Now gently gliding from his twining arm,
To pluck, and bring him forest-flowers she goes;
He bids her mark the Kalmia's changing charm:
Red starry buds, and whitely opening blows,
How each bent stamen, as it loosens, throws
With sudden spring its quickening powder there.
'Beware the cactus-flower!' he cries: 'it grows
Thick-set with stings that guard its blossom fair:
'I would not have thee harmed, even by the tiniest hair.'

Sweet smiled her eyes, fair shone her happy brow, Soft stirred her tresses in the gentle blast; His doting eye still watched - as, playful now, Bright flowers and branches in the tide she cast; To mark their fatal voyage, sailing fast From peace to ruin, in the swallowing foam. He muses on the stream calm-gliding past: Sweet stream, asleep, unconscious of its doom – Perchance himself might sleep, nor dream of wreck to come!

Wearied at length, she seeks once more his side,
To list his accents, leaning on his breast:
'Oft have I dreamed, by some such stilly tide,
Ere age comes on, we 'll build our cot of rest;
Of love, of peace-oh! then of all possessed,
With happy children, sporting, or asleep
With daughters, blooming as their mother, blest;
Thus stream-like gliding to the solemn steep,

To wake in happy fields, where storms no more shall sweep.'

She answered soft: "The picture is most bright,
But oh! with thee all scenes alike I prize!
Love, like the sun bedazzling all with light,
Alike to bloom and desert blinds my eyes;
The din of towns, that once I did despise,

Would charm like mellow music, heard with thee:
And 'neath thy step would verdure ever rise!

Though sweet these birds we hear, these flowers we see, Still would I meet them all, wherever thou shouldst be!'

Thrilled to the quick, he clasps her with a start,
And straining, fastens on her lips a kiss,
That seemed to suck the life-blood from her heart:
She pales! she droops in those dear arms of his!
But oh! 't is nothing but excess of bliss:
She dreams she floats mid girdling rainbows, driven,
Half-whirled, half-wafted, glancing down th' abyss;
Buoyed by the foam to spirit-shores forgiven:

He speaks-an angel-voice confirms her shadowy heaven.

'Come, dearest heart! we waste our golden time;
Day is advanced, and duty bids us go.'

Not yet,' she cries; 'from yonder brink sublime,
One long, last look still let me cast below!

He guides her there with cautious feet and slow;
Across a chasm they step, of blackest frown,
So deep, so strait, as if with sudden blow
Split by the axe of thunder; on the crown

Stands a lone starving pine, where, clinging, they look down.

'Awful!' he cries: 'how the bewildered tides
Stunned, battered, frightened, madly, vainly flock,
Now here, now there, along their prison's sides;
Where towers of square-hewn and intruding rock,
That rear their fronts, all outlet seem to block.
Some, angry-black, slink sidelong in a bay,
Sullen, or palsied by the dreadful shock:

At length, o'er heaps of tumbled fragments gray,
Out of the hideous pit they make their hurried way.

'Close down beneath our feet, now bend thy sight,
To yon black underlying lake; so clear,

It seems a floor of marble, veined with white:
Upon whose polished glass almost appear
Our overhanging faces mirrored there.

Cling closer now! How deep! - yet still more deep
Sinks the full pool; what sharp rocks, never bare,

What caves, there lurk! Come hence! the frightful steep Dizzies my steadier brain, and numbs my will to sleep.'

They leave the brink: And now,' he cries, 'for home!
Follow my steps! this narrow path we take!'
He moves before her, trusting she will come,
When sharply is his ear stabbed by a shriek!
He turns he stares - he gasps. he cannot speak;
For she is where? -swift to the rocky brow,

Where late they stood, he springs, he flies, to seek Horrors too wild for thought! there, in the lake below, Sees the last sinking flutter of her robe of snow!

'She's fallen!-oh she's fallen!' with a shout,
Bewildered, stunned, he hurries to and fro;
Maddening at length, as each repeated thought
Confirms his ruin with its hammering blow;
With ringing brain, and eyes all blind with wo,
On to the brink he rushes with a bound,

That soon had quenched his torments far below,
Had not a stranger's hand by Heaven been found,
To drag him back to life, and force him from the ground.

Oh! why not leave him to that easier fate,
Sweetly to death within her arms to yield;
Safe from his present torture, and more late
His reason's strain, which never wholly healed!
That inky lake no cavern had revealed
More drear to him than life's lone wilderness;
The flintiest fragment of sunk rock concealed
Within its dankest, jaggiest recess,

Were downier bed, alas! than he again shall press!

I never look upon that fiendish pool

Without a thrill, though years have rolled away;
With smile so grim, with glance so deadly cool,
It seems still watching with hushed voice for prey.
Down to its shore they wound and there it lay,
Unbroke by wave or bubble on its gleam,

As though its breast no murder hid from day:
Like the false smile, of calm yet treacherous beam,
That cunning Guilt puts on, when guiltless it would seem.

Now frantic threats of rash self-sacrifice,

Now sobs and prayers his frame alternate shake:
Oh! 't were enough to thaw a heart of ice,
To mark his sorrows like a flood o'ertake,
And on his head in pitiless masses break!

Soon gathering friends, with ready kindness, flew;
Long for the corse they searched that fatal lake,
At last, all dripping on the shore they drew -
Oh! agonizing sight, for lover's eyes to view!

Still as a dreaming statue, there she lay,
In all the sweet abandonment of sleep;
Her clinging robes her marble limbs display,
As nature chiselled in their graceful sweep:
Still round her cheeks her damp locks closely creep,
Where a smile hovers, like a sweet surprise,
One charm unstrangled by the heartless deep.
He sees he kneels he clings, with sobbing cries;
All feel his choking pangs, and hide their brimming eyes,

Weep not, poor mourner! o'er those perished charms:
She fell not wholly with her falling clay,

For underneath the everlasting arms'

Caught soft and bore her better part away,

Where treacherous steeps no more shall fright or slay.
Bear well this cutting trial of his dart,

And God thy patience with her sight will pay :
Patience, the fragrance of the bruised heart,

Incense best loved of Him, who knows to heal the smart.

Oh! blessed knowledge, that all tears that shower
Enrich the heart, and make its harvest sure;
That all our sighs, like gales of favoring power,
Waft the soul's bark to starry port secure :
Then let each groan He dooms us to endure,
Be of his voice indwelling deemed the call
To guard our steps when danger's snares allure;
And every bruise be deemed, howe'er it gall,
The close grasp of his hand that would not let us fall.

Now from his fever dull collapse ensued,
With chill and torpor, both of heart and brain :
Oh! better far, than such cold, deadly mood,
His frenzy's fire were kindled there again :
They bear her on; he follows with the train,
And all unconscious quits the fatal ground:
Friends give him words and tears-but all in vain ;
Earth has no balsam for a heavenly wound:
He only finds the balm that the fell weapon found.

They bear the lovely ruin to the grave;
He follows still, with measured step and slow:
Oh! who can watch unmoved, however brave,
His precious jewel sunk in earth below!
While heaps on heaps of heavy clay they throw,
All rescue closing with the load profound?

But there he stood, with stony heart and brow,

Nor shuddering once, though others wept, was found; Save when the first-dropped clod sent up its dull cold sound.

They lead him to his home-oh! dismal scene!
There is the hearth, and there the vacant chair:

The empty cup of joys that late had been,
The blooming garden, desert now and bare:
No child, no image of his lost one, there!
And this is home-oh! mockery of home!
Lone, dark, he sits, the prisoner of despair;
Without a ray to cheer his dungeon-gloom,

Save the pale star of hope that shines beyond the tomb !

Passaic! ever when the generous sun
Unprisons Nature from her wintry gloom,
Waking young brooks to praise him as they run,
Winning all flowers to offer grateful bloom,
And pour their gushing worship in perfume;
Gay hearts shall haunt the wild and fatal steep
Where thy brave current, rushing to its doom,
Grows instant famous by a dazzling leap,

And shuddering on the brink, pause o'er the murderous deep.

There young Romance the deepness shall look down,
Sacred to passion, and to passion's wo,

And thrill with pangs and trials not his own:

And Mirth, light-tripping on the fatal brow,

Shall hush for her whose joy was quenched below:
And Love, lone-wandering in his sweet unrest,
Or linked with Beauty, there shall overflow,
At the sad tale, with sorrows unrepressed,
And clasp his treasure close and closer to his breast!
END OF THE LAST LOOK.'

THEODORIC: OR THE SIEGE OF ROME.

His desert speaks loud; and we should wrong it

To lock it in the wards of covert bosom,
When it deserves, with characters of brass,

A forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time,
And razure of oblivion.'

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.'

IN the reign of the Emperor Justinian, on the banks of the Euphrates, retired and alone, lived Ecebolus, once governor of the African Pentapolis, a province of the Eastern empire.

It was

At the time this story commences, he lay sick of a fever. midnight, and the light from an untrimmed lamp threw a twilight shade over the spacious room. By his side sat a youth, his head resting on his hand, as he gazed with anxiety and fear on the form which lay before him. The raven locks of the sufferer were scattered in ringlets over his pillow, and his noble features were distorted, as if restlessness and pain weighed heavily upon him. But he was silent; and it was evident that the struggle between life and death had commenced, and was well nigh completed. The youth who sat by his side, seemed to watch with deep interest the evidences of returning consciousness, as if there was some secret in the bosom of the dying man, which deeply concerned himself, and which he could learn from no one else.

It is all over!' he exclaimed, as he fancied he saw the last struggle of expiring nature; and bursting into tears, he rose from his seat and moved toward the door. A noise in the direction of the couch caught his ear, and hastening back, he found that the sick man had revived, and was looking him full in the face.

'Come near,' he whispered faintly; and the youth placed his ear close to the faltering lips of the speaker. For a moment he remained in this position, trying to catch the struggling speech of the dying man. He stood listening, even after the sufferer had ceased to articulate; when he had said all his strength would permit, he quietly pushed the youth aside. Summoning what vital energy remained, Ecebolus drew from his bosom a rich miniature, and extending it toward the young man, exclaimed, in faltering accents, 'Beware!"

But the arm which was held forth, was stricken with death, before the youth could grasp the rich treasure which it held, and the miniature fell upon the floor. It sprung open, and he found within evidence which rendered certain all that had been obscurely gathered from the broken speech of the corse before him. 'God of the Christian, is it so!' exclaimed the youth, as he smote his breast, and hastened from the apartment.

Theodoric, for such was the name of the youth who attended the last moments of Ecebolus, was a native of Tyre. At the age of ten, he was removed to the hills of Yemen, in Arabia. The history of his birth was both a secret and a mystery, to himself and the world. When hurried into the mountains of Yemen, it did not escape his notice, notwithstanding his youth, that the forced retirement had some object other than to rescue him from the vices and temptations of a profligate city. He was protected and guided by Gilimer, the nurse

and friend of his youth, who, with no other friend than Theodoric, sought security under the name of happiness, in an obscure part of the mountains.

But the life of a hermit did not suit his restless and daring spirit. He complained bitterly that in the bloom and freshness of youth, he should be made to anticipate and feel the inactivity of age. The use of the bow and the javelin, the excitement of the chase, and the study of the arts of war, were in turn resorted to, to soothe his spirit, and occupy his time. From childhood he had manifested a predilection for arms, and he early familiarized his mind with the history of the first Romans. But the mystery of his birth sat heavy upon him, and all he could extort from his nurse, was, that he was of noble parents, but that farther knowledge might be the prelude to his destruction. The care with which his existence was concealed from the world; the mystery which hung over him; and the obscure hints which increased rather than diminished his anxiety, all preyed upon his mind, and added to the miseries of his situation.

Twice each year Theodoric and Gilimer visited the banks of the Euphrates, and always met a hearty welcome at the hands of Ecebolus. But they were now received with caution as well as affection; and after a few days' sojourn, were dismissed with anxiety. Twice during these visits, Theodoric was awakened in the night, and hurried away to the mountains.

When he had attained his twentieth year, the restraints by which he was surrounded became insufferable; and he determined to force every barrier, and make his way into the world. 'I have been guilty of no crime; I have wronged no man; I have done the world no injustice; then why should I,' exclaimed the noble youth, be shut up in the mountains, like a robber! No,' he continued, as he wiped a tear from his eyes, I will seek the camp, and win my way to death or glory, under the eagles of the empire!'

The youth departed stealthily from his solitary abode, and after many vicissitudes, arrived safely in Italy, at that time the theatre of a bloody war. Theoditus, the king of the Goths, after a feeble struggle to maintain a crown which he purchased with crime, and which he afterward proved himself unworthy to wear, had been defeated and slain by the legions of Belisarius, who were then in possession of Rome. But the Goths were not disheartened by the loss of their capital; and Vitiges, a successful general in the Illyrian war, was raised by the voice of the soldiery to the head of the nation. A spirit of resistance animated the barbarians; and in a short time Vitiges could boast, that one hundred and fifty thousand fighting men marched under his banner to the siege of Rome. Theodoric, pursuing the Appian Way, which, after a lapse of nine centuries, still preserved its primitive beauty, came in sight of the capital, a few days before the besieging army crossed the Tiber, and commenced the attack upon the city.

As he entered the Asinarian gate, he heard the shouts of the soldiers in the direction of Hadrian's Sepulchre, and with rapid steps he hastened thither. He felt his heart beat quick, as he approached and beheld the eagles under which Cæsar, Pompey, Scilla, Scipio, and others, carried among the nations of the earth the terror and glory