In him who watched, in her who lay IX They do not mock him with their aid-- That they maintain some decent fear!-And thus the maniac howls secure,- Since those--the number not a few,-Who else might crowd his cavern floor,-Would, not unwisely, keep so too. Yet do they listen to his song, Heard through the day, and all night long, When all the scene beside is still, Save one lone echo from the hill, That, as it were to soothe his pain, Sends his wild music back again, A more subdued, yet sullen strain!-A song where madness rules, but where Still lurks the method of despairTrue to a savage grief, that knows No moment of serene repose. Thy palace, and thy jewels thus, X He died! The spirit could not brook JUVENIS. Now, from the dark abodes of men, To some retreat of calm and peace, Fly with me, sweet Matilda then, And all thy woes must cease. Vain would they chide-we may not fear, I've chosen out thy dwelling, love, A rock shall make our seat below, And there's a hanging rock above, The only roof we know. I know a great Magician there-- As lovely as the tomb, the spot-- Until the mountain shakes. There water drops are trickling down, I've caught a moonbeam in a cup, THE CURSE. "But while my guilt's to thee unknown, Yet now her death a blessing proves; "I should like to know the history of this,” said I, raising a long glossy ring of hair, which lay in a small jewel-box in the neatest corner of my aunt's well arranged drawers. A shade passed over her placid face, and her voice trembled as she said "It is the dearest relic I possess of a valued friend. Not a day passes that I do not look on it, and call to mind the last hour it shaded her lovely brow. If you wish to hear her history, my dear, I will this evening read you a sketch of her life. Her picture hangs in my private sitting room." I thanked her, and immediately called to mind a portrait covered with green cloth, which my aunt never allowed any one to raise. Years had intervened since she had looked on it herself. "My dear girl," added my aunt, "you have frequently wished to see that portrait: go now and satisfy your curiosity. Go and look on the image of one who, in beauty and goodness, was little inferior to angels, and prepare yourself to listen to her story." I required no second permission, and in a few moments I was standing before the mysterious picturethe curtain drawn back, and my eyes rivetted on the loveliest face I have ever beheld. The portrait repre for any additional expense that may sented a girl in the first flush and brightness of youth, | on Messrs. and the countenance was radiant with life, hope and be incurred during that period, and after it has expired. joy. It seemed to me to demand something more than It is my wish, madam, that my daughter shall have the mere epithet of beautiful. A proud, impassioned every advantage your seminary affords." spirit beamed from the dark eyes, and a smile, with more of tenderness than mirth in it, slightly curled the deep red lips. I gazed on this glorious creature with unsated delight, until the approach of night concealed her from my view, and my thoughts recurred to the promised narrative. On entering my aunt's room, I was surprised at her appearance. A bright fire burned on the hearth, and her work-stand was drawn before it, on which her head rested in an attitude of deep dejection. Several sheets of closely written paper lay on a chair beside her. On hearing the noise I made at my entrance, she raised her head and said, "Is it you already? I did not think it so late." Her face was deathly pale, and her lips quivered with suppressed emotion. She pointed to a seat near the fire, which I took in silence, for I was too much surprised to speak, at such evident tokens of suffering from one I had deemed incapable of feeling violent passions of any description. My aunt belonged to that reprobated class yclept old maids, and I had adopted the idea, that because she had never married, she must be cold-hearted; for I knew she had once been very handsome, and possessed a large fortune at her own disposal. I, of all creatures, had the least right to suppose this, for she was my friend, my benefactress, and from my early childhood had bestowed on me the care of an affectionate mother. After a few moments spent in endeavoring to compose herself, she took up the papers, and carefully arranging them, said, "I did not suppose the sight of these could have agitated me thus. I thought time had stilled the pulses which throbbed almost to madness when the events here recorded took place." She then proceeded to read the following story: It was late on a cold evening in November, in the year 18, that the mistress of one of the first boarding schools in Philadelphia, was informed that a gentleman wished to speak with her. On entering the parlor, Mrs. Bentham found a tall, elegant looking man, in the prime of life, who immediately addressed her with the ease of one who had been familiar with the most polished society. He held a girl of twelve years of age by the hand, and he informed Mrs. Bentham that he wished to place the child under her care. "You will find her wild and untutored," he remarked, "for she has had no mother to watch over her infancy, and I fear she has been sadly neglected, as my avocations have been such that I could not keep her with me." There was a slight tremor in his voice as he uttered these words, which insensibly interested Mrs. Bentham, and she assured him, that with proper management, any evil habits the little girl had formed would be easily counteracted. "I leave her entirely to you, madam," replied the stranger. "My habits are so desultory, that it is impossible for me to say when I can have her with me. Indeed, it is probable I shall not be able to see you again for some years. I will pay you the expenses of the first three years in advance, and at the end of that Preliminaries were speedily settled, and the daughter of the stranger (who called himself Mr. Floyd,) was received as a pupil in the school. Genevieve Floyd was a sprightly child, and improved rapidly in every branch of education. She remained with Mrs. Bentham five years, and in that time her father had never visited her, though she continued to hear constantly from him, and Mrs. Bentham's bills were regularly discharged. At the age of seventeen, she was as beautiful a fairy as ever tripped over a moon-lit lawn. She was spirited and intelligent, with a most affectionate and ingenuous disposition. She was a general favorite among her young companions, but there was one among them who claimed her most devoted friendship. Mary Adams was an orphan, and a wealthy heiress. She had no pretensions to the surpassing beauty of Genevieve, or the sprightliness of her mind; but she was a gentle, pretty creature, with much deeper feelings than she was generally thought to possess. The two girls were of the same age, and Genevieve, having no home of her own to go to, had been in the habit of spending her vacations with her friend. She now began to look forward to the time when her father would take her home, as her studies were nearly all completed, and she could not help wondering at his silence on the subject. The close of the last session came, and Genevieve had not heard from him for some months. She accompanied Miss Adams to the residence of her guardian, hoping, while there, that she should receive a summons from her mysterious parent to his own abode. Mary Adams was to return to school no more, and she was anticipating, with eager delight, her introduction into society. "You have never seen my cousin Charles," said Miss Adams to her young companion, a few mornings after their arrival in Baltimore. "During all your former visits, he was absent at college." "No, replied Genevieve, "I have never seen him, and am glad that he is coming. From your description, I expect to see quite a preux chevalier." "Do not anticipate too much; you may be disappointed. He is now in the army, and is stationed at Fort M'Henry; so we shall see him quite often. I think Charles Melton handsome, and interesting; but he is my cousin, you know, and it is so natural to be partial to the only relative I have ever known!" "It is indeed," said Genevieve, sighing deeply. "I wonder if father ever thinks of me! I have the most perfect recollection of him, though so long a time has passed since I last saw him, and I do not think that I resided with him more than a month altogether before that time. I remember the last kiss he gave me. When he turned away there was a tear on my forehead. That tear comforts me now, amid all his neglect. It tells me that he had for me a parent's feelings; and often I dream he is again clasping me to his heart, and that hot tear falling on my brow. Mary, you cannot know how desolate I sometimes feel!" Mary threw her arms around her friend's neck, and time, if I should not be here, I will send you an order kissed away the tear that slowly rolled over her cheek, as she said, "Dear Genevieve! while I live, you can never feel the want of a friend." "Never, I hope. Were your friendship to fail me, Mary, I should be a wretch indeed." At that moment Mary was summoned to the drawing room to see her cousin, who had just arrived. As soon as Genevieve could compose herself, and drive the cloud from her brow, she joined the party below. When she entered the room she saw a gentleman standing before Miss Adams, with both her hands clasped in his own, and his strikingly intelligent face lighted up with the most brilliant animation. Mary's cheek wore the flush of excitement, and her eyes sparkled with more than usual pleasure, as she presented the two beings most dear to her on earth to each other. "I am sure you will love Genevieve," she said to her cousin the next morning. "And I am so glad she was not disappointed in you." "Love her!" exclaimed Melton, "such an angel should be adored. I have never before seen any creature so transcendently beautiful." | me, I should be happy-happier than I can ever hope to be. You have not seen me for years, but think not I could forbear to look on the image of her who was the realization of my earliest and my fondest dream: her, whose memory is consecrated in the heart of him she blessed with her love. I have seen you when you knew not that a father was near-that his heart was keeping the unceasing watch of love over you. I have looked on your sweet young face, and said, 'She is all I can wish,' and I felt proud that you were mine; then the bitter conviction would come that I dared not claim you-that you, gentle and lovely as you appeared, could never soothe my aching heart by the soft accents of tenderness-tones that sound to my ear like remembered music, and carry my thoughts far, far back in the dreary past, when she, whose pillow is now the cold sod, sat beside me, and gave me the assurance of unchanged love. Genevieve, you are even painfully like your mother. Attend while I give you a sketch of her history. She was an orphan neice of my father's, entirely dependant on his bounty. She was all the fondest adorer could wish, and I loved her wildly— madly. She returned my passion, but my father, a cruel, vindictive man, swore that we should never be united. He turned her from his house, and she sought a home with a distant relative. I set out to make a tour of the Eastern States. I had been absent but few weeks, when hearing that she was ill, I listened to the dictates of passion alone, and hurried to her abode. 'Tis useless to repeat the arguments I used to convince her that we could not live apart. We were married. My father never forgave me, and on his dying bed he left me his bitterest malediction. 1 fled from him in his last moments, and sought a refuge from my wretchedness in the society of her whose smile could make me forget all things else. It was there-there where I had garnered all my hopes of happiness, that the first blow was to be struck. In one little week she was borne to her grave, and I franticly grasped the sods that covered her beautiful form, and called on her to answer to my agonized prayers. When this first paroxysm "Always in raptures, Charles," said Mary with a smile, but it was a faint one, and she knew not why it pained her to hear Melton bestow such enthusiastic praise on one she herself so truly loved. She had not yet become familiar with that most mysterious of all things-the human heart. She knew not that she had to feel that bitterest of all convictions to a proud woman: that the heart, with all its green unwithered affections, may be given to one who would cast it from him as the most valueless of all possessions. Her cousin had unconsciously become to her an object of deeper interest than all the world beside, but it was long before Mary discovered the real nature of her feelings. It was not until she saw him devoted to another, that she knew she loved him. When she was convinced of this, and felt that she had been jealous of her dearest friend, the whole world appeared to her a hideous desert, and she would gladly, in that hour of deep suffering, have forever closed her eyes on it. She saw that Melton loved Genevieve, and she, unconscious of Mary's attachment, gave her young heart, with its intense feel-was over, for hours I watched in the stupor of insanity ings and treasured tenderness, into his keeping without reserve. The cloud that had so frequently shadowed her bright brow, was now never seen; for in the new feelings that filled her heart, she found such unalloyed happiness, that her thoughts now seldom reverted to her situation, and the idea, that perhaps her father might not be disposed to sanction the engagement she had conditionally formed with her lover, was sedulously driven from her mind when it did intrude, and darken for an instant the bright prospect before her. She was awakened from her dream of bliss by a letter from her father, and after reading it, Genevieve wondered how she could ever have anticipated happiness, or if her heart could ever again thrill with pleasure. The letter was as follows: "My dear child, for so I may call you for the last time. Genevieve, you will say, after reading this letter, that I have never loved you, for if I feel what I express, why do I abandon you? The hand of fate separates us forever, but the God who rules over us all, and now reads the agony of my heart, knows how dear you are to me. Child of my adored and sainted Genevieve, could I now press you to my heart, and say never leave beside her grave, vainly expecting some token from the dust beneath to whisper that my affliction was seen, and my love still returned, by the spirit of my angel wife. None came; and after weeks of such madness, I returned to the home in which I had last seen her. I felt as an alien to my species-henceforth the world could be as nothing to me. I had lost all sympathy with its petty cares and ambition. The first feeling of softness that came to my stony heart, was caused by your infantile cry. I remembered that I had one tie. The child of Genevieve was a precious bequest, and for the first time since her death, I wept as I held it to my heart. For months I watched beside your cradle, and scarcely suffered you to be taken from my sight. Your health declined, and I thought of the dreadful words of my father's curse: May all you desire be withheld: may those you love be blasted in your sight, and every hope of happiness withered by that God who is about to judge my soul.' These were the harrowing words of a parent, and as they were uttered, I felt as if a serpent had coiled itself in tight folds around my heart, and was distilling its deadly venom into its inmost core. His curse had partly fallen, and I was blasted by its effects. akin to their own buoyancy. Her step was languid, and her eyes had lost all their brilliancy. I feared to love you, and I left you to the care of ser- | vants, and became a wanderer. My father had left me without fortune, and those who had extended the hand In the meantime Miss Adams had seen her cousin, of friendship to me in the days of my prosperity, now and given him the letter, and Mary bitterly upbraided looked coldly on me. I cared not for this. I turned her own heart when she felt that it rejoiced in the blow from them with loathing, and I took a savage joy in that awaited him. Genevieve had refused to marry freeing myself from the restraints of society. The him, and now he might love her: and she glossed over only pleasure I possessed was occasionally seeing you, the selfishness of her feelings by trying to convince and rejoicing in your restored health and improved ap- herself, that situated as things were, it was impossible pearance. How I have lived and supported you since for them to be happy, even if they were united. Melton, I became an outcast from society, I cannot reveal. I she knew, was not in circumstances to marry without had amassed wealth, but recent reverses have deprived the consent of his uncle, and that consent she well me of all I possessed. Enclosed is a hundred dollar knew would never be given to his union with Genebill-all your school expenses are paid. This is all Ivieve Floyd. Mary's affection for him was too devocan do for you, and alas! it must for your welfare be the last time I address you. My advice to you, is to enter the school in which you have been educated, as an assistant teacher. You will not hear from me, but I shall still continue to watch over your fate. Do you remember last evening when you promenaded with your friend in the shaded walk? You heard a footstep behind you, and turned. Genevieve, it was your unhappy parent, who sought to obtain a view of that beloved face without being himself seen. I can never claim you. I am unworthy to call you my child, and I could not bear that your innocent heart should know what a wretch you call father." With a sickening heart Genevieve read the well! known characters, and in the agony of the moment she thought that happiness was henceforth to be a stranger to her. She remembered Charles Melton, and she shuddered, as she felt they were, in all probability, forever separated. Would Melton marry one over whose parentage so dreadful a mystery hung? or if he loved her well enough to overlook that, would his proud relatives consent to the union? In truth there was sufficient cause for her to dread a separation from the object of her affections. Melton was entirely dependant on a wealthy uncle who centered all his ambition in him, and it was the first wish of his heart to see him united to Miss Adams. ted to be entirely disinterested. She wished, and prayed for his happiness, but then it must emanate from herself; and for the first time she suffered a feeling of bitterness to mingle with her affection for her friend. "Had he never seen her, he would have loved me," she exclaimed, "and Genevieve would have been saved from an unfortunate attachment." She was not convinced of the futility of her hopes until she witnessed the anguish Genevieve's letter inflicted on her cousin. He made no attempt to conceal it, but consulted with her on the possibility of overcoming Genevieve's too scrupulous delicacy, and prevailing on her to become his wife, even without the consent of his relatives. "But your situation, dear Charles," said Mary. "Your pay will not support yourself-how then can you encumber yourself with a wife?" "True-true," replied Melton. "I wonder what my uncle placed me in the army for, if not to render me more entirely dependant on his bounty. Mary, I must marry this girl-my happiness depends on it. If ruin and Genevieve Floyd were on one hand, and the most splendid destiny the world can bestow on the other, I would turn from it, and clasping her to my heart, endure, without shrinking, all the bitterness of penury. I will see her at all events, and be guided by her in the course I shall pursue." He did see her, and moved by his anguish, and blind"I will tell him all," she exclaimed, "and then bided by passion, she listened to his entreaties for a prihim leave me forever. I must teach my heart to forget vate marriage. He offered her a heart that adored her, how happy I once dreamed I might be in the posses- and a home hallowed by love; and when she thought of sion of his love." her lonely and desolate situation, without the ties of kindred affection, is it wonderful that her resolution wavered? * She wrote to him, and gave him her history from her earliest recollection: she told him that had she known as much as she then did, she would never have dared to love him, and all that now remained for them both to do, was to erase every recollection of past hopes and wishes The first beams of the morning sun were reflected in from their minds, as under existing circumstances it the windows of one of the principal churches in Philawas impossible for them ever to be realized. She con- delphia, and partially illuminated the altar, around fided her letter to the care of her friend, and returned to which stood several persons even at that unusual hour. Philadelphia. She revealed to Mrs. Bentham all it A clergyman, in his long robes, stood at the altar, with was necessary for her to know respecting her situation, an open book before him. His hands were clasped, and and followed the advice of her father in seeking em- his eyes were raised to heaven-his lips moved, but no ployment in her school. The benevolent lady wept sound issued from them, as he invoked a blessing on the over her altered prospects, but she was pleased to keep two he was about to unite through weal or woe. Beher with her for the affection she felt for the unprotec-fore him stood a gentleman, supporting the form of a ted girl was like that of a mother. lady, who appeared ready to sink with agitation and terror. Genevieve, in the exercise of her duties, sought to recover tranquillity; but alas! the wounded heart is not so easily schooled into forgetfulness. She was no longer the joyous creature, whose blithe laugh and gay song thrilled the pulses of the listener with a feeling | sen one?” "Genevieve, dearest, why this fear?" murmured Melton, leaning over her. "What causes you to tremble thus? Are you not with your protector-your cho "My father-my father; what right have 1 to dispose | earthly happiness as blighted forever. She frequently of myself without his sanction? and thus secretly-expressed a wish to see her friend, and this desire for a clandestinely. Oh, Charles, have I acted right in aban-re-union Genevieve strongly felt herself. Desirous of doning the asylum he sought for me, and which has sheltered my childhood and early youth, even to follow you?" "Nay, Genevieve, why suffer such thoughts to intrude; Your father has no right to withhold his consent-he has abandoned you to the kindness of strangers, and therefore has no claims on your obedience. I will be more to you than you could ever have hoped him to be." At that moment the clergyman signified his readiness to perform the ceremony, and in the presence of one witness, who was sworn to secrecy, Genevieve Floyd, with a trembling heart, uttered the vows that bound her to Melton forever. For a few moments after the benediction was given, all recollection of her mysterious parent, or the forebodings that had haunted her mind, were forgotten she only knew that she was the wife of him to whom her heart had been given with all the fervor of woman's love. Melton clasped her to his bosom, and murmured in the sweet subdued accents of tenderness—“Genevieve you are my own in the sight of that God who is now looking on us, and who shall dare to say that we have erred in uniting our fates? When your happiness, dearest, ceases to be my first care, may Heaven forsake me." “Amen!" said a low deep voice near them. Melton started and looked around to see who had uttered this startling response to his adjuration. A dark figure,muffled in a cloak, was gliding rapidly down one of the aisles. He would have followed him, but Genevieve laid her hand on his arm, and said-"No-no-do not pursue him. He wishes to escape notice. It must be my father, for he said he would watch over my fate. I am happy now, dear Charles; for he knows our union, and I am sure approves it. Respect his desire for concealment, for I am sure there is some powerful motive for it." Melton acquiesced, and they left the house, and proceeded immediately to Baltimore, from which place they went a few miles to take possession of a small cottage, where, under a feigned name, they intended residing. It was near enough to allow Melton to attend to his military duties, and occasionally see his uncle without being long absent from Genevieve. His measures had been so securely taken, that even Mary Adams was unsuspicious of the marriage. Genevieve had informed Mrs. Bentham, that her father had changed his mind respecting her continuance in the school, and shewed a letter (written for the purpose,) in which he named a particular day, on which he would send a carriage for her to join him in Baltimore. On the appointed day a carriage arrived, with a letter of thanks to Mrs. Bentham for her care of Miss Floyd, and informed her that the writer had at length determined on taking her to his own home. Genevieve shrunk from such a course of duplicity, but Melton reconciled her to it by representing its necessity, as it was of the utmost importance to him that their marriage should, for the present, be concealed from every one. Genevieve still continued her correspondence with Miss Adams, and she was pained by the tone of deep sadness that pervaded her letters. She spoke of her health as declining, and all her hopes of gratifying every wish of hers as far as he could with prudence, Melton determined to take Genevieve to see Miss Adams. To obviate suspicion he first visited her himself, and hearing Mary again dwell on her wish to see Genevieve, he volunteered his services to prevail on her to visit her, as he acknowledged to Mary that he was acquainted with her abode, and frequently saw her. Genevieve was shocked at the alteration in her appearance. Mary was but the shadow of her former self. She beheld a hopeless and desponding invalid, confined to her own chamber, and wasting the best years of her life in repining over a hopeless attachment. It was not long before Genevieve's penetration discovered the cause of Mary's illness and depression. She had mentioned the name of Melton: the deathly paleness that overspread the face of the invalid, and the trembling tones of her voice, as she endeavored to reply, laid bare a record of anguish and suffering that struck Genevieve to the heart. She gazed for a moment in speechless distress on Mary; then throwing herself on her bosom, she exclaimed, "Oh Mary! why did you conceal this from me? The knowledge of it would have given me strength to combat his passionate pleading, and your happiness would have been secured. 'Tis too late now! How could I have been so blind, as not to have seen that it would be impossible to be with him as you were, and not love him! Will you-can you forgive me?" "What am I to understand from your mysterious words?" said Mary, in deep agitation. "You are then married!"—and she leaned her head back, nearly gasping for breath; for, unknown to herself, a faint hope had still lingered in her breast, that Melton might yet be detached from Genevieve, and in time return her affection. "We are," said Genevieve, solemnly, "and the pure faith of a devoted heart was pledged in putting my destiny in his care. But you will not betray us, dear Mary?" "No--no--" said Mary, with difficulty uttering the words; "not for worlds! But how could you deceive me thus. The two beings I most love, to keep the knowledge of their marriage from me-as if I could betray you! Oh, Genevieve! this deeply wounds me!" "Dear Mary! Charles acted for the best. You see his relatives frequently, and he was aware of their anxiety to see him united to you. He feared that, when enquiries were made of you, your manner might betray our secret. Believe me, it was not from dis trusting your affection that we acted thus." "Does he--does Charles suspect my unfortunate attachment?" enquired Mary in an agitated tone. "No, dearest Mary; such a thought has never crossed his mind, and you may feel assured that I will never hint it to him" "Thank you, Genevieve," said Mary, more calmly than she had yet spoken. "Perhaps I should not speak to Charles Melton's wife of my affection for him; but we have been reared together, dearest, and I would speak to you without reserve on this subject, for the first and last time. I have loved, and still love Charles Melton, and it would have saved me much suffering, |