Scaling yonder peak,
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow
O'er the abyss-his broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
By the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively
I bent my bow; yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight

Of measuring the ample range beneath,
And round about absorb'd, he heeded not

The death that threatened him-I could not shoot"Twas liberty!-I turned my bow aside,

And let him soar away!

Heavens, with what pride I used
To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
And bless him that it was so. It was free-
Free as our torrents are, that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys, without asking leave;
Or as our peaks, that wear their caps of snow
In very presence of the regal sun.
How happy was it then! I loved

Its very storms. Yes, Emma, I have sat
In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring. I have sat, and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.
You know the jutting cliff round which a track
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow
To such another one, with scanty room
For two abreast to pass? O'ertaken there
By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat along,
And while gust followed gust more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,
And I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just

Have wish'd me there-the thought, that mine was free,
Has check'd that wish, and I have raised my head,
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,

low on; this is the land of liberty!

GENEVRA.

A pathetic Tale adapted for Recitation. By S.ROGERS, ESQ.

If ever you should go to Modena,
(Where among other relics you may see
Tassoni's bucket-but 'tis not the true one),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its nobi gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you-but, before you go,
Enter the house-forget it not, I pray you-
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by Zampieri-but by whom I care not.
He who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.

She sits inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

A coronet of pearls.

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,

The overflowings of an innocent heart

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent,
With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robe of some old ancestor-
That by the way-it may be true or false—

But don't forget the picture; and you will not, When you have heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child-her name Genevra ; The joy, the pride of an indulgent father; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was, all gentleness, all gaiety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come-the day, the hour:
Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
""Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd,
But that she was not!

Weary of this life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking,
Flung away in battle with the Turk.
Donati lived and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remain'd awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When on an idle day, a day of search

'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said,
By one as young, as thoughtless as Genevra,
"Why not remove it from its lurking place?"
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell-and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold,
All else had perish'd-save a wedding ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"Genevra."

There then had she found a grave:
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever !❤

SCENE FROM THE CASTLE SPECTRE. Hassan. In vain have I paced the river's banks, and pierced the grove's deepest recesses. Nor glen nor thicket have I passed unexplored, yet found no stranger to whom Kenrick's description could apply.

Saib. Saw you no one?

Has. A troop of horsemen passed me as I left the wood.

Saib. Horsemen, say you? then Kenrick may be right. Earl Percy has discovered Angela's abode, and lurks near the castle in hopes of carrying her off.

Has. His hopes then will be vain. Osmond's vigilance will not easily be eluded, sharpened by those powerful motives, love and fear.

Saib. His love, I know; but should he lose Angela, what has he to fear?

Has. If Percy gains her-every thing! supported by such wealth and power, dangerous would be her claim to these domains, should her birth be discovered. Of this, Osmond is aware; nor did he sooner hear that

On this tale the Opera of the "The Spring Lock," and the Song of "The Misletoe Bough," are founded.

Percy loved her than he hastened to remove her from Allan's care.

Saib. Think you, the lady perceives that our master loves her?

Has. I know she does not. Absorbed in her own passion for Percy, on Osmond she bestows no thought, and, while roving through these pompous halls and chambers, sighs for the Cheviot hills and Allan's humble cottage.

Saib. But as she still believes Percy to be a low-born swain, when Osmond lays his coronet at her feet will she reject his rank and splendour ?

Has. If she loves well, she will, Saib. I too have loved! I have known how painful it was to leave her on whom my heart hung; how incapable was all else to supply her loss! I have exchanged want for plenty, fatigue for rest, a wretched hut for a splendid palace. But am I happier?-oh no! still do I regret my native land, and the partner of my poverty. Then toil was sweet to me, for I laboured for my Samba! then repose ever blessed my bed of leaves, for there by my side lay Samba sleeping.

Saib. This from you, Hassan? Did love ever find a place in your flinty bosom ?

Has. Did it!-oh, Said, my heart once was gentle, once was good! But sorrows have broken it, insults have made it hard! I have been dragged from my native land, from a wife who was every thing to me, to whom I was every thing! Twenty years have elapsed since these Christians tore me away; they trampled upon my heart, mocked my despair, and when in frantic terms I raved of Samba, laughed and wondered how a negro's heart could feel! In that moment, when the last point of Africa faded from my view, when as I stood on the vessel's deck I felt that all I loved was to me lost for ever, in that moment did I banish humanity from my heart. I tore from my arm the brace. let of Samba's hair; I gave to the sea the precious token, and while the waves swift bore it from me, vowed aloud eternal hatred to mankind. I have kept my oath I will keep it.