ha!—there they were-my wife and my child! I took them both in my arms-I hurried from the house—I carried them into the wood. I concealed them in a cavernI watched over them, and lay beside them—and played with the worms that played with them—ha! ha! ha!—it was a jovial time that, in the old cavern!

And so when they were all gone but the bones I buried them quietly, and took my way to my home. My father was dead, and my brothers hoped that I was dead also. But I turned them out of the house, and took possession of the titles and the wealth. And then I went to see the doting old woman who had nursed me; and they showed me where she slept—a little green mound in the churchyard, and I wept-oh, so bitterly! I never shed a tear for my wife-orr-ha! ha! ha !—for my beautiful child!

And so I lived happily enough for a short time; but at last they discovered I was the unknown philosopher-the divine poet whom the world rung of. And the crowd came and the mob beset me-and my rooms were filled with eyes—large, staring eyes, all surveying me from head to foot--and peals of laughter and shrieks wandered about the air like disembodied and damned spirits—and I was never alone again!

THE BROKEN CHAIN.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

"Lift not the festal mask!"-Scott.

I AM free! I have burst through my heavy chain,

The life of young eagles is mine again!

I

may cleave with my bark the glad sounding sea,

I may rove where the wind roves--my path is free!

The streams dash in joy down the tameless hill.
The birds pierce the depths of the skies at will;
The arrow goes forth with the singing breeze-
And is not my spirit as one of these?

Oh! the glad earth, with its wealth of flowers,
And the voices that ring through its forest-bowers,
And the laughing glance of the founts that shine,
Lighting its valleys !—all, all are mine!

I may urge through the desert my foaming steed,
The wings of the morning shall lend him speed,
I may meet the storm in its rushing glee,
Its blasts and its lightnings are not more free!

Captive! and hast thou then riven thy chain?
Art thou free in the wilderness, free on the main?
Yes! these thy spirit may proudly soar,

But must thou not mingle with crowds once more?

The bird, when he pineth, may cease his song,
Till the hour when his heart shall again be strong;
But thou-wilt thou turn in thy woe aside,

And weep midst thy brethren?—no, not for pride!

May the fiery word from thy lip find way,

When the thought burning in thee would rush to day?—
May the love or the grief of thy haunted breast,
Look forth from thy features, the banquet's guest ?-

No! with the shaft in thy bosom borne,

Thou must hide the wound from the eye of scorn,
Thou must fold the mantle that none may see,
And mask thee with laughter, and say thou art free.

Free!-thou art bound, till thy race is run,
By the might of all on the soul of one!

On thy heart, on thy lip, must the fetter be-
Dreamer, fond dreamer! oh! who is free?

TRANSFORMATION.

BY MRS. SHELLEY.

I HAVE heard it said, that when any strange, supernatural, and necromantic adventure has occurred to a human being, that being, however desirous he may be to conceal the same, feels at certain periods torn up as it were by an intellectual earthquake, and is forced to bare the inner depths of his spirit to another. I am a witness of the truth of this. I have dearly sworn to myself never to reveal to human ears the horrors to which I once, in excess of fiendly pride, delivered myself over. The holy man who heard my confession, and reconciled me to the church, is dead.

knows that once

None

Why should it not be thus? Why tell a tale of impious tempting of Providence, and soul-subduing humiliation ? Why? answer me, ye who are wise in the secrets of human nature! I only know that so it is; and in spite of strong resolve of a pride that too much masters me-of shame, and even of fear, so to render myself odious to my species -I must speak.

Genoa! my birth-place-proud city! looking upon the blue waves of the Mediterranean sea-dost thou remember me in my boyhood, when thy cliffs and promontories, thy bright sky and gay vineyards, were my world? Happy time! when to the young heart the narrow-bounded uni

verse, which leaves, by its very limitation, free scope to the imagination, enchains our physical energies, and, sole period in our lives, innocence and enjoyment are united. Yet, who can look back to childhood, and not remember its sorrows and its harrowing fears? I was born with the most imperious, haughty, tameless spirit, with which ever mortal was gifted. I quailed before my father only; and he, generous and noble, but capricious and tyrannical, at once fostered and checked the wild impetuosity of my character, making obedience necessary, but inspiring no respect for the motives which guided his commands. To be a man, free, independent; or, in better words, insolent and domineering, was the hope and prayer of my rebel heart.

My father had one friend, a wealthy Genoese noble, who in a political tumult was suddenly sentenced to banishment, and his property confiscated. The Marchese Torella went into exile alone. Like my father, he was a widower: he had one child, the almost infant Juliet, who was left under my father's guardianship. I should certainly have been an unkind master to the lovely girl, but that I was forced by my position to become her protector. A variety of childish incidents all tended to one point, to make Juliet see in me a rock of refuge; I in her, one, who must perish through the soft sensibility of her nature too rudely visited, but for my guardian care. We grew up together. The opening rose in May was not more sweet than this dear girl. An irradiation of beauty was spread over her face. Her form, her step, her voice-my heart weeps even now, to think of all of relying, gentle, loving, and pure, that was enshrined in that celestial tenement. When I was eleven, and Juliet eight years of age, a cousin of mine, much older than either he seemed to us a man-took great notice of my playmate; he called her his bride, and asked her to marry him. She refused, and he insisted, drawing her un

willingly towards him. With the countenance and emotions of a maniac I threw myself on him—I strove to draw his sword-I clung to his neck with the ferocious resolve to strangle him he was obliged to call for assistance to disengage himself from me. On that night I led Juliet to the chapel of our house: I made her touch the sacred relics-I harrowed her child's heart, and profaned her child's lips with an oath, that she would be mine, and mine only.

Well, those days passed away. Torella returned in a few years, and became wealthier and more prosperous than ever. When I was seventeen my father died; he had been magnificent to prodigality; Torella rejoiced that my minority would afford an opportunity for repairing my fortunes. Juliet and I had been affianced beside my father's death-bed-Torella was to be a second parent to me.

I desired to see the world, and I was indulged. I went to Florence, to Rome, to Naples; thence I passed to Toulon, and at length reached what had long been the bourne of my wishes, Paris. There was wild work in Paris then. The poor king, Charles the Sixth, now sane, now mad, now a monarch, now an abject slave, was the very mockery of humanity. The queen, the dauphin, the Duke of Burgundy, alternately friends and foes-now meeting in prodigal feasts, now shedding blood in rivalry-were blind to the miserable state of their country, and the dangers that impended over it, and gave themselves wholly up to dissolute enjoyment or savage strife. My character still followed me. I was arrogant and self-willed; I loved display, and, above all, I threw all control far from me. Who could control me in Paris? My young friends were eager to foster passions which furnished them with pleasures. I was deemed handsome-I was master of every knightly accomplishment. I was disconnected with any political party. I grew a favourite with all: my presumption and