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Here poor Kate's voice quiveredand, after one or two ineffectual attempts to sing the next line, she sobbed, and ceased playing. She remained for several minutes, her face buried in her handkerchief, shedding tears. At length, "I'll play the last verse," thought she, "and then sit down before the fire, and read over the evening service, (feeling for her little prayer-book,) before I return to poor mamma." With a firmer hand
and voice she proceeded― "Father of Heaven! in whom our hopes confide,
Whose power defends us, and whose precepts guide
In life our guardian, and in death our friend,
Glory supreme be thine, till time shall end!"
She played and sung these lines with a kind of solemn energy; and she felt as if a ray of heavenly light had trembled for a moment upon her upturned eye. She had not been, as she had supposed, alone; in the farthest corner of the room had been all the while sitting her brother-too exquisitely touched by the simplicity and goodness of his sweet sister, to apprise her of his presence. Several times his feelings had nearly overpowered him and as she concluded, he arose from his chair, and approaching her, after her first surprise was over,"Heaven bless you, dear Kate!" said he, taking her little hands in his own. Neither of them spoke for a few mo
"I could not have sung a line, or played, if I had known that you were here," said she.
"I thought so, Kate."
"I hope not," replied his sister, faintly, and in tears.
"How did you leave Agnes, Charles?" "She was asleep: she is still very feeble". -Here the door was suddenly opened, and Miss Aubrey's maid entered hastily, exclaiming, "Are you here, ma'am?—or sir ?"
"Here we are," they replied, hurrying towards her; "what is the matter?"
"Oh, madam is talking! She began speaking all of a sudden. She did indeed, sir. She's talking, and"continued the girl, almost breathless. "My mother talking!" exclaimed Aubrey, with an amazed air.
"Oh yes, sir! she is-she is, indeed!"
Miss Aubrey sunk into her brother's arms, overcome for a moment with the sudden and surprising intelligence.
"Rouse yourself, Kate!" he exclaimed with animation; "did I not tell you that Heaven would not forget us? But I must hasten up stairs, to hear the joyful sounds with my own ears and do you follow as soon as you can." Leaving her in the care of her maid, he hastened out of the room up stairs, and was soon at the door of his mother's chamber. He stood for a moment in the doorway, and his straining ears caught the gentle tones of his mother's voice, speaking in a low but cheerful tone. His knees trembled beneath him with joyful excitement. Fearful of trusting himself in her presence till he had become calmer, he noiselessly sunk on the nearest chair, with beating heart and straining ear-ay, every tone of that dear voice thrilled through his heart. But I shall not torture my own or my reader's heart by dwelling upon the scene that ensued. Alas! the venerable sufferer's tongue was indeed loosed; but reason had fled! He listened—he distinguished her words. She supposed that all her childrendead and alive—were romping about
"I don't think I shall ever have her; she spoke of him and his sister heart to play again." as she had spoken to them twenty years ago.
"Be assured, Kate, that submission to the will of God," said Mr Aubrey, as, he with his arm round his sister, they walked slowly to and fro, "is the great lesson to be learned from the troubles of life; and for that purpose they are sent. Let us bear awhile up the waters will not go over heads!"
NO. CCXCV, VOL. XLVII.
As soon as he had made this sad discovery, overwhelmed with grief he staggered out of the room; and motioning his sister, who was entering, into an adjoining apartment, communicated to her the mournful condition of her mother.
LINES ON THE SALE OF THE BLACK Arab, the gift of the
YES! it is well that he should go,
He was a horse for days of old,
Unfit for times so mean and cold,
And that the greedy pedlars knew ;
They cared not, when to stranger-men The courteous monarch's gift was sent;
That link'd therewith, for ever then
The honour of the people went.
They care not that the shameful tale Throughout the wavering East is borne,
Making the sellers, and the sale,
A mark for just and hostile scorn.
What though with throbbing hearts
Strange terrors rushing from afar,
The stealthy tread of Russian war?
Great thoughts, great deeds, and feelings high,
The sunshine of our British past, All they can neither sell nor buy,
To heaven or hell away they cast.
Yes! it is well that he should go,
The matchless present of a king, From ends so vile, and thoughts so low,
As round the soul of England cling.
The spirit of his Arab sires
Would droop, as though in fetters
With no reflection of its fires,
England of yore was full of men
Of lion-port and eagle-ken,
Fit riders for the Arab horse.
His high heart, then, like mingling flame,
Into their brightness would have flow'd ;
And, in his generous veins, the same Free spirit would have lived and glow'd.
Such were the fearless few who stood
On freedom's primal altar-stone.
Such were the giants who upsprung
When, from our arms and hearts, we
The fragments of the papal chain.
Such who, in old manorial halls,
Which yet with loyal echoes ring, Live still along the storied walls
In armour for an outraged king.
Knights who at Naseby stood, and died
Unbroken by the Roundhead boor, Or from broad death-wounds swell'd the tide
Of faithful blood on Marston moor.
But Faith, and Truth, and Chivalry,
And emanating powers, have fled; The veins of the worn earth are dry, By which each mighty growth was fed.
Scarce, through the gathering dimness, One
True-hearted heir of ancient worth Shines, like the last ray of the sun, The night before the floods went forth.
The rest are shadows of an-hour,
A sapless, bloodless, boneless throng, Without the spirit, or the power,
For noble right, or strenuous wrong.
Amid the fog, and icy gloom,
Round wither'd heart, and stunted
We have not sympathy, or room
Then freely let the Arab go,
That matchless present of a king, From ends so vile, and thoughts so
As round the soul of England cling.
BALLADS FROM THE ROMAIC.
BY WILLIAM E. AYTOUN.
CHARON AND HIS CHARGE.
Τί εἶναι μαῦρα τὰ βουνὰ, καὶ στέκουν βουρκωμένα;
WHY look the distant mountains so gloomy and so drear?
The young men march before him, in all their strength and pride;
The old men walk behind him-and earnestly they pray,
"O Charon! halt, we pray thee, beside some little town,
"I will not stay my journey, nor halt by any town-
THE VOICE FROM THE TOMB.
Σάββατον ὅλον πίναμε, τὴν κύριακ ̓ ὅλ ̓ ἡμέρα.
Two days we held our festival-two days we feasted high;
I took the first frequented path: it brought me to a cave-
One stood apart from all the rest-one low and lonely bed; .
"What hast thou there, O lonely tomb?-what cause disturbs thy rest?
"Remove thy foot from off my head, thou stranger of the night, And trouble not the sleep of him who fought his country's fight; For I have been a young man too, in glory and in might,
And wander'd on the mountain side when the moon was shining bright."
Κόρη, όντας φιλιάμαστον, νύκτα ητον, ποιὸς μᾶς εἶδε ;
"WHEN I was in thy chamber,
Then who could tell, or who reveal,
"The lady moon was peeping,
A sailor caught the whisper,
Who bore no love to me,
And sang, before a maiden's door,
Σηκόνομαι πολὺ ταχυὰ, δύ' ὥραις ὅσον νὰ φέξῃ.
Two hours before the dawning, while yet the night-stars gleam,
My comrades lie around me; but yet they do not sleep.
"What shall I say, my children?-how answer to your call?
"Your hands, my brave ones! raise me-once more erect I stand,
Then bring me wine, bright sparkling, that I may drink and die!
"O! were I on the mountains-the mountains wild and free!
MR PRENDEVILLE'S MILTON.
i. e. under that West Indian tree, the produce of which is the invariable companion of the yam or potato. "Yams and plantains" is the first cry which refreshes the ear of the voyagers on arriving at Jamaica, or any other island of the Caribbean seas; and the potato having so long run in Mr Prendeville's head, it is no wonder that the association of ideas should lead him to think of its companion, the plantain. Even in poetry they are linked together as well as in the market; for thus sings Waller in his Battle of the Summer Islands"With candy'd plantains and the juicy pine,
On choicest melons, and sweet grapes they dine,
And with potatoes fat their wanton swine."
There is something romantic in this picturesque appearance of Adam for the first time, and it must be consolatory to the friends of Negro emancipa
tion. It is no great stretch of fancy to suppose, that as Adam was under a plantain he was over a potato, which indeed the context in some measure justifies us in supposing. We may suppose that he was occupied in heartily regaling himself with a copious mess of that most prolific of plants, (see Collins's highly instructive note on Thersites's "Devil luxury with his potato finger," in Troilus and Cressida, act v. sc. ii.,) in anticipation of the visit of her who is first told that she
Of Baälim and Ashtaroth."
B. i. 419-22. Which gives Mr Prendeville an opportunity of narrating some reminiscences of his youth.
"In Ireland-at least in the southwestern part-the Baal Thinnih,' called in English Bonefire,' by the peasantry, is celebrated on St John's eve. It is a day and night of great merrymaking. I have myself joined, when a boy, in the amusement and the ceremony. Close by each farm-house a fire is kindled in the evening, and the cattle are brought to it: if they
Milton's Paradise Lost, with copious notes, explanatory and critical, partly selected from the various commentators, and partly original, and a memoir of his life. By James Prendeville, B.A., Editor of Livy. London: Holdsworth, 1840. 4+1xiv +452.