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Overcome by my feelings, I threw myself on my knees by Bruno, and cried, “Pardon! pardon!”

What, during this time, passed in Ma chère mère's heart, I know not. It seemed to be a contest of life and death. She moved not; with a fixed and immovable gaze, she looked down at the kneeling one, and convulsive twitches passed over her pale lips. But, as his voice ceased, she lifted her hand, and pressed it strongly against her heart. “My son! oh!” said she, with a hollow voice. She sighed deeply; her countenance became yellow, her eyes closed, she reeled, and would have fallen to the ground, if Bruno had not sprung up and caught her in his arms.

He stood a moment still, his mother pressed to his bosom, and gazed on her countenance, over which death had shed his awful peace. “Is it thus,” said he, in a quiet distraction, “is it thus, then, that we are reconciled, mother? - thus thou restest on the bosom of thy son, and he on thine ? Thou art pale, but peaceful, and lookest kind, - kind as God's propitiation! It was not thus that I saw thee the last time; but the hour of wrath is over, — is it not so, my mother? The grave has opened itself, and we go down there reconciled, and heart to heart; one in my last hour, as we were one in my first sigh!” And he kissed her pale lips and cheeks, with passionate tenderness. * * He took his mother in his arms, and carried her into another room, where he laid her softly down upon a bed. that Bruno staggered, and supported himself against the wall. I went to him.

“Bruno," said I, " for your mother's sake, think of yourself. You must allow your wounds to be bound up."

* your

mother's sake, let me bind your wounds, or you will bleed to death!” I was proceeding, but he held my hand back, and said, with a tone whose severity strongly reminded me of his mother, " It cannot be done! She has not yet forgiven me, not yet blessed me! My blood shall not till then be stanched! I have sworn to it!"

To persuade Bruno was not to be expected; I therefore directed all my attention to Ma chère mère. But, for a long time, all my endeavors to restore her to consciousness were in



I saw

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vain. It was a moment of unspeakable agony. I feared that, actually, mother and son would follow one another to the grave. “ If I could but get her bled !” said I. — “That can be done,” replied Hagar, and ran out.

Nearly in the same instant, Ma chère mère opened her eyes, and fixed then sharply on me. Where is he?" demanded she, eagerly; "I have not dreamed!” — "He is here," I answered; “he is near; he is bleeding to death, while he awaits the blessing of his mother !" “Where is he?” demanded she, again. I stood near her pillow,- I stood between mother and son; and, instead of answering her question, I drew myself back, and their eyes met each other. A beam of heavenly light, of ineffable love, kindled in them, and in it melted their souls into one. She raised herself with energy, and stretched out her hand with the warmest expression of maternal feeling, while she said, “My son, come hither; I will bless thee!”

He stood up. The tall, gigantic man staggered like a child, and sunk on his knees by the bed of his mother. She laid her hands on his bloody head, and said, with a strong voice and deep solemnity, “I take away the curse which I once laid on the head of my son. I bestow on him my full forgiveness. May the man atone for the error of the youth! Let the past be as if it never had been. I acknowledge that I owe my life to my son; and I pray God Almighty to bless thee, my son, Bruno Mansfield, as I bless thee now. Amen!” With that, she opened her arms; he clasped his round her; bosom was pressed to bosom, lip to lip; they held one another in a long and close embrace. Every breath seemed to be full of reconciliation, of love and happiness. Fifteen years of bitter pangs were, in this moment, recompensed and forgotten. I stood near them, and wept for joy and thankfulness.


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DERZHAVIN. -1816. This author is the best known of any of the Russian poets. He is the pride of his countrymen, and they speak of him in the most enthusiastic manner. The following Ode to God has been translated into Japanese and Chinese, by order of the emperors of these countries, and hung up, embroidered in gold, in one of their principal temples.

(Translated from the Russian, by Bororing.)

O thou Eternal One! whose presence bright

All space doth occupy, all motion guide;
Unchanged through Time's all devastating flight,

Thou only God; — there is no God beside ! Being above all beings! Three in one!

Whom none can comprehend, and none explore;
Who fill'st existence with thyself alone,

Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er —
Being, whom we call God - and know no more!

In its sublime research, Philosophy

May measure out the ocean-deep, may count The sands or the sun's rays; but, God! for thee

There is no weight nor measure; none can mount Up to thy mysteries; Reason's brightest spark,

Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try
To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark;

And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high,
E'en like past moments in eternity.

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Thou from primeval nothingness didst call

First chaos, then existence. — Lord, on thee Eternity had its foundation; all

Sprang forth from thee, - of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin; all kife, all beauty, thine.

Thy word created all, and doth create;
Thy splendor fills all space with rays Divine.

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! glorious, great,
Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!

Thy choirs the unmeasured universe surround,

Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath! Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,

And beautifully mingled life and death.

As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze,

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth, from thee; And as the spangles in the sunny rays

Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry

Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise. A million torches, lighted by thy hand,

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss; They own thy power, accomplish thy command

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light

A glorious company of golden streams Lamps of celestial ether, burning bright

Sun-lighting systems, with their joyous beams;

But thou to these art as the moon to night.
Yes! as a drop of water in the sea,

All this magnificence in thee is lost.
What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee?

And what am I, then? Heaven's unnumbered host, Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed

In all the glory of sublimest thought, Is but an atom in the balance weighed

Against thy greatness. - Is a cipher brought

Against infinity? - What am I, then ?-- Nought. Nought! But the effluence of thy light Divine !

Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too: Yes; in my spirit doth thy spirit shine,

As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Nought! But I live, and on Hope's pinions fly

Eager towards thy presence; for in thee
I live, and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high,

Even to the throne of thy divinity.

I am, oh God! and surely thou must be ! Thou art! directing, guiding all, thou art!

Direct my understanding, then, to thee; Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart;

Though but an atom 'midst immensity,

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Still I am something fashioned by thy hand;

I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand,

Close to the realms where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit land !

The chain of being is complete in me;

In me is matter's last gradation lost; And the next step is spirit — Deity!

I can command the lightning and the dust! A monarch and a slave; a worm, a god!

Whence came I here, and how? So marvellously Constructed and conceived ? Unknown! This clod

Lives surely through some higher energy;
For from itself alone it could not be !


Creator! Yes, thy wisdom and thy word
Created me.

Thou source of life and good!
Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord !

Thy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude, Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring

O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing

Its heavenly flight, beyond this little sphere,
E'en to its source

to thee -its Author there !

O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest !

Though worthless our conceptions all of thee,
Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast,

And waft its homage to thy Deity.
God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar ;

Thus seek thy presence. – Being wise and good! 'Midst thy vast works, admire, obey, adore;

And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.


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