Thou who hast cherish'd me with tenderest care,
If now thou dost my sad destruction will,
I am thy slave-my naked breast is here;
Strike, noble master-thou hast leave to kill.

Peace, son-rejoined the Greek,—I grieve a word,
An ill-timed word of mine, should bid thee hence.
List, Zemmo list, the dying should be heard ;
A dizzy dimness seizes me, from whence
I judge the race of my long life near done.
All things are fading in departing light;
Yet on mine aching brow, the mid-day sun
Pours heat intense. Zemmo, it is not night,
But death's deep shadows that obscure my sight;
Hear me my son: I would not have thee give
A warrior in his war shroud to the bird,
To peck at leisure-such foul thing might live
To riot on me. Hark! I must be heard--
Thou must not, when the breath of life is gone,
Leave my poor bones all bleaching in the sun;
In the dark quiet of some cavern's gloom,
'Tis there that thou my stiff cold limbs shall lay-
For then no prowling Mussulman can come
To terror my lone ghost, that ofttimes may
Visit the spot, where this my dust may sleep,
Or round that spot a constant watching keep.

He said, and slowly sinking on the ground,
Cast a long look upon the glorious sky,
And then on Zemmo--but no words he found
To tell his anguish--still his glaring eye
Gazed on the boy,-and still his faltering tongue
Had more to utter-on his lips there hung
Whisper inaudible ;-in mute despair
The weeping Zemmo bent a listening ear;
But all was silent--not a sigh, or breath
Pass'd those cold lips, forever seal'd in death.

The mournful boy, low bending o'er the dead,
Gazed long and listless--he (poor hapless one,)
Born to disaster, to misfortune bred,

Had look'd, in many a cruel day, upon

Woe, blood, and death-but now, his bursting heart
Could bear no more,-and with convulsive start,
His gentle spirit sunk to quiet rest,
And his cold couch was Karatasso's breast.

Who of this hapless pair would further know,
May read it in the following mournful tale--
That gives in brief but very sad detail,
The story of great Karatasso's woe.

He was a warrior bold and brave,
An Hydriot noble, who to save
His sinking country, in the hour
When most she felt the tyrant's power-
Join'd with that patriot band, that were
The only guard 'twixt death and her.

Two sons of beauty rare had he,
Twin brothers of distress, whose life,
E'en from the hour of infancy,

Had been but one dark scene of strife.
It happen'd on a summer's night,
When purple skies were beaming bright,
The Hydriot noble, who had been
To ancient Athens, with glad eye

Beheld again the pleasant scene

Of Hydra's cliffs,—and towering high
Those ancient monastries, that rise
Like holy dwellings in the skies.
Across the gilded waters, flew
A little barque, so frail, so light,
That though not e'en a zephyr blew,
'Twas in a moment out of sight.
And mark'd the Hydriot noble well
From whence that little bark appear'd,

And watch'd he too the silent swell,
That told to what lone coast she steer'd;
But little thought he that she bore
A captive, who with hapless heart,
Deeming all hope of pity o'er,
Knelt from the savage crew apart;
Or that that hapless one should prove,
What dearer was than blood or life,
The idol of his heart's young love-
His wife !

Now from the margin of the flood,
With joyous soul he could descry
His own white home, that proudly stood
Upon the mountain steep so nigh.
But as he gain'd that much loved home,
How sunk his fond heart with despair,
To find a heavy cloud of gloom,
Shadow'd the smile of all things there.
A kindred group were gathering slow,
In mournful silence, to whose woe
No words gave utterance, but the sighs
From the sad throng, so motionless,
Told of that killing grief, which lies
Deep hidden in the soul's recess.
How fare ye, friends? the noble cried;
No answering voice to him replied,—
A deeper gloom the scene o'erspread.
How fare my sons? he would have said;
But to his arms they wildly sprung,
And as upon his neck they hung,
A thousand tender kisses press'd
Upon his cold and bloodless cheek,-
And thrice the sire essay'd to bless,
And thrice his tongue refused to speak.
Where is my wife? he strove to say-
With trembling tongue and accent broken;
But the dread question died away
Upon his lips, e'er it was spoken.

And now his friends, in few words told,
How at the closing hour of day,
His hapless wife to Maltese bold
By ruffian hands, was sold away;
That many a bold hand rush'd to save,-
But hopeless her deliverance,-
For rapid was the treacherous wave,
And light the barque that bore her hence.
And well did Karatasso know
Who such a dreadful deed had done,
And swore that such a deadly foe
Should never see to-morrow's sun.
He fled with fury in his eye,
To curse and slay that enemy;

And as the injured noble gazed
Upon the base and butcher'd one,
No kindred arm o'er him was raised,
To avenge a murder'd brother's wrong.
Years pass away in rapid flight,
But bore the noble no glad day,-
O'er his sad soul had pass'd the blight
That withers every joy away.
Years pass away,-one son became,
Aye terrible in deeds and fame.
With dauntless soul and daring eye,
That quail'd beneath no enemy;
He was that brave Sohina, who
The Pacha's men so vilely slew.
The tender sire long wept upon
The memory of his noble son;

But check'd his grief, to know he died
Close by brave Santo Rosa's side.
Yet had that sire one fair boy still,
Whose quiet mind and generous spirit,
Had never nursed a thought of ill-
Form'd in affection, to inherit
What arms and fame cannot bestow--
A bliss the reckless never know.

A captive ship to Hydra's shore
A crew of Turkish prisoners bore:

Well pleased, the Greeks came gathering round,
And then began the bloody scene!
And last of all, a boy was bound,
Who but few summer suns had seen.
That boy had neither friend nor sire,
Nor brother 'mong the heap of dead;
And sore against his own desire,
To arms and battle he was led:
So did he seek that they would spare
His harmless life-but vain the prayer.
And closer round the murderers press'd,
Wild fury glowing in each breast-
And such a dread resolve as their's
Could not be changed by any prayers.
The trembling boy, with terror'd eye,
Beheld the fatal moment nigh,
And saw, with a convulsive start,
Th' ataghans pointed to his heart.
Then Karatasso saw the youth,

And sought that they his life would save,
On any terms, if 'twere, forsooth,
But just to keep him as a slave,
Since it was barbarous to kill—
When pity bid their souls relent;
And well he knew no Greek would spill
The blood of such an innocent.
The crowd, half satisfied with blood,
And half ashamed, disorder'd stood,
Unbind the victim of their ire,
And from the bloody scene retire,
While to his kind deliverer
Sprung fearless the enraptured boy,
With wild impassion'd looks, that were
The language of his speechless joy.

*

Now came the fatal hour of strife, That burst the tender ties of life;

And to a dark, uncertain doom,
Forth went a bold and restless train,
All sadly parting from a home,
In which they ne'er may meet again.
And all in glittering arms so bright,
The noble and his son were seen,
Foremost 'mong those who went to fight
The hateful Turk at Navarin.

There gazed the father on his son,
And all the laurels that he won-
How, in the hour of victory,

He stood among the brave and free.
But sad the youthful hero's lot-
Mark, through the smoke, yon fatal ball!
It comes !-oh, noble Hydriot,
Thy warrior boy is doom'd to fall.
Low on the deck he yielded up his breath,
A willing victim in the arms of death.
But who shall tell the agony

That wrung the bosom of the sire!
'Twas terrible to stand and see
So brave, so good a son expire;
With madness burning in his brain,
Far to the shore he wildly fled,
Nor ever turn'd him back again,
To look upon the dead.

The rest is told-how sadly died
Brave Karatasso, by his side;
The faithful boy his bounty fed,
(For Karatasso loved him well)—
And how such fondness was repaid,
The death of Zemmo best can tell.

For some hours, every morning and evening, the Count was admitted into the domestic circle of the palace. Drawing became a more favorite employment than ever with Amelia, as she now drew under his eye and direction; and music! ah, music! became the language in which she best loved to converse with him, as in its tones only did she dare to breathe the feelings of her heart-language mysterious as it is expressive--intelligible only when interpreted by sympathy. By the Count, therefore, it could not be misunderstood; but alas! he dared not respond to this softly breathed confession-no not even by a modulation of his voice, over which he kept as strict a guard as over his looks and words. He subjugated every expression of his feelings to duty; and whenever occasion offered, made Constantine the topic of conversation, than which nothing could be more wearisome and disgusting to the Princess; but in the present state of excitement it

reviews? She might certainly have avoided so severe and unfeminine an obedience. She might have pleaded sickness; for my part, I would have kept my bed from one year's end to another, rather than have followed him like an aid-de-camp."

"That plea might not have availed, had she been capable of a pretence; but she was not-she had too great a reverence for truth--she preferred suffering and inconvenience. Often on occasion of these reviews, at which he always insisted on her presence, though exhausted with fatigue, drenched in rain, or covered with snow-or at other seasons fainting under a summer sun, often has she been seen concealing her weariness and disgust, under smiles and courtesy."

"How silly," interrupted the Princess. "Had she shown more spirit, she would soon have released herself from such thraldom."

"Now this is charming !" exclaimed Amelia. The Countess and Count Alexius exchanged a smile, indicating their satisfaction at the turn Amelia's fancy had taken; she saw it and sighed, as she shook her head, and said, "But what would this avail me? I should not participate in these sweet scenes. Happy Elizabeth, to live with such a mother! The wife of Constantine would enjoy no such privileges, but banished to bloodstained unhappy Poland, would most likely witness nothing but misery and discontent!" "Although Constantine is now Vice-Roy of Poland, remember, madam, he may one day be Emperor of Russia.”

"And would you have me build hopes of happiness on the destruction of that of others, and those others so amiable and lovely a creature as Elizabeth-so good a sovereign as Alexander. No, no-may God long spare them to bless their country and each other. Oh!" continued she, with a seriousness unusual to her, "suffer me-suffer me to be happy as only I can be happy!" Her eyes were filled with tears; she arose and left the room. The Countess then had a long conversation

But her words failed in their intended effect, and he left

"Is she then happy at last?"

"Indeed, madam, she is. There is but one circumstance wanting to complete her felicity, and that it depends on you to bestow; she ardently desires to see her second son as happily united as her eldest." "And is Elizabeth happy?"

"They say the court is very dull, and has lost all the brilliancy and gaiety it possessed in Catherine's time. I like it not the worse for the reform that has taken place, but cannot imagine how these two Empresses, and all the young Princesses, contrive to pass their time."

"Music, painting, etching, embroidery, and above all, reading, have long been the empress-mother's favorite occupations. They alleviated the sorrows and cheered the confinement and dreariness of Gatskina, and now amuse and embellish the palace of the Czars. But fond as she is of these rational employments, she is no enemy to lighter amusements; she greatly loves the society of young persons, and so familiarly and happily accommodates herself to the inclinations of youth, that no party is thought agreeable if her presence is denied. She joins gracefully in the pastimes of the youngest of her numerous family. Games of various kinds, dramas, concerts and balls, diversify the evenings. Sometimes she calls the young ladies round her work-table, and while they work, she bids us—that is, the young gentlemen in attendance-to read aloud. Last winter we read all Sir Walter Scott's works, which are great favorites of her's."*

*This account is taken from the private correspondence of the lady of an American minister, long resident at the court of the Emperor Alexander.

The momentary sadness which the day before veiled the smiles of the Princess had passed away like a summer cloud, and left her countenance more radiant than ever. She was so busily occupied with her pencil, that she only looked up for a moment to smile a welcome, and then resumed her occupation with undivided attention, while the Count paid his respects to her cousin. After a reciprocation of civilities with that lady, he turned, and with the freedom in which he had been often indulged, to look over the drawing of Amelia; but she hastily covered the paper, exclaiming, "No, no--I shall be scolded again," looking at her cousin, "or frighten you away."

"I think I may promise that nothing you design can have that effect," said the Count smiling, and holding out his hand for the drawing.

"Promise then," said she, "that you will not run away."

"I do promise; and too willingly perhaps." "Well then, you may see my morning's work ;" and she withdrew the port-folio under which she had concealed it.

The Count started if he did not retreat, and betrayed much painful emotion while he looked on the drawing. It was a sketch drawn with a masterly hand, that represented a hideous monster, whose tusks having been drawn out, lay beside him; he was confined to a stake by golden chains,--while a young female whose back