"I see the love-lock of thy bride, my gentle sister Madeline; Whiter than the sea-creek, chafing nightly in the sad moonshine; Grayer than the sunless snow-drift clinging to the summer crag Grayer than the death-lock gathered from the poll of a strangled hag." May HE shield us, good Sir Bertrand; it was only yesternight, Once, and twice, and thrice I kissed it in the swinging cresset light, And I saw it brown and golden as the antlers of the deer, When their great heads bourgeon, oak-like, in the spring-time of the year." "SPUR ON;"-they galloped o'er the swarth; they plunged into the roaring ford; The riders' brows were damp with sweat; the swift strong horses' flanks were gored; Upon glittering plume and bonnet the hot sun of July shone, And ever cried the frighted count, "SPUR ON, SPUR ON, good friends, SPUR ON." High on the swart ridge of a hill they paused a little space for breath, The long, green valley of Rennay, with many a brook, sheamed underneath; A funeral train crept up the slopes, with holy chants, and sacred rights, With cowled priests, and wimpled nuns, and singing clerks and acolytes. And, in the middle of the train, prone on a bier of satin fair, Did sleep the Lady Madeline, a white rose in her ashbud hair; Her sad palms clasped above her breast, in the mute trustfulness of faith, And on her cheek and on her lids, the mystic presences of— DEATH. Down rode Count Abel from the group, and reined his horse beside the dead, Looked in her face, and to her brow he slowly bent his plumèd head. O Heaven," he cried aloud, and sudden dropped ilken rein, misdeed assoils my soul that thou hast cut my in twain?" Then rising, to the blinded heavens he stretched his hands despairing forth, Shrieked, reeled aslant his saddle bows, and, falling headlong, smote the earth. Yet clutched he fondly in his hand the locket rich with jewels fair, And rounding in its goodly orb the white prophetic lock of hair. Still up the valley passed the train, with holy chants and pious rights, With cowled priests, and wimpled nuns, and singing clerks and acolytes. But men aver the lady's eyes did slowly open bright and broad, And looked, upon the fallen count, sweet pity, and the peace of God. -All the Year Round. A ROUGH DIAMOND. SIR WILLIAM EVERGREEN, MARGERY, and JOE. Sir W. Now, my dear, that we are alone, I must tell you that your behaviour has been abominable. Mar. Oh! has it? Now if I didn't think I was quite the lady! Sir W. What with your directions respecting your animals, and your reference to your cousin Joe, and the old woman your schoolmistress, and your ridiculous eulogium on the uniform of the yeomanry, I thought I should have taken to my heels and have run out of the house. Mar. I wish you had-I know I should have got on much better without you at my elbow. And as for my cousin Joe, he may be a stupid fellow and all that, but he's a very good fellow, and if he don't know how to make a proper bow, or a long speech like you do-such as when I've heard you practising to yourself about railroads, and borrowing money, and taxes, and the state of the nation, and situation of the population, and that horrible education-he can talk so as I can understand him, and that's more than I always can when you talk—and anybody else, for the matter o' that. And if I did like the sojers I used to see so often, what harm was there in that? I'm sure the captain was a fine man, a very fine man, whiskers and all, and I've often looked at him till I've felt as if I could eat him. Sir W. I know that you mean no harm-I know that your heart is pure; but you must learn to be conscious of your present station in society. The diamond, though of value in its rough and original state, must be polished and set before it can be worn. Now, to-day, when I rang for the cook and wished you to commence giving your own orders for dinner, and had previously practised you in the pronunciation of asking for cabillaud au gratin poulet roti-pomme de terre bute Mar. Well, I couldn't recollect it, and so I thought it best to ask for what I liked better than anything. Sir W. And are you aware what you did ask for? Sir W. And didn't you perceive the vain endeavour of the servant to conceal his laughter? didn't you perceive my face suffused with blushes? Mar. Well, I speak according to my knowledge, and I know I always speak the truth and what I want to say, without any beating about the bush; and that's much better than being deceitful and making believe to be glad to see people when you really wish 'em at Jericho, and go grinning and smiling up to 'em, and shaking hands, when in your heart you'd like to shake 'em inside out-and make use of fine words and say beautiful things when you don't mean it. may call it polish if you like, but I call it telling lies. Sir W. But the usages of society-the You Mar. I don't care! I shall follow my own usages, and I begin this morning by packing off my French master and my music master; and as for the dancing master, if he dares come here again and make my feet ache as he did yesterday, I'll break his little fiddle over his head for him! SIR WILLIAM retires. Enter a SERVANT. Serv. If you please, ma'am, there is an individual asking for you-says his name is Cousin Joe. COUSIN JOE appears at the back. Joe. This must be the house-I found the gate open, and the Nag's Head told me this was Sir William's, and he's the gentleman that married my cousin, and What, Margery! Why, bless us ! Mar. What, Joe, is it you? how d'ye do, Joe? Well, I am glad to see you! Well, and how are you, cousin Joe? Joe. Oh, I'm very well, thank ye! r. What's brought you here? come to see me? Joe. Yes. Mar. That's right. You see, mother Joe. I'm going up to a place in London. knows somebody there, and as I didn't care much about farming, and always had I kind o' sort o' notion of being a bit of a gentleman, why, they said I was cut out for sarvice; and the end of it is, I'm going to London to be a page to a fine lady. Mar. La! Joe! Joe. The very thing for a genteel youth like me, they say. I ain't to wear these clothes then. No, I'm to be all over buttons, and have a hat with gold lace, and my hair is to be curled every morning, and I'm to carry letters in to missus on a silver plate, and walk arter her with the lap-dog in the street, and take care nobody's sarcy to her. Mar. Can't you stop here a day or two before you go to your place? we would have such fun-for though my husband has often said that none of my family must come here, as he wanted me to forget all their ways, yet as you are here, I think I could coax him to let you stop. Sit down, Joe-here's a chair. Well, and so- -and how's your mother? Joe. Hearty. Mar. And what's the news?-tell me all you can think of. Has Tom Dixon married Lizzie Turvey yet? Joe. No; they were going to be married only a week ago, and when they got to the church Tom took fright and ran all the way home again, and left Lizzie Turvey crying her eyes out at the porch door. Mar. You don't say so! Well, I always said Tom was a fool. How comfortable this is, to have somebody to talk to in one's own fashion! I do feel so free and easy again! Well, and tell me, Joe, is Dame Willows living? Joe. No-died six months ago. Mar. Did she leave all her money to her nephew, Jem Porter? Joe. You see, Jem made sure of the money, and lived in such style-bought a horse and shay, and went to races, and played nine-pins-when, lo and behold! the old lady died and he found it was all left to a smooth-faced fellow that nobody never heard on, that got somehow or other into the old lady's good books and she had it writ down. It was all because Jem one day kicked her favourite dog, that used to fly at everybody's legs-now the dog's gone to live with a baker, and Jem's in prison for debt. N Mar. And Harry Bacon, what's become of him? Joe. Gone to sea, because Mary Brown took up with a tailor what opened a shop from London. And you recollect Tom Hammer, the blacksmith? Mar. Yes. Joe. Well, if he ain't gone and bought all Merryweather's pigs, I'm a Dutchman! And Merryweather's gone to America, and the eldest daughter's married Sam Holloway, the cutler, and folks say it ain't a good match, because he was a widow with three children, and she might have had Master Pollard the schoolmaster, and he's gone and turned serious and won't let the boys play at no games, and so they're all going away to a new man that'll let them do just what they like; and Will Twig has been found out stealing chickens, and he's in prison; and Johnny Trotter, the postman, has opened a grocer's shop; and they've pulled down the old parsonage and are building a new 'un; and the doctor's got a large lamp over his door, with big blue and red bull's eyes; and there's a new beadle, and all the parish children have got the hooping-cough, and Mrs. Jenkins' cow's dead, and -that's all! Mar. Oh, Joe! I can shut my eyes and see everything and everybody you've been talking about, oh, so plain! and to see you again does seem so like old times. Joe. And didn't we have games? when you used to climb up the cherry-tree, and call out to me, "Joe, come and help me, or I shall tumble down and break something!" Mar. Yes! and Joe, when my father used to take you and I to market, and we used to sit at the bottom of the cart and eat apples. Joe. And when sometimes I used to try to give you a kiss, what knocks on my nose you used to give me! Mar. Ah! didn't I? Joe. And when I got savage how I used to kick you wi' my hob-nail shoes! Oh, how friendly we was-wasn't we? Mar. And how we did sing! Joe. And dance! Mar. And were so happy! Joe. Oh, Margery! Mar. Oh, Joe! [Sir William stands in astonishment.] Sir W. Margery! are you out of your senses! Mar. [to Joe] Don't go away-it's only my husband. Sir W. [to Margery] And are you happier in your homely |