blissful day dreams that cheered her loneliness, while, mingled with every thought, came the vision of that mild old man, whose voice never met her ear save in tones of kindness, whose eye dimmed with labor and fatigue grew bright and smiled at her affectionate caresses-that voice alas! now hushed, and that eye closed in death. She bowed her head to shut out the scene from her view, and that tear-drop driven from its resting place by a dozen others, fell upon the face of a lovely infant, that was slumbering softly at her feet. The little sleeper opened its eyes and laughed; in a moment the mother reigned supreme in her soul, drowning, in the full swell of its emotions, every other feeling and passion. It was a busy night throughout the castle. The vassals hastened to and fro in the court and the antechambers, some with viands for the banquet, others with goblets of the grape's ruddy juice, while here and there was a group preparing spear and sword, burnishing the armor, and conversing upon the strange occurrence of their lord's departure. In the grand hall was the glare of lights, the noise of revelry, the clank of the wine flagon, the chorussed song, and the applauded jest; there Robert, the magnificent, or, as he was sometimes called, the devil, feasted high with his retainers, for the morrow's sun he had vowed should see him on his pilgrimage towards the Holy Land. As these mingled sounds rose faintly to Louise's ear she clasped her child to her bosom, whom, struggling to escape the tears that fell fast and burning on his cheek, she soothed with a low and plaintive song, which floated round that turret chamber, soft yet melancholy as the silvery dip of the oar, when it breaks with a regular cadence the moonlit wave. "And he comes at this moment to fulfil that vow"-she started at the well known voice, brushed away the remaining tears, and smiled, though faintly and sadly. The duke had entered unperceived, and now stood by her side, his face flushed, his eye wildly bright, and his whole demeanor betraying far more of the reckless reveller than of the humble pilgrim. "Again in tears, Louise ;-why will you entertain these sorrowful forbcdings? Believe me, it is the solitude of the life you lead that lends this sadness to your thoughts. Trust that a few short months will see me again in thine arms, dearest-I do not doubt it will be so. I must leave you now, or my guests will grow impatient at my delay. I have a surprise in store for them they wot not of. But you, young sir,” he continued, holding out his arms to the infant, who crowed and leapt gladly into them," you must away, away with me! I will secure to thee some acquaintances before I go to pay my devoirs to the infidel who lords it at the holy tomb." "Robert! what mean you?"-she was too late. They had disappeared; but guided by the echo of his heavy tread, she stole softly after them in the direction of the banquet-hall. The loud shout which hailed their entrance bursting along the corridors, quickened her steps. She gained the door and listened; again a shout, louder than before, proclaimed that tender infant the acknowledged successor to the dukedom. Holding as mere trifles the sacred ties of marriage, and careless as their northern fore-fathers of the distinction between wedlock and concubinage, with acclamations they swore the oath of fealty to the offspring of unwedded love. Louise listened, every limb trembling with joy, then sought her chamber, to indulge in a flood of tears, of mingled sorrow and gladness. "Cruel! thou knowest well each lowest note of his cottage bird is dearer to Robert than the warmest smile or spoken praise of the noblest lady whose satined foot e'er trod a palace-hall or whose flowing curls were bound by the diamond-sprinkled fillet." He paused for a moment to gaze fondly in her face, and when he again resumed, his voice was softened into tenderness, and had lost a portion of that reckless intonation which peculiarly characterized it. "Dost remember, fairest, the night when every window and portal of yonder tower streamed through the foliage that half-curtains it a joyous light far over the bosom of darkness, and every breeze that swept over the town was burdened with the sound of revelry-that night when every retainer, from the bearer of lance and shield to the meanest serf, quaffed loud and deep to the noble sister of Canute, the duke's English bride. It was upon this spot that one whose presence was missed in the banquet hall, who fled from the tumult of mirth which for once he could not enjoy, found you, Louise, pensive and alone. It was here, with that same sky bending above, scarce fairer or more pure than thine own thoughts, and yon same bright orb to witness and to smile approval, as it seemeth even now to do, he pledged to you the homage of a heart which had long been a temple filled but with the presence of thine image, and listened with rapture to the avowal that Robert, the duke's chief huntsman, was far from indifferent in the eyes of the fairest maiden in Falaise." Again he paused, and Louise murmured as half-unconscious of what she was saying The peasants in the vineyard and the cottage are loud in their praises of the beauty of the noble English lady." Her companion drew himself quickly back, as if to hide the expression which he felt was quivering in the muscles of his lip, and flashing from his eye; a moonbeam stealing through the leaves, fell that instant upon his bold and handsome countenance as it was half-upturned, showing each well-formed feature at the same time that it revealed the traces of a scarce governable passion, and of a wildness of mood which had gained for their possessor the sobriquet of Le Diable. The nightbreeze rustled the leaves, and that beam was again intercepted, but scarce less quickly had his features assumed their composure and his voice its winning tenderness. 66 Hush, Louise, you must not speak her praises to the duke. Start not-you have of late truly surmised that the almost unknown hunter who has won thy youthful love—and that he has won it each leaf around us and each star above is a silent witness-bears a title he would not exchange for any other less than king. That title he may not share with you-a cursed policy has already given it to another—but he here offers you all that he still can call his own, his heart and his protection :— be but his, and here, where first he whispered his vows, he swears by every thing that is pure and holy-by thyself and by the love he bears thee-by his honor and by the sword of his father—that thou and thine shall be honored and esteemed above all others within his wide domain. I read in thine eye, gentle one, what thou art about to say:-thy father, I would not sadden thee, but thy father is advanced in years. A short time, a very short time, and the valley sod may rest lightly on his breast; then, oh! why not before then, give thy self to one who can and will cherish and protect thee." But why follow the arguments of a tongue well skilled in pleading to gentle woman's heart-the persuasions of a spirit that seldom bent itself to win a maiden's confidence in vain. The moon rode higher in the heavens-the leaves bent and trembled in the increasing breeze, as if the tiny feet of a thousand fairies were twirling in rapid dance through the verdant mazes that shaded those lovers, yet still did those noble lips breathe burning words into the artless maiden's ear; his arm unchecked, had sought again her waist, and her glowing cheek was resting in affectionate confidence upon his shoulder. A hasty step, however, heard far in the stillnes, broke their dream of rapture. A whispered sentence" by the brook's green side”-a parting kiss, and Louise watched her lover's form bound over the green and vanish in the shade, ere she turned to meet her father, who gently chid her for allowing the cool-night air to chill the color from her cheek, then smiled to see how that color rushed again to her very temples at his playful chiding. Ir was moonlight again on Falaise. At the casement of one of the apartments of the castle sat a lady gazing in earnest and thoughtful silence at the spot where an opening in the underwood allowed a glimpse of one of the prettiest vine-sheltered cottages of the town. Her brow rested lightly on her hand, and a tear-drop trembled on one of her long eye-lashes, for a thousand sadly tender recollections were stealing through her bosom with the noiseless rapidity of the flowing wave. It was Louise, the duke's favorite, as she was gently styled, and though years had flown by since she received his plighted love in the shade of that cottage-bower, yet time had swept with his wing nothing of the bloom from her cheek, nor had chilled with his touch any thing of the spring whose warm gush was felt in each heart's throb. She thought of her girlhood's days, when, the village-pride, she led her companions in the evening dance, then of those intoxicating hours of stolen love, and of the Years rolled rapidly on, pregnant with important events. A monument at Nice, told of a noble pilgrim-the fourth lineal descendant of Rollo-who died on his return from Palestine. The valley flowers bloomed and faded on the sod beneath which lay the mouldering frame of one whose beauty was the theme of many a song, whose modest goodness was the burthen of many a fireside tale for leagues around the castle. But that infant, the son of the humble maid of Falaise, became William, duke of Normandy, and afterwards conqueror of England. August, 1839. SONNETS. BY THOMAS R. HOFLAND, PHILAD. TO M. C. I LOVE thee! not because thy high clear brow These, my beloved, shall not pass away; FIRST LOVE . TO THE SAME. Ou give to me the lowliest forest flower Which mine own hand, fresh from its virgin stem, That ever graced the garden or the bower, MORELLA. Α TALE. BY EDGAR A. POE. [Extracted, by permission of the publishers, Messrs. Lea and Blanchard, from forthcoming "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque."] WITH a feeling of deep yet most singular affection I regarded my friend Morella. Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my soul, from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never before known; but the fires were not of Eros; and bitter and tormenting to my spirit was the gradual conviction that I could in no manner define their unusual meaning, or regulate their vague intensity. Yet we met; and Fate bound us together at the altar; and I never spoke of passion, nor thought of love. She, however, shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone, rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder. It is a happiness to dream. Morella's erudition was profound. As I hope to live, her talents were of no common order-her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt this, and, in many matters, became her pupil. I soon, however, found that, perhaps on account of her Presburg education, she placed before me a number of those mystical writings which are usually considered the mere dross of the early German literature. These, for what reasons I could not imagine, were her favorite and constant study-and that in process of time they became my own should be attributed to the simple but effectual influence of habit and example. In all this, if I err not, my reason had little to do. My convictions, or I forget myself, were in no manner acted upon by the ideal, nor was any tincture of the mysticism which I read, to be discovered, unless I am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds or in my thoughts. Feeling deeply persuaded of this, I abandoned myself implicitly to the guidance of my wife, and entered with an unflinching heart into the intricacies of her studies. And then-then, when, poring over forbidden pages, I felt a forbidden spirit enkindling within me-would Morella place her cold hand upon my own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy some low singular words whose strange meaning burned themselves in upon my memory--and then, hour after hour, would I linger by her side and dwell upon the music of her voice-until, at length, its melody was tainted with terror-and fell like a shadow upon my soul-and I grew pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too unearthly tones. And thus Joy suddenly faded into Horror, and the most beautiful became the most hideous, as Hinnon became Ge-Henna. It is unnecessary to state the exact character of those disquisitions, which, growing out of the volumes I have mentioned, formed, for so long a time, almost the sole conversation of Morella and myself. By the learned in what might be termed theological morality they will be readily conceived, and by the unlearned they would, at all events, be little understood. The wild Pantheism of Fichte; the modified 12 of the Pythagoreans; and, above all, the doctrines of Identity as urged by Schelling, were generally the points of discussion presenting the most of beauty to the imaginative Morella. That Identity which is termed personal Mr. Locke, I think, truly defines to consist in the sameness of a rational being. And since by person we understand an intelligent essence having reason, and since there is a consciousness which always accompanies thinking, it is this which makes us all to be that which we call ourselves-thereby distinguishing us from other beings that think, and giving us our personal identity. But the Principium Individuationis—the notion of that Identity which at death is or is not lost forever, was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense interest, not more from the mystical and exciting nature of its consequences, than from the marked and agitated manner in which Morella mentioned them. But, indeed, the time had now arrived when the mystery of my wife's manner oppressed me as a spell. I could no longer bear the touch of her wan fingers, nor the low tone of her musical language, nor the lustre of her melancholy eyes. And she knew all this but did not upbraid-she seemed conscious of my weakness or my folly, and, smiling, called it Fate. She seemed, also, conscious of a cause, to me unknown, for the gradual alienation of my regard; but she gave me no hint or token of its nature. Yet was she woman, and pined away daily. In time, the crimson spot settled steadily upon the cheek, and the blue veins upon the pale forehead became prominent; and, one instant, my nature melted into pity, but, in the next, I met the glance of her meaning eyes, and then my soul sickened and became giddy with the giddiness of one who gazes downward into some dreary and unfathomable abyss. Shall I then say that I longed with an earnest and consuming desire for the moment of Morella's decease. I did; but the fragile spirit clung to its tenement of clay for many days—for many weeks and irksome months-until my tortured nerves obtained the mastery over my mind, and I grew furious through delay, and, with the heart of a fiend, cursed the days, and the hours, and the bitter moments, which seemed to lengthen and lengthen as her gentle life declined-like shadows in the dying of the day. But one autumnal evening, when the winds lay still in heaven, Morella called me to her side. There was a dim mist over all the earth, and a warm glow upon the waters, and, amid the rich October leaves of the forest, a rainbow from the firmament had surely fallen. As I came she was murmuring in a low undertone, which trembled with fervor, the words of a Catholic hymn. Sancta Maria! turn thine eyes Of fervent prayer and humble love At morn, at noon, at twilight dim, When my hours flew gently by, Now, when clouds of Fate o'ercast All my Present and my Past, Let my Future radiant shine With sweet hopes of thee and thine. "It is a day of days" said Morella-" a day of all days either to live or die. It is a fair day for the sons of Earth and Life-ah! more fair for the daughters of Heaven and Death." I turned towards her, and she continued "I am dying—yet shall I live. Therefore for me, Morella, thy wife, hath the charnel house no terrors-mark me!-not even the terrors of the worm. The days have never been when thou could'st love me; but her whom in life thou didst abhor, in death thou shalt adoie." 66 Morella!" "I repeat that I am dying. But within me is a pledge of that affection-ah, how little!—which you felt for me, Morella. And when my spirit departs shall the child live-thy child and mine, Morella's. But thy days shall be days of sorrow-that sorrow which is the most lasting of impressions, as the cypress is the most enduring of trees. For the hours of thy happiness are over; and Joy is not gathered twice in a life, as the roses of Paestum twice in a year. Thou shalt no longer, then, play the Teian with Time, but, being ignorant of the myrtle and the vine, thou shalt bear about with thee thy shroud on earth, as do the Moslemin at Mecca." 66 Morella!"-I cried-" Morella! how knowest thou this ?"-but she turned away her face upon the pillow, and, a slight tremor coming over her limbs, she thus died, and I heard her voice no more. Yet, as she had foretold, her child-to which in dying she had given birth, and which breathed not until the mother breathed no more-her child, a daughter, lived. And she grew strangely in stature and intellect, and was the perfect resemblance of her who had departed, and I loved her with a love more fervent and more intense than I had believed it possible to feel for any denizen of earth. But, ere long, the Heaven of this pure affection became disturbed, and Gloom and Horror and Grief swept over it in clouds. I said the child grew strangely in stature and intelligence. Strange indeed was her rapid increase in bodily size-but terrible, oh! terrible were the tumultuous thoughts which crowded upon me while watching the development of her mental being. Could it be other |