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come to call him. Groaning, he hid his face ; yet his and regarded not the sufferings that I underwent. All distress drove him once again to regard the terrible the sufferings with which thou hast torn and broken the appearance, and he breathed easier when he recognized noblest, tenderest heart, I have felt with her a thousand it.

fold. At length I saw her die. These arms bore her "You are La Borssiere,” said he, in a languid tone, to the place of her last repose ; and I have survived and stretched his hand, with difficulty, towards him. her only for the hour of vengeance, which is now “You from whom I expected least, you are the only arrived.” one who have not forgotten me in my deep dis La Borssiere's anger grew stronger and stronger the tress.”

longer he spoke. His features changed, his eyes inWith an expression of dislike, La Borssiere turned flamed, and, almost mechanically, he seized Vanamfrom the offered hand. For some time he could find no bon's dagger in his right hand, and brandished it high language to express his deep emotions. At length he over his guilty head. said, “Yes, I have remained with thee; I alone have “Strike! finish thy work!” cried Vanambon ; “let saved thee. All thought thee dead, and would have me expiate my earthly sins on earth. Send me to buried thee. I have saved thee at no cheap price. the saint, where, forgiving me, she awaits for me to I have watched by thee—I have nursed thee day and perfect her happiness, whilst thou shalt unite us to all night. I have prayed to God for thy preservation, that eternity.” I might demand of thee satisfaction for thy deeds La Borssiere grew pale; his hair stood erect, from satisfaction for the murder of one in glory, that thou his deep horror. The hand in which he held the hast destroyed by thy rash pride.”

sword sank trembling by his side ; and, full of terVanambon turned pale; again he appeared to lose ror, he rivetted his fixed glance on his defenceless his consciousness. But La Borssiere held him, with enemy. strong hand, as if he would forcibly shake off his stu Above, there hatred and vengeance are unknown,” por. “Die not !" this fearful man called out-his face said Vanambon, looking towards heaven, like one inglowed, his eyes sparkled fire. “Die not! thou darest spired; "there our transgressions will not be judged not die! My pains to save thee from a living grave by the consequences they produce, as on us blind, errshall not go unrewarded." He called out, almost deli- ing mortals. This have I known from the hour in rious with rage, as Vanambon almost sunk beneath his which my soul, forsaking its earthly fetters, soared up terrible grasp, “O, that I may have time for vengeance, to her. You believed me dead; why did you not let well deserved vengeance on him."

me be buried ? My soul was with hers. Who permitted Cold horror crept through the very bones and mar- you, with terrible art, to call it back to this dungeon ? row of the guilty Vanambon; but this sudden shock of I saw Eglantine, borne on bright silver clouds; she the nerves, seemed rather to restore his lost strength glided high over me—I bent low in the dust. Her heathan to deprive him of it. He raised himself in his venly eyes smiled with forgiveness towards me; her bed without any assistance, and with a much stronger hand beckoned to me-she soared to the portals of etervoice, a much steadier glance than one could have ex-nal light-bright beaming stars marked her course. pected in his present state, he called out—"Finish it! Wc meet again, we again,' sounded around I am weary of living! Take my own dagger-there it her; whether she sang, or an angel spoke, I know is-end my sufferings. I wish for death, and with my not.” dying lips I will bless thee as a benefactor.”

La Borssiere stood motionless, his fixed eyes still di“Wretch !" answered La Borssiere, with a look and rected to his enemy. tone of inexpressible contempt, “has thy soul no con “I dare not lay hands on myself, and yet I cannot sciousness of the extent of thy crime—no idea of that live. Send, oh! send me after her,” begged Vanamholy, undying love, which thou hast murdered by wan- bon. ton pride? How else canst thou bear, without despair, La Borssiere moved not. A deathlike stillness reignthe thought of standing before the Eternal Judge in the ed around. At length breathing deeply, as one awanext hour? Thou knowest not, thou feelest not, what kening from a dream, he said: “Whether trembling a heart has bee broken by thy misconduct. But I like a coward before death, thou thinkest to save thyknow it; I can measure Eglantine's sufferings, for I self by artifice; whether driven by thy awakened conhave suffered like her. I have loved her, as this saint science to delirium, thou dreamed of this appearance ; loved thee, monster-and I alone, of all living upon or whether" he became suddenly silent, and raised earth, am called on to avenge her. Vanambon,” said his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer. “May God judge he, after a short pause, “in thy hands I deposited the between thee and me,” said he at length. “I will not most precious jewel in the world—the happiness of open the way to thee to the throne of his mercy. Live, this dearly loved being? Where is Eglantine?-what and see, thyself, as thou wilt now begin to do, all the has become of her? I demand her of thee. I saw former deeds of thy life.” what thou wast to her; I renounced every hope for La Borssiere laid down the dagger, and went out, myself. I wished only to see her happy, and then without deigning a single look to the loud despair of silently, unobserved in my grief, to die. Never has a Vanambon. conception of what I felt for her entered into your soul; He left the court of the Queen from that hour, and with deadly pangs have I guarded towards her every sought, and soon found, under the banners of Henry of look, every word. I called myself the guardian of Navarre, an honorable death in battle. your love; I preserved, without allowing her to know Vanambon recovered. It is said he did not live long; it, many of your happiest hours from interruption. I but no one inquired for him any further, either in life brought her news from you, when you were separated, | or death.

VOL. III.-25




April month!--it is the time, When the merry birds do chime Airy wood-notes, wild and free In half-budded bow'r and tree; Rousing up with gleesome cheer, The slow servants of the year, Where they took their winter sleep, In earth's mansions, dark and deep; Whatsoe'er they hap to be, In green coat and livery.Roving Wind, whose rosy mouth, Odor'd by the sunny south, Loves to press, as still he flies, Beds of thousand luxuriesSkimming still, as light he passes, Pearly drops from glittering grasses, That do yield their tribute free, For the press of such as he.Budding flow'rs that ope to gain Some sweet homage from his train, And, with blushing lips receive, What the rover deigns to give, As, on hurried mission bent, By the dove-eyed April sent, He, to chase old winter's snows, O'er the waste and valley goes.

Are the frosts of winter down, On your bald and yellow crown? Heed it not-your heart rejoices, In the young-bird April voices ! Virgin! budding like the season, Love has now sufficient reasonLook around,-sweet counsels rise, For your young heart to your eyesAnd the tutors that you see, Set your hopes and fancies free. Have you felt the dream of love Take your lessons from the dove! Hope, by all these opening flowers, Hope, by all these fitful showers, For the dream your heart beguiles, Is of tears, and blooms, and smiles. Lo! the urchin, with keen eye, As the season draweth nigh, When, from school-book haply free, He hath time and chance to see; And with heart whose beat is mirth, Leaps he o'er the yielding earthWhile his look is full of haste, And his lips speak fresher taste, And a smile of victory, Twinkles in his roguish eye, As he sees, in thicket deep, Where the mother mockbirds keep, And accounts secure the spoil, Which shall pay him for his toil.



Month of bright, fantastic change, Sweet, familiar, wild and strange, Time of promise, when the leaf Has its tear of pleasant grief,When the winds, by nature coy, Do both cold and heat alloy, Nor, to either, will dispense Their delighting preference;When the mother, earth, brings forth, From her bosom, all her worth, Precious store, which, in her womb, Hidden, through the winter's gloom, Kept the sacred fires from harm, Unextinguished still, and warm;— When the old tree, flush of fruit, Clothes himself in motley suit, And, from waters, woods and sky, Comes the universal cry, Summer's first-born voices springing From their winter's sleep, and singing Sweetest song! that speaks of time, When fresh Nature, in her prime, Had no shadow, knew no chill To o'ertop the sunny hill, Where kind spirits came to bless Young Creation's loveliness.

Nor is he, the poet, less,
One the season loves to bless!
In the shelter of the wood,
With the sad nymph, Solitude,
View him, as at dawn he roves,
In the doubtful light he loves.
With sad eye, yet cheeks all glowing,
And long hair all loosely flowing,
He beholds, with every view,
Something beautiful and new ;-
Something yet unknown before,
Fitted well to fill his store,
Garner'd up with other thought
'Till the teeming brain hath wrought,
From their mingled treasures then,
Some undying gift to men.-
Studious, as he moves along,
What his lips shall give to song,
Where the moral shall be sought,
Which shall crown and strengthen thought,
Where the flow'ret shall be placed,
Which the thought has nobly graced,
And what consecrated Muse,
To receive it, he shall chuse.



Bosom'd April!—it doth bring
A true promise of the spring,
Rich profusion, not to pall,
But to bless and honor all.

Nothing doth he lose that lies,
Order'd well, beneath his eyes-
Not a ripple swells the tide,
But it is, to him, a guide,
And direction, which his lyre,
Will, in future song, require.
Doth the glow-worm meet his sight,

'Neath the moon's ascending blaze,
That trims the forest with her rays
And in her benignant mood,
Silver-laces all the flood!


As with half-awakened light, She would speed in shame away, From the rapid, rushing day?Doth the flower, that yester-e'en, He hath in its beauty seen, Growing in his evening walk, Now lie withered on its stalk?Nought is profitless he sees, And he wins a truth from these, Which shall teach a higher race, Noblest thought and sweetest grace'Tis to him a joy to find, Laws in nature for his mind, Counsellors of faith and trust, Which, he knows, are ever just; Happy, if from wood, or lake, Hill or valley, he may take, Rules for which his fellow looks, In dull school, and dismal books.

There they sport, and who but they,
Happy in such infant play,
Tossing, in their random rout,
Fruits and flowers and leaves about
While the Poet 'neath the tree
Looks on their festivity,
The sweet fancy ever near,
Pours a legend in his ear-
Ро his eye from all apart,
Brooding on her own sad heart,
Where a gentle maiden looks,
Watchful, on the winding brooks.
'Tis by sentence of their King,
That, until the lilies spring,
Floating free, like sad blue eyes,
Where the waters sleep and rise,
That her rebel lover, be,
Bound in tough and close pegg'd tree,
And she watches there to note
The young blue water-lilies float.



Nor, with laws of common life,
Only, is the season rife ;-
Dreams of other worlds arise
On the Poet's roving eyes, -
Strong Imagination's wing,
Bears him in his wandering,
And he sees, with curbless vision,
Scenes of hope, and homes Elysian,
Where, in foreign climes and groves,
Dew-eyed Contemplation roves,
By the old Tradition won,
To the chambers of the Sun,
When Time's eyes were shrouded quite
Neath the mantle of old Night;
And he sees, and weeps to see
Such his sweet humanity-
Where the Inca dies, and this,
For the Spaniard's avarice.


Slumbering then in noon-tide bower,
Lo! a new life fills the flower,
Fit, but foreign, not its own,
Making of the flower a throne;
And converting all around,
Into deep, forbidden ground.
'Tis the season of the year
When the fairy tribes appear,
Kindred things with bud and bird,
Born with them, and in them heard.
When, at noon, the forests sleep,
Then the whispering urchins creep,
Perch'd on nodding limbs look down,
Where, on leaves, by winter brown,
The sad Poet dreams, ard sees,
What the prompting prattlers please.
Lull'd by sweet discourse, he lies,
With bound limbs and seal'd up eyes,
"Till, at night, they set him free,
To behold their company,
Dancing, in the holy shade,
On the plain their feet have made,
To the music of the breeze,
Sweetest of all melodies,

Cruel Oberon! to part, Flow'r and moon-beam-heart and heart! But they soon shall meet again; For the gentle wind and rain, Have been busy all the night, Bringing Summer's train to light, And the fairy maid shall hear, Love's own language fill her ear. Now she starts with joyful eye, In the stream is rising high, That sweet flow'r whose first appearing Brings to her the hope so cheering; And she laughs, for, by her side, Stands he now in youthful pride;-And the happy people round, Glad to see the boy unbound, From green bush and bending tree, Leap in wild festivity. But Titania's cricket chiding, They obey her summons, gliding, One and all with common motion, As she sails along the ocean, Bent for hidden islands where, Mortal barks may never steer. All is rapture in their flight, Melody and young delight, And they gather,—void of care, With the lowly world so near, From blue heaven and shining sea, Thoughts of untouch'd harmony. Many a shell is wound to night, Many a mermaid's bower is bright, As her lover leaps in sight, From a moon-beam, in a shower Of its silver, for a dower!Happy race! that may explore, Sounding sea and silent shore,



Fill the void with leaping forms,
Travel, heedless of its storms.
Who so happy in the sky
And its home of purity?-
Who so happy in the air,
With the sad night-music there?
Who that skims the ocean, dwells
Mid the notes of such sweet shells,
In the sea-wall'd coral bower,
Which defies the storm-god's power-
As the race thus let to pierce,
All the secret universe,
And, before the time is given,
Win the happiness of Heaven?

Havre, November 21st, 1832. At about ten o'clock this morning, we arrived at this place. After undergoing the necessary custom-house operations, and locating myself at a hotel, I called upon Mr. -, with a letter of introduction. He received me with the greatest politeness, and made me dine with him, giving me, at the same time that be furnished my animal man with the not inconsiderable comforts of a French cuisine, a great deal of interesting information

with respect to politics. The news by which I was saluted was, indeed, of an exciting description. The war with Holland, the arrest of the duchess of Berri, and the attempt to assassinate the king of the French,

were events which promised, at least the two first, momentous consequences. On learning that the opening of the chamber of deputies had taken place only two days previous to our arrival, I was doubly inclined to "anti”-bless a perverse wind which had kept us for eight weary days within twenty-four hours sail of land in the channel. It must have been a sight well worth seeing, especially the episode of the "coup de pistolet.


'Twas an April dream, yet sure
Such as ever must endure,
While the Poet has a thought,
Or the web of fancy's wrought.
Kindred thus with nature's store,
Worthy of her sweetest lore, -
'Tis a proper wing that flies
To dominions of the skies,
And, to lowly earth, down brings,
Owners for such blessed things,
As around us spread the joys,
Which our reckless hand destroys.
For a gentler race, the flower,
Fills the air with sweetest breath;
For another world, the show'r,
Bright and pearl-like, gems the heath;
The green leaf that makes the bower,
And the bird whose fluted throat,
With a wild and lavish power,
Wasteful of its wanton note,
Sure were meant to bless the elves,
Which are gentle like themselves.


Sweetest April-could it be,
That our hearts were worthy thee,
And could take a gentle tone,
Such as ever marks thine own;
We were happy with the things,
That thy presence ever brings.
What, throughout the live-long year,
With thy freshness can compare-
Where the day whose dewy sweetness,
And the night whose touching fleetness,
And the sky, whose purer splendor,
And the flower whose petal tender,
Bright and sweet, howe'er they be,
Which may match, sweet month, with thee!

Paris, November 23d. Although I was not a little fatigued by the constant exercise of this day—the first of my arrival in Parisadded to the wearisomeness consequent on the want of

sleep during the preceding night, which had been passed in the diligence, I could not resist the temptation of going to the grand French opera; for Robert le Diable was to be performed. It was with considerable difficulty that I obtained a seat in the pit, notwithstanding the piece has been played so incessantly, almost since its production, that its continuing to attract large crowds approximates to the marvellous. It shows, at least, the enthusiasm of the French for good music, and holds out the strongest inducement to composers to exert their utmost powers, by assuring them that their works, if possessed of real merit, will not be cast aside, even for any length of time, when the impulse of curiosity, in reference to what is new, may be supposed to have lost its influence, but will continue for an adequate period to yield them an uninterrupted and abundant harvest of reputation and profit. It also enables the opera to "get along” with much less expense and difficulty, than if it were constantly requisite to bring forward novelties to attract the multitude; and this is one reason

why it may be feared that an Italian troupe will not succeed in the United States, as with us people seem to think that no theatrical performance of any kind should be seen more than twice or thrice, unless at an oblivious interval; and, consequently, in order to fill his house, the manager of the company would be obliged to incur an expense in giving something different nearly every night, for which he could not be remunerated.

It was, of course, with expectations raised to the highest pitch, that I went to see the master-piece of Mayerbeer; but it would be presumptuous in any but a “connoisseur de la première force,” to express a positive opinion as to its merits after hearing it only once. Until I hear it again, I shall not be able to say exactly what I think of it, nothing being so fallacious as first



Of all the months in all the year,

The sweetest, I would say, (With a soft whisper in her ear,)

Is Love's own charming May.

impressions when anticipation has been of a highly ex- | very mellifluous, and is on the whole a fine, though not aggerated character. I may state, however, that disap- a first rate, “cantatrice,” as well as a good actress. pointment, almost as a matter of course, was mingled None of the "luna” of the Italian musical sphere are with the impressions I received, and that the perform- shining here at present, and consequently those who ance left a strong feeling on my mind, that the piece is are fond of admiring it, must content themselves with not on a par with several of Rossini's. It seemed to the light of the “ignes minores." me that it is wanting in individuality, so to speak; that it is by no means segregated from the ordinary run of

November 25th. music in as marked a manner, as the Semiramide or the This morning there was a review by the king, of a Gazza ladra, for instance. The ærie, though for the part of the National Guards and the troops of the line most part delightful, struck me as inferior in breadth, in Paris, to enable them to evince their detestation of scope and originality, to those of either of the above the attempt to assassinate him, made on the day of the named operas, as deficient in the stamina by which “Di opening of the session. I must confess I should not be tanti," " Di piacer,” &c. have been enabled to stand the surprised if that matter were eventually discovered to wear and tear of time and ill usage; while the chorusses have been a ruse of the present ministry to reanimate appeared equally inferior in brilliancy and general ef- the enthusiasm of the people for Louis Philippe, of fect to those of the gran maestro, with one exception, late not very vivid, and give him an opportunity of however—the chorus of the demons in their infernal re- playing the hero, and exhibiting himself under circumjoicings, the wildest and most thrilling composition I stances calculated to arouse their sympathy and loyalty. have ever heard. In fine, it seemed to me that Rossini's It seems hardly credible that, in a place like Paris, music is superior in this, that even when only tolerably where the police is so active and watchful, the perpetraperformed, it cannot fail to give delight, whilst that of tor of such a crime should escape in broad day-light Mayerbeer depends so much for its effect on the style without their connivance, and bafile all their subsequent in which it is executed, that in the hands of inferior ar- search. At all events, the circumstance was a lucky tists, its beauties would glimmer only faintly. This one for both king and ministers, and has excited a feelopinion, however, probably results from the circum- ing of which they may make good use. I was fortustance of my ear not being sufficiently attuned to the nate in the place I obtained for looking at the review, latter to discern its peculiar attractions, the best things as the king came very near it in passing along the line not being always those whose intrinsic excellence is of the troops, and gave me an excellent opportunity of most easily discoverable; and it is likely enough that it seeing his face. It is a fat, good-natured one, and at the may undergo a considerable change when an opportu- moment wore a most pleased and smiling air, as he nity of testing its justness is afforded by a repetition of ducked his head right and left in answer to the sweet the opera. I will then endeavor to designate its princi- voices which shouted "vive le roi !" pal beauties, which even now I feel to be many and great, sufficient to excuse, if not to warrant, the lofti

November 27th. ness of the eulogy it has received, and calculated to en I spent most of this morning reading the newspapers title Mayerbeer to rank next to Rossini-perhaps not in a café. There are four of them which I have been longo intervalloamong the musical composers of the advised to read every day, in order to understand fully day. Of the manner in which the piece was performed, the character and views of the different factions into an idea may be given, by repeating what I have heard which the political world is split, each one being the on good authority, that the company at the Académie organ of a party: the Gazette de France, the organ of Royale is at present fully equal, if not superior, to what the Carlists; the Journal des Débats, the organ of the it ever has been.

ministry, or Juste Milieu party; the Courrier François,

the organ of the constitutional opposition; and the

November 24th. National, the organ of the republicans. They are conIn the evening I went to the Italian opera, where ducted, respectively, by the heads of the parties to Donizetti's Anna Bolena was performed. I was prin- which they belong. The National is the most violent, cipally attracted by the desire of hearing the famous and is frequently not very mindful of decorum. The Rubini, reputed to be the first tenor in the world. I actual state of politics here is certainly curious and can well imagine that he is so, for if there be a better, complicated enough. The French seem to be a species I should almost be afraid to hear him. All that is said of salamander-fish, whose element is hot water; but in the papers about this singer, does not pass the limits that in which they are now swimming has latterly beof truth. The rich, sweet, voluptuous voice with which come so heated, that even they will not be able to exist he has been gifted by nature, is his least merit. The in it as it is much longer. The affair of the duchess of exquisite purity of his taste, the brilliancy of his exe- Berri, and the “état de siége" of Paris, are questions cution, the "entrainante” energy of his style in pas- which must bring matters to a crisis very soon. The sages requiring vehemence, are the points which must discussions concerning them in the chamber of deputies render it next to impossible for him ever to be surpass- will be of the most exciting description. Indeed, from ed. The enthusiasm which he excited by his chief what I have heard and read, this session will be one of cavatina, caused the applause of the audience to take intense interest. Each of the different parties is strongly at least half the step which leads from the sublime to represented in the chamber, except the legitimists, whose the ridiculous. The principal female part was sus opinions are held by only one member, Mr. Berreyer, tained by Signorina Grisi, an Italian lady, who has one of the first lawyers of Paris. Of course, he can just made her debât in Paris with considerable success. do nothing with the whole assemblage arrayed against She has a voice of great purity and compass, but not him, as he does not possess the faculty of the honest

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