in a changed and hollow voice. "Get thy wounds healed, purvey thee a better horse, and it may be I will hold it worth my while to scourge out of thee this boyish spirit of bravade."

"Ha! proud Templar," said Ivanhoe, "hast thou forgotten that twice thou didst fall before this lance? Remember the lists at Acre-remember the Passage of Arms at Ashbyremember thy proud vaunt in the halls of Rotherwood, and the gage of your gold chain against my reliquary, that thou wouldst do battle with Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and recover the honour thou hadst lost! By that reliquary, and the holy relic it contains, I will proclaim thee, Templar, a coward in every court in Europe-unless thou do battle without further delay."

Bois-Guilbert turned his countenance irresolutely towards Rebecca, and then exclaimed, looking fiercely at Ivanhoe, Dog of a Saxon! take thy lance, and prepare for the death thou hast drawn upon thee!"

66

"Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?" said Ivanhoe.

"I may not deny what thou hast challenged," said the Grand Master, "provided the maiden accepts thee as her champion. Yet I would thou wert in better plight to do battle. An enemy of our Order hast thou ever been, yet would I have thee honourably met with."

"Thus-thus as I am, and not otherwise," said Ivanhoe; "it is the judgment of God—to His keeping I commend myself.-Rebecca," said he, riding up to the fatal chair, "dost thou accept of me for thy champion?"

"I do," she said, "I do,"-fluttered by an emotion which the fear of death had been unable to produce-"I do accept thee as the champion whom Heaven hath sent me. Yet, nono-thy wounds are uncured. Meet not that proud manwhy shouldst thou perish also?"

But Ivanhoe was already at his post, and had closed his visor and assumed his lance. Bois-Guilbert did the same; and his esquire remarked, as he clasped his visor, that his face, which had, notwithstanding the variety of emotions by which he had been agitated, continued during the whole morning of an ashy paleness, was now become suddenly very much flushed.

The herald, then, seeing each champion in his place, uplifted his voice, repeating thrice- "Faites vos devours, preux chevaliers!" After the third cry, he withdrew to one side of the lists, and again proclaimed that none, on peril of instant death, should dare, by word, cry, or action, to interfere with

or disturb this fair field of combat. The Grand Master, who held in his hand the gage of battle, Rebecca's glove, now threw it into the lists, and pronounced the fatal words, "Laissez aller."

The trumpets sounded, and the knights charged each other in full career. The wearied horse of Ivanhoe, and its no less exhausted rider, went down, as all had expected, before the well-aimed lance and vigorous steed of the Templar. This issue of the combat all had foreseen; but although the spear of Ivanhoe did but, in comparison, touch the shield of BoisGuilbert, that champion, to the astonishment of all who beheld it, reeled in his saddle, lost his stirrips, and fell in the lists.

Ivanhoe, extricating himself from his fallen horse, was soon on foot, hastening to mend his fortune with his sword; but his antagonist arose not. Wilfred, placing his foot on his breast, and the sword's point to his throat, commanded him to yield him, or die on the spot. Bois-Guilbert returned no

answer.

"Slay him not, Sir Knight," cried the Grand Master, “unshriven and unabsolved-kill not body and soul! We allow him vanquished."

He descended into the lists, and commanded them to unhelm the conquered champion. His eyes were closed-the dark red flush was still on his brow. As they looked on him in astonishment, the eyes opened-but they were fixed and glazed. The flush passed from his brow, and gave way to the palid hue of death. Unscathed by the lance of his enemy, he had died a victim to the violence of his own contending passions.

"This is indeed the judgment of God," said the Grand Master, looking upwards-" Fiat voluntas tua!"

-Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhoe.

CLARENCE'S DREAM.

SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY.

DUKE OF CLARENCE.

Brak. WHY looks your grace so heavily to-day?
Clar. O, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days;
So full of dismal terror was the time.

Brak. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me.
Clar. Methought that I had broken from the Tower
And was embarked to cross to Burgundy;

And in my company my brother Gloster,
Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches; there we look'd toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy times,
During the wars of York and Lancaster,
That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Gloster stumbled, and, in falling,
Struck me (that thought to stay him) overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.

O Lord! methought what pain it was to drown!
What dreadful noise of water in mine ears,
What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!
Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks;
A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,

All scatter'd in the bottom of the sea.

Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept,
As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep,
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.
Brak. Had you such leisure in that time of death
To gaze upon these secrets of the deep?

Clar. Methought I had; and often did I strive
To yield the ghost; but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it forth
To find the empty, vast, and wand'ring air;
But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to belch it in the sea.
Brak. Awak'd you not in this sore agony?
Clar. Ah, no, my dream was lengthened after life ;
O, then began the tempest to my soul!

I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

The first that there did greet my stranger soul
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick,
Who cried aloud,-" What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?"
And so he vanish'd: Then came wandering by

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud,—
"Clarence is come,-false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,-
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury;—
Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments!"-
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell,
Such terrible impression made my dream.

Brak. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. O, Brakenbury, I have done these things,-
That now give evidence against my soul,—
For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me!
O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease Thee,
But Thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds,

Yet execute Thy wrath on me alone:

O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!

I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;

My soul is heavy and I fain would sleep.

Brak. I will, my lord; God give your grace good rest!

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,—

[Clar. retires.

Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.

Princes have but their titles for their glories,

An outward honour for an inward toil;

And, for unfelt imaginations,

They often feel a world of restless cares:

So that between their titles and low name,

There's nothing differs but the outward fame.-Shakespeare.

WRECK OF THE GOLDEN BEE.

[By kind permission of CHARLES DICKENS, Esq.]

PART I.

LADEN with precious merchandise, the growth of Chinese soil, And costly work of Chinese hands, the patient wealth of toil, Over the wave with outspread sails, like white-winged bird at

sea,

Swiftly, gaily, homeward bound, sped on the Golden Bee.

Blithe was the Captain's gallant heart, for things had prospered well,

Soon should he reach his home on shore with much good news to tell;

Good news for his Parsee merchants, and for the fair young

wife,

Whose sweet affection made the joy and beauty of his life.

Soon should he kiss his bonnie boy, and hold him on his knee, Awhile he'd listen eager-eyed to stories of the sea;

Soon should he kiss his latest-born, and then the Captain smiled,

Smiled father-like to think of HER, his little unseen child.

Hark! what terrific cry was that of horror and affright, Which broke like some tempestuous sound the stillness of the night,

Rousing the crew from rest and sleep to tremble with dismay, Waking the Captain's sunny dreams of harbour far away?

Oh, Captain, wake! 'Tis but a dream—the harbour is not won, Thou dost not clasp thy Mary's hand, or kiss thy little son; Thy baby sweetly sleeps ashore--that shore is far from theeOh, Captain, wake! for none but God can save thy Golden Bee.

"FIRE!"-'twas an awful sound to hear on solitary seas, With double danger in the breath of every fresh'ning breeze; An awful sight is was to see the vessel all alight,

As if a blazing meteor dropped into the darksome night.

Foremost and calm amid his crew the Captain gave command, Nor backward in a moment's need to help with skilful hand, Awhile the courage in his voice and firmness on his brow Imparted strength and hope to hearts which ne'er had drooped till now.

"Get out the boats!" with firm quick voice the short command was said,

And no man spoke, but straight and swift the order was obeyed;

Then one by one the crew stepped forth-but all looked back with tears,

Upon the bonnie Golden Bee, their home of many years.