could not avoid feeling moved by the vehemence of Leopold's manner, “it is not any more in my power to unite you than to increase the space which separates you. Pray calm your emotion, and arm yourself with Christian patience to endure those evils which must be the lot of all of us in this world." "Is she here?" cried Leopold impatiently.

"My son, she is not," replied the abbess.

"But she has been here?"

"It is very true that she has been here, but she has departed hence."

"When did she go, and whither? Tell me, and the speed of the winds of Heaven shall not equal mine in pursuit of her."

Again I say to you, be patient! Remember that sorrow and suffering are the lot of mortals, and that it is by them alone we can hope to enjoy that true happiness which is in Heaven."

Leopold would have rushed from the room without listening to any more of the old lady's exhortations, but the desire of learning whither Laura had gone restrained him.

"If you will moderate that transport, which even now shakes your every limb, and will promise to bear like a man that which man is born to suffer, I will tell you whither our dear sister is departed."

Leopold bowed. There was a solemnity in the manner of the old lady's last address to him which shocked him. He had thought that to find the place of Laura's abode was to be happy. Now, for the first time, he began to think that some sinister accident might have happened, more fatal to his hopes than even her flight.

"I do promise," he said, and the blood receded from his cheeks as he gazed almost breathless on the abbess.

"The track of many years had obliterated, I thought, the very scars of former sorrows from my heart," said the

abbess, as her eyes streamed with tears; " but the sight of your sufferings makes me feel the old wounds again. My son, the sister Laura has gone to her home-she is dead!" Leopold gasped, and looked in stupid astonishment for a moment- —then fell at the old lady's feet, as if a thunderbolt had struck him.

At length, the cares of the persons whom the abbess had summoned to his assistance were successful; he slowly opened his eyes, and, as the recollection of the fatal information he had received recurred to him, a cold shuddering convulsed his frame.

"Tell me, when did she die?" he asked, in a scarcely audible tone.

66

“Five days ago” replied the abbess; " and yesterday she was buried."

Leopold groaned deeply. He sunk back in despair. "The fiend triumphs!” he said; “it is in vain to contend further. The last blow is now struck."

After a few minutes he recovered again, and, fixing his lustreless eyes upon the abbess, he said, "Lead me, I implore you, to her grave."

The abbess, hoping that the sight of this melancholy spot might, by exciting his tears, assuage that mortal agony which racked his heart, complied with his request.

The old priest and the porter supported him, for his own limbs almost refused their office; and, followed by the abbess and the nuns, all of whom wept at the piteous spectacle which Leopold exhibited, they proceeded towards the convent cemetery. Leopold never raised his head from the shoulder of the kind priest until they stopped.

“Here,” said the father, “is the low grave in which lies she whom you loved, and who was the personification of beauty and virtue.”

Leopold looked up. One glance was enough-the well

known spot, which nothing could have erased from his memory, was before him. The ivy-covered wall--the tall cypresses-the white tablet, on which the moonbeams fell with a silvery lustre the sparkling marble spires of the convent in the back ground-all convinced him at once that this was the cemetery of Santa Croce—that the spot on which he stood was that predestined to be his grave.

Once he looked round, as if to assure himself-once he gazed on the grave of his Laura, where the flowers strewed by her weeping companions lay yet unwithered-then turned his eyes to the dark blue sky, and, sinking again upon the shoulder of the priest without speaking a word, and uttering but one long sigh, his spirit fled for ever.

In that spot he was buried, and on that space in the wall was a tablet placed, with no other inscription than his name.

THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY.
A Romantic Legend.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY,

This story is related by Matthew of Westminster, and Olaus Magnus; and is also to be found in the Nuremberg Chronicle.

THE raven croak'd as she sat at her meal,

And the Old Woman knew what he said,

And she grew pale at the raven's tale,

And sicken'd, and went to her bed.

"Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed," The Old Woman of Berkeley said,

"The monk my son, and my daughter the nun;

Bid them hasten, or I shall be dead "

The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,

Their way to Berkeley went,

And they have brought, with pious thought,

The holy sacrament.

The Old Woman shriek'd as they enter'd her door. "Twas fearful her shrieks to hear; "Now take the sacrament away,

For mercy, my children dear !”

Her lip it trembled with agony,
The sweat ran down her brow,
"I have tortures in store for ever more,
Oh! spare me, my children, now!"
Away they sent the sacrament;

The fit it left her weak,

She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes,
And faintly struggled to speak.

"All kind of sin I have rioted in,
And the judgment now must be ;
But I secured my children's souls,
Oh! pray, my children, for me!

I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes,
The fiends have been my slaves :
I have 'nointed myself with infants' fat,
And feasted on rifled graves.

And the Fiend will fetch me now in fire,

My witchcrafts to atone ;

And I, who have rifled the dead man's grave,

Shall never have rest in my own.

Bless, I entreat, my winding sheet,

My children, I beg of you

!

And with holy water sprinkle my shroud,

And sprinkle my coffin too.

And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone,
And fasten it strong I implore

With iron bars; and let it be chain'd

With three chains to the church floor.

And bless the chains, and sprinkle them,
And let fifty priests stand round,
Who night and day the mass may say
Where I lie on the ground.

And let fifty choristers be there,

The funeral dirge to sing,

Who day and night, by the tapers' light,

Their aid to me may bring.

Let the church bells all, both great and small,

Be toll'd by night and day,

To drive from thence the fiends who come

To bear my corpse away.

And ever have the church door barr'd

After the even song;

And I beseech you, children dear,

Let the bars and bolts be strong.

And let this be three days and nights,

My wretched corpse to save;

Preserve me so long from the fiendish throng,
And then I may rest in my grave."

The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down,
And her eyes grew deadly dim,

Short came her breath, and the struggle of death

Did loosen every limb.

They bless'd the Old Woman's winding sheet With rites and prayers as due;

With holy water they sprinkled her shroud,

And they sprinkled her coffin too.