over her heated face; she struggled to free herself from him, and to hide her head beneath the bed-clothes. Just then, music, the same music which Rose had heard in her dream, sounded beneath the window; she started up, and sprung instantly from the bed. The crowd beneath the window had been all occupied with one dreadful sight-the execution of young Frank Aleyn. Five minutes before, the fatal rope had been twisted round his throat; and his fine manly form was swinging slowly in the struggles of death from the lofty gallows. The music, which had ceased when he was turned off, had commenced again at the command of the inhuman Kirk; but far louder burst one long heart-rending shriek, so loud, so thrilling was it, that it seemed to proceed from no human creature. Every eye was turned to the casement from whence it came. The face which met the view was like that of a corpse that had died in strong convulsions. Every feature was strained, and fixed in one expression of rigid horror. The mouth and eyes were widely opened, and the hair, long and disordered as it was, almost stood up from the brow. Still every one gazed upon that fair yet fearful countenance; but at once, the figure raised its naked arms, and clapped its hands, and shouted with a burst of exulting laughter. There came forward a man to that casement, and a groan of execration rose from the crowd as he appeared. He attempted to drag his victim away, but she wound her arms round the window frame, and clung there, hugging it with all her force, and gazing with a look of wild and greedy earnestness on her brother's body. At length the blood gushed from her mouth and nostrils, her arms relaxed their hold, and she fell back lifeless into the arms of Colonel Kirk.

Rose Aleyn did not die, although for many weeks her life was despaired of. She lay a long time in a heavy stupor, almost resembling death. At last Winifred heard her speak again. It was about midnight, and she was sitting by the bed-side of her friend, and watching her pale and wasted countenance. Rose unclosed her eyes, and a smile played faintly about her lips. She murmured a few indistinct words, and then sunk into a sweet and refreshing sleep. Soon after day-break she awoke again, she looked up at her friend, and smiled upon her, and spoke to her, but Winifred's heart died within her as she listened; she had waited, in the joyful stillness of hope, to see her beloved companion awake from that quiet sleep, and she did wake with a tint like that of returning health upon her cheek, with calm words, and gentle smiles, but, alas, they were the words of an idiot. The whirlwind of woe and overwhelming horror had passed entirely away; but it had left a blank, a vacancy, in the intellect of the poor maiden.

Thought and memory were gone, and surely their absence was a blessing left by a merciful and gracious God. Winifred soon learned to think so, and to bless her Heavenly Father, for the change which she at first lamented. Rose could not recollect her, but she seemed to love her better than before. They could never converse again on the memories of their youthful days, and Winifred wept to think that those days were better forgotten. In her mind Frank Aleyn was connected with almost every joy of their childhood. He had loved her as a sister; but she had felt for him, unknown to every one, the full and devoted affection of a wife. Her secret was never known, for to most observers she appeared one of those cold and gentle beings who are pronounced incapable of strong feeling. The shrine of passion was deep within her heart, but the flame did not burn less ardently because its light was never seen. The trial of Winifred had been severe, and she had often wept over it in secret, but she prayed also in secret; and she learned humbly and heartily to join praises to her prayers; to feel how good it was for her to be in sorrow; to be at first resigned and then happy.

The aged grandmother of Frank Aleyn had died within a few days after his execution; and Mrs. Langland took the helpless and unconscious Rose to be unto her as a daughter. After her recovery, they left Taunton, and Winifred became the constant companion of her friend. The gentle Rose lived on in a calm of enjoyment; pleased with the sounds and sights of nature, the song of birds, the colours and the fragrance of flowers. Her smiles often made Winifred melancholy, but others loved to see them; and the villagers where she lived would say, when they gazed upon her calm and beautiful countenance, "who would guess that yon fair maiden has suffered enough to break any human heart?" Her ways were ever gentle; she seldom spoke but to her friend, whose mere presence was a delight to her, and whom she would follow as a loving and docile child.

The only thing that agitated the poor girl was the sound of music, which Rose had once loved; it now terrified her. It might have been that some remembrance of the music heard on one dreadful morning still clung to her mind; but so it was, that, if music sounded near her, her smiles vanished, tears started into her eyes, and she fled trembling with horror to her friend Winifred. For some years the gentle Rose lived in the bloom of apparent health; but in her twenty-third year her slight strength began to fail, and she faded away like a flower broken on its stalk. The colour departed from her cheek and lips, and a languid heaviness gathered about her soft eyes. She could soon only walk when supported by her beloved

Winifred, and at last she was carried out into the flowergarden on mild warm mornings, for she could not bear to remain in her chamber; she loved the light and the sweet summer air.

It was a morning in June; much such a morning as that on which Rose set out on her last hopeless visit to Taunton. Winifred was sitting on a green bank near the house, partly shaded by the branches of a large rose tree. She had often, in the presence of Rose, read aloud in the Book of God, with a hope which she dared not confess to herself, that her words might be at last understood. She was now reading from the Epistles of St. John; and Rose, with her face leaning on her friend's bosom, lay reclining in her arms. She had finished reading, when Rose lifted up her face, and gazed earnestly on the sky. Winifred saw that a sudden change had come over her countenance; she saw Rose raise her clasped hands, and a few faint words were breathed from her lips. A thrill of rapture darted through the heart of Winifred, for those words were the clear language of thoughtful and connected prayer; the light of intelligence shone for an instant in her eyes, and then the fair lids closed over them. Still the lips moved, but her words were now like sighs, and Winifred listened to them in vain. She pressed her lips to those of the dying maiden, and a smile broke like sun-light over the pallid features; gradually its lustre died away; -for the spirit of life was gone.

C. B. T.

BEAUTY;

A LYRICAL POEM.

Since yesternight I've dreamt a dream,

Delicate maid, of love and thee;

I know that it can only seem

But let it seem to be.

It is a vision sent to bless

The spirit of my youth awhile;
Oh! let it still upon my spirit smile!
It is a vision in whose soft caress

To-day-perhaps to-morrow,
I may forget my sorrow,-

The pains of an unquiet mind,

That ever seeks what it can never find,
That undiscover'd loveliness

Which is to youth a hope-a dark belief-
A somewhat dimly promising relief

To that which nothing natural can heal;

The unseen wound which makes us poets when we feel.

Then let me dream!-of love ?-oh, yes!

Of love and thee! what can I less

What less than fondly brood

On such a radiant form as thine,

That surely hath subdued

Full many a spirit less on fire than mine!
For Love and Beauty, long ago,

Their faiths have plighted;

That as in Heaven they have been still united,

So they below,

For weal and woe,

Will evermore unite,

And be on earth the parents of Delight.

And now in very truth I find,

With thy soft beauties love so intertwin'd,

That I will openly declare,

To see and not to love a thing so fair,

Were to break faith with joy,

And to be old, whilst I am yet a boy.

It was indeed a rich delight,

Delicate maid, to see thee move, With gentle bend before my sight,

Ideal of a poet's love

So fair-so fancifully fair,

Almost, methought, thou wert a thing of air;

Some creature faery bright,

With beamy locks, and face of light,

And silver-woven drapery of haze,

One of the shapes which, in his gifted hour,

The poet, as he lies at gaze,
Love-sick at eve in myrtle-bower,
Sees in the sky,

Athwart the sun slow sweeping radiantly,
When he discovers all the things that live,
Their forms, and dying hues, and features fugitive!

Or art thou but a creature

Whose place is in the brain,
With gay and delicate feature,

The fairest in a train

Of many forms, that come from fairy land,
All dancing homeward to that lovely strand?

Or art thou a creation

That many know in part,

A sudden revelation

Of treasures in the heart?

A new joy found in a hidden nook,

The only place in which we did not look?

Or art thou a form that had fled,

Sought for in vain ?

Or art thou a life that was dead,

Wept for in pain,

Sought for in faintness and dread?

O comfortable vision !

O blessed recognition!

Love gave his dear one into Memory's keeping,
Memory let her fly;

Love sought his dear one, wandering and weeping,
He scarce knew why.

Love lost his dear one, yet He could not die !
Now he knows his own,

For whom he made moan ;

He knows her by a sign—a look—a lost expression,

And Memory hides her face, and makes a low confession!

Thou art not any thing to me,

In air, or earth, or sea;