Satan tempted, but love's word And whisper'd row-by thee shall ne'er be heard." And it is even thus-my heart is thine ;I know thee only and I love thee most, When Fate forbids that thou shouldst e'er be mine; When this I fear that never on Life's coast Our paths may meet again; I feel like one Who looks his last upon the glorious sun. Have I not watch'd from morning until eve To catch one glimpse of thee? and when I saw Thy smile, has not my spirit ceased to grieve, And each cold feeling own'd a genial thaw? And pour'd in warmer torrent through my breast, And felt and thank'd thee as the cause of rest? Yea, thou hast been to me as erst of old The Goddess was to him whose faith was blind, Whose hope was more than countless stores of gold, Whose creed was offspring of the heart and mind; And I have lov'd, like him, alone to dwell On her whom I have lov'd so long and well! Lady, thou now hast sought another home, And other friends will smile beneath thy eye; Yet even then thy thoughts must backward roam, And all the past, whose mem'ry may not die, Must be recalled;--then, let this little lay Remind thee of me when thou art away! To gaze on thy dark eyes-to trace The spirit ever speaking there,- Where grief, nor depth of woe, nor care, To mark the look of hope which gleams My pride has struggled, but in vain, To tear thy image from my heart; To break the pleasing-mystic chain Which binds my heart and soul to thee, The pole-star of my destiny. This let me ask,-when years have brought With change of dreams and change of scene, A milder, purer stream of thought, And thou shalt wander back, I ween, To by-gone days when life was love, And hope the fair-wing'd olive dove. When, sitting in thy shady bower Thou holdest musings sad, yet sweet, And callest up in that lone hour, The friends you lov'd in youth to meet, Give them the smile they held most dear, But give to me the silent tear. W. HODSON THE FAIRY'S SONG. I am here, I am here, but thy form of grace Haste, let thy voice of deep-toned glee For my sleepless watch 'neath the willow tree! I can no longer wait for thee, For the shade hath pass'd from the willow tree! J. M. R. THE MORNING VISIT. BY CLARA PAYNE. Laura Delmore was an elegant looking girl, her's was, perhaps, too melancholy a style of beauty for one so young, but it was that melancholy that gave the great charm to her countenance, and her sweet smile once seen, was not soon forgotten. By many she was called the dismal beauty, but fashion having just now selected her as the reigning star, "Do you admire Miss Delmore?" In one of England's large commercial towns, which shall be nameless, suffice it to say, it was famed for many of the good things of this life, which in this said town were pronounced to be most excellent, and leading off from its main street, towards the country, had lately sprung up a hand-was the constant theme of conversation. Mrs. some row of houses, the proprietor of which, being a very loyal person, had, after sundry alterations, at length denominated them Victoria Terrace:" No sooner was "Victoria Terrace" completed, than fashionables thronged to them from all parts of the town, the very houses were pronounced excellent, and forthwith instantly occupied. In the summer of the year 18-, on a warm July morning, was seen waiting for admittance at the first house of this fashionable row, a lady of diminutive stature. Speaking generally, ladies are considered partial to dress, and evidently this lady was no exception, if we may judge by her gay attire; she wore a sea-green silk pelisse, confined were its robes by numerous fastenings of gold, her bonnet had once been pink, but the cruel sun, however favourably disposed to the lovely flower bearing that name, has no regard for silk bonnets, and had unmercifully robbed this one in particular of its original colour, nor was its faded hue heightened by two full blown roses, which looked blushing into beauty from its side; a large reticule with gilded clasp and chain, was suspended from her left arm, which arm was raised to support her tiny parasol, while her right was at liberty to resume the knocker. Presently the door opened, the lady disappeared. After having paused at the door, I see no objection to our following the visitor into the drawing-room, whither the footman is conducting her. "Oh my dear Mrs. Delmore," was the exclamation of the lady of the green pelisse, as the lady of the mansion, with becoming dignity, rose to receive her guest, "hoping that Mrs. Gadabout was not fatigued." "Oh yes, dear me, I am very tired, I had no idea of the distance, but where there's a will there's a way,'" as poor dear Mr. Gadabout used to say; but really this is a charming house, and you are the only one I would have walked to see this warm morning; I am dying to behold your girls, they are the talk of the whole town; this very day Lady Stanley was saying to me, Laura was the picture of what her mother was now do, pray dear Mrs. Delmore, let me see the girls!" Mrs. Delmore rang the bell, saying as she did so, Laura was in the library, but Julia, she had not seen since breakfast, and fancied she was assisting her brother in gardening. "Bless me," continued Mrs. Gadabout, I have been dreadfully remiss, but I hope Mr. Delmore is well-still in Ireland I suppose?" Then she commended Mrs. Delmore's beautiful flowers; spoke in raptures of the new clergyman she had heard on Sunday, praised the furniture, and finally was recommending for perusal some highly moral work lately published, when Laura's entrance stopped her varied discourse: Gadabout was one of those ladies who had frequently styled Laura a dismal girl, and she ever felt in her presence a reserve, nor could Laura with all her amiability, scarce conceal her dislike to this gossiping widow; but when the merry laugh of Julia was heard, Mrs. Gadabout rose with open arms to fold her to her heart, when great was her dismay, in place of Julia, in bounded an immense dog, and rushed to her affectionate embrace; the widow was alarmed, Julia followed quickly with suppressed laughter, commanding her favourite to "lie down", and order was restored on Lion's being dismissed from the room. Mrs. Gadabout now complimented Julia on her looks, and to do her justice she spoke truth, for Julia was exceedingly handsome, and in her garden costume, shewed the personification of some splendid gipsy; having apologized to Mrs. Gadabout for her abrupt entrée, Julia was retiring to render her less gipsy like, when that lady insisted on her remaining, offering as an inducement, she should hear the purport of her visit, then turning towards Mrs. Delmore, Mrs. Gadabout assured her "the report was all true." Mrs. Delmore looked surprised. heard nothing; I can bear witness myself, and "Is it possible" said Mrs. Gadabout, "you have "those would-be such things as I could tell you, saints are always the greatest sinners," as poor dear Mr. Gadabout used to say, I have lived long enough in the world to find that out, but I should be sorry to do an ill-natured thing, so promise you will not name it to a living being.' Mrs. Delmore replied she never lent a willing ear to scandalous reports. "Reports my dear soul," and Mrs. Gadabout looked quite insinuating, "it is out of kindness I speak, you Mrs. Delmore are a mother, and your daughters I find are acquainted with Miss Stanmore and her sanctified aunt, you too may remember how grieved she pretended to be at the news of her brother's death, would you believe it, she has already thrown off her mourning! I had heard of the handsome stranger, when yesterday, yes yesterday, after the concert, I saw Miss Stanmore,-let me see, she was dressed in, I think they call it a stone colour silk, and I am almost sure a blue bonnet, for I walked behind her down the street, when fancy my seeing her run across the street, and take the arm of the handsome stranger then together they vanished from my view, in the first fancy shop. I could scarce credit my eyes, but there's no trusting those people that would be better than their neighbours, as poor dear Mr. Gadabout used to say" "Pardon me," said Laura Delmore, "but I think you must be mistaken, it might have been some one resembling Miss Stanmore, one often sees such striking likenesses. Though not intimately acquainted, I know her sufficiently well to U 2 "Well my dear Miss Delmore, as to your believing me, that I cannot help, nor have I told you half I've heard, but " truth will out," as poor dear Mr. Gadabout used to say." At that moment other visitors were ushered into the drawing-room, and great was Mrs. Gadabout's astonishment, on looking up, to see the slandered Miss Stanmore, and the handsome stranger; she blushed, actually blushed, as she rose to retreat, when the musical voice of Miss Stanmore, introduced to her friends, that stranger-the brother she had mourned as dead. Mortified, Mrs. Gadabout descended the stairs, and very different were the feelings of the lady of the green pelisse, on her entrance and exit from No. 1, " Victoria Terrace." THE AFRICAN SLAVE. They had torn ber from her native land, Alas! within this foreign strand, She'll find her funeral pall! She spoke not, smiled not-there unmoved, The hapless stranger stood, Her thoughts perchance with those she loved Oh! hard that heart must be, which can Unworthy he the name of man His crime of blackest dye. Poor slave! ah soon thy sorrows o'er, The grave will set thee free; Tyrannic man shall never more One sorrow cause to thee. SONG. BY DESMOND RYAN. CLARA PAYNE. The vesper-star, the diamond's ray, Might borrow radiance from those eyes. The crimson flush of May's young rose, The wind-kissed lillies when they blow, O'er cheek and brow their tints disclose, And rubies tinge those lips below. But brow of snow, nor mantling cheek, Nor melting lip, nor kindled eye, Can half that loveliness bespeak, Which glows like summer's evening sky. It is the soul-the varying lightThe inward spirit flashing thro'The play of all that's good and bright, Paint beauty's sweetest self, and you. CATHERINE GRAY. Our first loves! Who that has left the dream of his boyhood behind, recalleth not some bright vision of love? Our first loves! how differenthow wildly varied from the deeper attachments of after years. That quick thrilling emotion whose name we knew not, neither welcomed as a friend; which rose in our bosoms when first we deemed our heart had found a home for all its burden of affections. Call not the loves of early youth passionate; as our feelings ripen into maturity, so grow our passions into strength; it is only the depthsthe concealed power of the one, that preserves the warmth and life of the other, in the chill blight the world breathes upon them. Many and beautiful are the traits of the heart's first earthly worship; the musings, the reverie, the first feelings of loneliness-the fearful glance that we turn on the form where our heart's gaze would rest for ever. The luxury when first our souls drink from eyes that look on us in love, a language of affection; when first we pour forth to a bosom that we know glows with our heart's dearest wishes and feelings, the hopes and visions of our early days; when we deem deceit and inconstancy are names alone, and laugh at death as he stalks along on his lonely path. The future, bright and glowing, is the heart's fairest wealththe heaven where it's treasures are laid up, secure, it deems, from the corroding hands of time, or the grasp of the spoiler; when we feel "Love reigns but once, but that will be And will the bright charm fade-the fond illusion die? Ay! ere the bloom has left the cheek-the lightness of youth the step; we shall smile at such a vision as a dream of romance, thinking not when years and sorrows have have crowded thick upon us, we shall turn to those happy moments, and find in their memory alone, a balm for many griefs. Fade these emotions alike in all? Alas! O'er some love's shadow may but pass, As passes the breath stain o'er glass; And pleasures, cares, and pride combined, Fill up the blank love leaves behind. Who turning from this heartless world, As true as they themselves are true. Many, many, their hearts' bright dream broken and betrayed, droop silently away, and sink into the tomb; perchance mourned in the grave by "such tears as would have made life precious." Such the fate of her whose short and simple annals are recorded in the following narrative: Beautiful and happy was the childhood of Catherine Gray.. Her father engaged in mercantile pursuits, died, whilst she was yet too young to appreciate his loss, leaving his widow a decent competency, and the little fairy who became to her bereaved heart its solace and support. With a mind strong by nature, and improved by education, the instruction and guidance of her daughter was, to Mrs. Gray, a delight and comfort; and the docile aptitude, the sweetness of CATHERINE GRAY. disposition, and the amiable qualities of mind and understanding of her young pupil, rendered it a source of happiness and gratitude. Sustained by Christian resignation, and a pious reliance on the goodness of Providence, Mrs. Gray had borne her affliction with meekness and fortitude; and beautiful it was to mark the mother with her subdued and chastened aspect, pouring into the mind of her loved and treasured one, the lessons of holiness, and love to that God, who had been to her a very present help in time of trouble. And the little Catherine sported in the sunshine of her youth, happy and contented, beloved by her little companions, and blessed by all who felt the sweet and cheering influence of her light and buoyant mirth. The tear that dimmed her eye glistened not for griefs of her own, and few of the sorrows which came within the sphere of her observation were such that she could not dispel or alleviate. And if at times a shade of pensiveness stole over her features, it but revealed that her heart had deeper fountains of loveliness, that though even to her, the young, the gay, 66 memory was a sigh," yet it's sweet and mournful halo was treasured and revered. The spring time of her life passed on. She grew in loveliness and grace to maidenhood. Her step was light with innocence and gladness; and her voice was sweet with many melodies that waken thoughts of dreamy recollection; her fair hair floated loosely on the summer breeze, brightly as the sunbeam on the dashing streamlet. Upon her cheek there glowed the touch of beauty, and in her glancing eye a spirit dwelt to wile away the heart from the cold, false world, its vanities and vexations of spirit. Poor Catherine! I saw thee thus lovely and beautiful. I saw thee, thy young heart's dream wrecked and broken, drooping like the bowed lily, to its dull decay. I saw thy light and youthful form borne to its last long home, and heard the bursting sob, and saw the falling tear, hallowing the sod that shrouded thy sweet clay: hearts that deemed not that thou shouldst ever cause a sigh of grief, or throb of pain; reft and sorrowing for thee, the traveller, gone to that far bourne whence none of earth return. It was in the autumn of Catherine's 16th year, when first she met Frederick Milner, at the house of a youthful companion, where he was then upon a visit. He was the son of an old and reputable family, who possessed considerable property. But Frederick was an only child, and the fortune and estates of an old and childless uncle would, if he lived, come to him. His disposition, not improved by discipline, was one of those very common mixtures of generosity and selfishness, ardency and fickleness. He had long been initiated into the ways of the world, and even young as he was, his society was courted, his vanity flattered. He was two years Catherine's senior, when he first saw her, and was struck with her beauty. It was a part of his disposition to pursue for the moment, earnestly and warmly, any object that attracted his attention, and in the present instance he exerted himself to the utmost to please her, and to obtain the preference over the many (the all who saw her) 261 who sought her smiles; he succeeded in rendering himself agreeable, and in laying a foundation of an intimacy in Catherine's home. They saw each other often; their acquaintance grew into friendship, and ripened into love! Yes, loved her not. The proud and overbearing spirit to love! None could say who knew him, that he subdued to softness and tenderness. The wild and varied expression of his features, changed to concentrating emotions of that one bright charm, the calm and placid repose which nought but the can impress. How should it be otherwise, with and holy influence around him. a love pure and gentle as hers, shedding its sweet Month after month was his visit protracted; arm-in-arm with Catherine, he walked forth through the golden fields, rich with the bounties of Providence. They watched together the gay verdure fading from the earth-the red leaf quiver in his robes, and step forth on his domain; they sat on the bough; they saw the winter array himself by the bright fire-side together, and he marked how the beauty of holiness could hallow the heart of the orphan and the widow. The merry Christmas therings, its gladsome household festivities, and came, with its wonted revels-its domestic gastill he lingered there. Nor did he depart till summoned to attend the death-bed of his uncle. Before they parted they poured forth their hearts to each other, and had vowed with the trusting fervour of first and early love, constancy and truth. Vain, vain dream! The uncle of Frederick died, and a new world was opened before him. Wealthy and powerful, the voice of flattery and allurement sounded ever in his ear. It was thought fit that he should travel. For a few short months Catherine reigned in his heart; he corresponded with her regularly, and thought of her with gladness. Soon however, his letters grew few and far between, and so cold and altered was their tone, that Catherine grieved not when they altogether ceased. But she mourned deeply and sorrowingly, over the estrangement of that affection, round which her own had twined, There is a deeper shade upon her brow,—a more fleeting hue upon her cheek; her step is not light; her voice is not glad, as in former years. And yet that change was lovely; like the pensive eve to the glowing day-the touching melancholy of autumn to the gay joyousness of spring. More than ever she loved to sit alone with her mother, and soothe with a daughter's sweetest tenderness, her declining years. Her visits to the cot of distress and misfortune, were more frequent, and were sweeter to her now than the haunts of mirth and gladness. All who saw her. said she faded, and many upon whom her kindness had rested, spoke of her as too good and gentle for this world. There was one eye that marked that change, and read its cause and meaning-one heart that felt with her's, the blight that withered it's young affection; one mother who silently soothed and sympathized with her desolation, and secretly wept o'er the betrayal of her hopes, and strove with such love as one alone can feel, to wean her spirit from its depths of woe. She sometimes heard of Frederick as the gay, |