She usually rested on a couch, which was placed in an oriel window, looking forth on the forest glades; the chants from the forest fane were borne in sweeping gusts of melody, floating on the air, and penetrating the bowering vistas, while the rustling of the waving trees lulled her to repose. Here the fawn darted past; the conies disported themselves, too, disturbing the graceful ferns where the blue-bells hide; the nightingales poured forth their songs of bliss, and bright fountains leaped and sparkled in the sunshine.

The sun was sinking behind the cedars; the perfume of garden flowers came sweetly on the breeze, wafting odours; and the sighing zephyr gently stirred Aileen's clustering hair. She rested in my arms by that oriel window; the vesper hymn arose, died away, and rose again; the moon ascended in serene grandeur, the silver light bathing the hushed landscape, the sombre, mysterious forest avenues lost in darkness—a darkness appalling to the excited imagination.

Aileen looked wan, very wan and changed. I was terrified, but she whispered, clinging closer to me, "Mona, when my spirit has taken flight, I will send you a token of my happiness, if it may be so. Remember this!"

Her voice passed away, she fell asleep in my arms, and thus she departed, my blest Aileen. I bore her from the oriel window. The village bells were merrily pealing; the watch-dog's bark was loud and cheering; the night air rushed down refreshingly from the green hills; but she knew nothing of these old familiar tokensshe, the waxen effigy.

O! it is a fearful thing to be alone with the dead; it teacheth the lesson which nothing else can

"She will awake no more, O, never more!

Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
The shadow of white death, and at the door
Invisible corruption waits to trace
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place.
that unrest which men miscall delight
Can touch her not, and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world's slow stain

She is secure, and now can never mourn

A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain.
Peace! peace!

She hath awakened from the dream of life

She has outsoared the shadow of our night."

*

Our honoured chaplain, my Lady Winifred, and myself were kneeling round the couch, whereon the corpse was stretched; it was still, deep midnight. Summer roses, and many odorous

flowers, redolent of life and joy, were strewn thickly above the heap of clay, and many tall, waxen tapers burnt in silver branches around it. The Priest had been engaged for upwards of an hour in solemn prayer; he supplicated for comfort and consolation for the living-the bereaved.

All the inmates of S. Evremond's abbey were hushed in sleep; for we alone, on that awful night, kept watch over our beloved dead. Low and faltering at intervals, but often clear and distinct, the deep-toned voice of our Priest alone broke the silence. There was a pause when lo! suddenly arose a full and overwhelming burst of melody,-a seraphic chorus,- -as if ten thousand thousand angel-harps were united in one; mysteriously dim and distant, as if far, far away in immeasurable space, yet filling all that vast old abbey with a volume of sound; penetrating each corridor and aisle, ascending to the vaulted roofs, and retreating amid the arcades and cloisters, and in faintly echoing murmurs lost beyond the dark forest depths; from the green hills whispering, as if the night breeze swept o'er the strings of some enchanted lyre, a wailing cadence. How my life-blood curdled in my veins! for instantaneously flashed on my memory the recollection of her last words. I looked on the beautiful effigy, almost expecting to see it move. it lay! I followed my Lady Winifred, who with composed steps quitted the chamber: she had no fear. To the Abbot's Hall she bent her steps, from whence the unearthly sounds appeared to issue; they now assumed a distinct character,—“ the Requiem of the S. Evremonds."

How still

What a sight met our eyes! The antique sculptured hall was brighter than if the summer's noontide sun poured all its concentrated glories through each mullioned casement! O, what a simile! how poor and contemptible! It was as if heaven's vivid lightning prolonged one vast continuous flash! Our mortal sight was pained and dazzled; there stood the musical instruments, in solitude, untouched by mortal hands; there stood the tapers, all unlit. But the awful light and the celestial music continued, and I saw my Lady Winifred cross herself, and bend her head down to shade the glory; when, just as sense and sight were failing me, somewhat like a glittering meteor darted swiftly past.

Under the leaves! how on its head there burns
A light, like a green star, whose emerald beams
Are twined with its fair hair! how, as it moves,
The splendour drops in flakes upon the grass!

Once again I listened to the "Requiem of the S. Evremonds," repeated in the Forest Chapel, once again repeated by mortal

agency, when the beloved remains were placed beside the mouldering generations who here met together in ghastly array.

It was the last time the Requiem was ever performed in that ancient forest fane. The torches flashed on the weeping forms around, and on the dark trees beyond; the coffin was lowered to its final resting-place; the hallowed chant over the dead was slowly and softly sung. We turned away, leaving the young, lovely, and beloved to her undisturbed repose; one of God's own rejoicing angels I knew she was, and I was comforted. My Lady Winifred soon retired to a religious sanctuary, endowing the Church with her large possessions. The abbey and chapel of S. Evremond passed into stranger hands, and the ivied ruins and mossgrown heaps are monumental records of the past.

"Alas! how many sorrows crowd

Into those two brief words-' there was.'"

C. A. M. W.

NOTES OF THE MONTH.

MAY.

THANK you, courteous readers, say we, as we sit at our study window with the birds singing their spring carol above, and the bright blue sea in the distance thank you, courteous readers, (and by the way, we use the word in italics advisedly,) for permitting us to revel in this bright and glorious scene, with the pleasing consciousness that no pile of letters crowd our table in angry complaint at the lengthy notes of the month in which we indulged in our last number. We were somewhat afraid, though we know one kind friend who clamoured lustily for notices of the black-letter Saints Days in addition. And now, for all these courtesies, our best acknowledgments are due; and, as a means of repaying them in kind, we promise to deal as briefly as we may with the interesting themes that will come before us this month, though we are almost conscious to ourselves that our notes by the way will be rather longer than usual. Howbeit, the subjects are somewhat pleasant, and refer to the festive games of once merrie England.

Before, however, we touch upon these, we may in passing remark, that the Romans deemed this month to be under the protection of Apollo; and that it derived its name, most probably, from Maia, the mother of Mercury, and daughter of Atlas and Pleione, to whom the Romans sacrificed on the first of the month. It was called by the Saxons "tri milki, or Trimilchi, because then the cows were milked thrice in the day." It has been sung of

by poets, as the merriest gladdest month in all the year, with beds of

"Violet blue,

And fresh-blown roses washed in dew;"

or, to use the quaint and elegant description of old Spenser,

"Then came faire May, the fayrest mayd on ground,
Deckt all with dainties of her season's pryde,
And throwing flow'rs out of her lap around,
Upon two brethren's shoulders she did ride,
The twins of Leda, who on either side
Supported her, like to her soveraine queen.

Lo! how all creatures laugh'd when her they spide,
And leapt, and danc'd, as they had ravisht been!"

MAY 1.

And first in order comes the Festival of S. Philip and S. James, on which our readers will remember are held the annual commemorations at S. James', Enfield, of which we have, from time to time, given notice. To-day we must be content to be with our old friends in heart and spirit, though not in bodily presence. 66 Call me early, mother dear," the finest thought of one of England's finest poets will fit across the mind, as one begins to recount the various observances with which it is sought to do reverence to the month of May. Formerly it was the general custom throughout the country for the people to go out as soon as day began (i.e., just after twelve o'clock) into the woods with the blowing of horns, &c., "where they broke down branches from the trees, and adorned them with nosegays and crowns of flowers."

Old Herrick (quoted in Hone) gives copious illustrations of the custom of these times, and few will regret somewhat lengthy extracts from his graceful song.

"Get up, get up, for shame, the blooming morne
Upon her wings presents the god unshorne.

See how Aurora throwes her faire

Fresh-quilled colours through the aire
Get up, sweet slug-abed, and see
The dew-bespangled herb and tree.

Each flow'r has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Above an hour since, yet you not drest,

Nay not so much as out of bed,

When all the birds have matteyns said;
And sung their thankful hymnes; 'tis sin,
Nay profanation to keep in,

When as a thousand virgins on this day

Spring sooner than the lark to fetch in May.

"Rise and put on your foliage and be seene

To come forth, like the spring-time fresh and greene,

And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gowne, or haire ;
Fear not the leaves will strew
Gemms in abundance upon you;
Besides the childhood of the day has kept
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
Come and receive them while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night;
And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still.

"Come, my Corinna, come; and coming marke
How each field turns a street, each street a parke
Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this
An arke, a tabernacle is,

Made up of whitethorn neatly interwove,
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street
And open fields, and we not see it?
Come, we'll abroad, and let's obey
The proclamation made for May;

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

"There's not a budding boy or girle, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
A deal of youth, ere this, is come
Back, and with whitethorn laden home.
Some have dispatched their cakes and creame
Before that we have left to dream;

And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth."

*

*

*

These customs are rightly connected by Brady with the Roman "Floralia," or festivals in honour of Flora, the goddess of fruits, flowers, &c. Stubbs in the Anatomies of Abuses, 1585, says, "Against May every parishe, towne, and village assemble themselves together, both men, women, and children, olde and yong, even all indifferently; and either goyng alltogether, or devyding themselves into companies, they goe some to the woodes and groves, some to the hilles and mountaines, some to one place, and some to another, where they spende all the night in pastymes, and in the mornyng they returne, bringing with them birch, bowes, and branches of trees to deck their assemblies withall." The Maypole and May-games of former days won the patronage of royal personages, who seemed to share in them with not less zest than their poorer subjects. To give even a condensed account of some of these olden days of merrie England would far exceed