position, but that I go to it with more complacency, | as to an employment which suits my temperament, I am loth to ascribe this lack of inclination to any deficiency of power, and certainly am not conscious of any; still I have an anxious feeling that there are poets enough in the world without me, and that my best chance of being remembered will be as an historian." We know not how Landor replied to this intimation, but we rejoice heartily that Southey, ere it had become too late, discovered the secret wherein his great strength lay. With some rare exceptions, his most laboured poems were mere failures, and a respectable mediocrity is, we think, their highest praise; but in his history, his biographies, and his criticism, the mastermind is everywhere apparent; they form a noble contribution to our literature, which we think the English nation "will not willingly let die." B. THE LOVES OF EROS AND PSYCHE. The nymph Psyche being beloved by Cupid, he leaves the world and her avocations, to pursue his amour. Venus, his mother, the Goddess of Beauty, enraged at Mortality's loss of Love, discovers the fond lovers, and causes the death of Psyche. Jupiter, however, at the request of Cupid, grants immortality to her: the word psyche signifies the soul. Psyche is represented wearing wings, to imitate the lightness of the soul; and hence (with the ancients), when a man had just expired, a butterfly was seen to hover above the deceased's lips, as if the soul had just quitted the body for the Eternal Shades. Young Cupid once left Paphos' bowers, Gaily the stripling tripped along, With lightsome step 'mid shrubs and flowers; Now trilling forth some amorous song, The dew-drop from each blossom's crown, At his high bidding; but around Day upon day passed o'er the world; The urchin's shaft no more was hurled Against mankind for truth or folly : He all forgot love's melancholy. And all monopolized its joy! *** At length fair Venus missed the boy, Goddess of Beauty-filled with fire, That Love the truant used to inspire In her inflammatory breast (In some new passion ever drest)— Brooked ill her widowhood, and strove To find the long-lost errant Love. Man without love, without affection, earth Robbed of this chiefest charm were nothing worth ; And woman's heart, without its gentle flame, Was empty, void, dissatisfied, and tame. So flew the Goddess, in enraged descent, Swift to the bowers where all love was lent, And well repaid by the enamoured pair Each to the other. When-oh, dread despair! From that time forth for many a day, Once, all of Love was light and gay, Nor doubt, distrust, nor angry feeling, Man turned to woman, and believed, Eye gazed on eye-lip pressed to lip- From fruit or flower, unchecked by thorn, Love was of old not made for tears, Affection knew nor doubts nor fears: In joy the victory was won. But when the beauteous Psyche died, So, man or maiden, when you feel A distrust of each other's zeal, Come hither, dear Starlight! And lend Earth your far-light, To blazon the tomb of the nymph who has fled : In the shades of the parted She sleeps broken-hearted Above her young grave be thy twinklings spread. Oh, Cynthia, hasten ! Her death-place to chasten; Oh! shine on her face with thine heavenly ray. Oh! turn not in anger : Her death has no danger To take from thy chastity atom away! Northern winds no longer blow, Music rings through every wood; Blooms like earth-born stars are seen Now between the long grass hiding, Where the babbling brook goes chiding- Often thus is Genius found When the morning's crystal dew Each faint breeze that o'er thee blows And sweeping on in current free, All throughout the genial time, I will choose the violet meek; Flower resembling Mary's eye Flower that shrinkest into shade So honour'd thou canst not repine- Banks of the Yore. "TRIAL S." BY MRS. MARY H. PARSONS. (An American Story.) It was a summer night, with scarcely breeze enough to stir into music the drooping branches of many a stately old tree, whose graceful boughs, heavy with green foliage, swept downward over an open window. Near to it, on a couch, lay one whose days upon the earth were numbered. Many years had passed over the whitened head of Walter Ellerslie, years in which life's mingled web of good and ill had purified the heart for the home to which it was fast hastening. As he lay there all silent and motionless, his eye alone indicated the anxious thoughts that filled his mind; it wandered often from its saddened look upon the old trees he had loved from his boyhood, to the fair face of his motherless child, and thoughts of the earth were in that long, heavy, mournful gaze. "Has he come, Lucy, my child?" he said, feebly. that their long silken fringes seemed heavy with the dews of night, yet she wept not. She understood how it was, with all a woman's instinctive knowledge of the truth; it needed no voice to tell her she was unloved, and that a cold, unwilling heart held on its measured beatings in the midst of the tumultuous agony of her own. 66 "What God hath joined together, let not man put asunder," the invalid heard, and a light spread over his face, that seemed for a moment to give token of life again. Thank God," he murmured, softly, "I have kept my promise." "And I mine," said Mordaunt; he spake it bitterly, and left the room. Perhaps it was the tones of that voice, or perchance it was that things of earth had cumbered too much the parting spirit; but during all that long night a heavy and settled dejection came over the mind Before she could answer the question, the of Mr. Ellerslie, and it left him not until the sound of carriage wheels broke the stillness of gray light of early dawn struggled feebly into the night, and sent a flush to the brow of the his chamber; his eye caught it, and he murdying man. His eyes rested upon the door with mured, "I go !" A smile of love and of asa glance of eager expectation, that grew in pain-sured forgiveness gleamed for a moment over ful intensity every moment. When it opened, a gleam of joy shot from the unnaturally bright orbs, as he exclaimed to the gentleman who entered" Edward Mordaunt! I knew your father's son would never fail me." The person thus addressed took the proffered hand with something of coldness, visible even through his evidently subdued manners. He bowed, and said, “I am ready to fulfil my father's engagement." "Now-it must be now," said Mr. Ellerslie; "the sands of my life run low; there is no time for delay or ceremony. The clergyman is already in the house; let him be summoned." Mordaunt touched the bell to which he pointed, and then resumed his position at the foot of the bed. Mr. Ellerslie motioned his child to his side. As she knelt down there, he threw his arm over her, and said, fondly, "I shall not leave you alone, Lucy: this is Mr. Mordaunt; and, Edward, this is my daughter." There was something appealing in the old man's tone, but it did not seem to move the person he addressed; he only moved his head, glanced for one moment where she knelt, and as instantly averted his eye. The clergyman entered, and they stood side by side to be made one. The same immobility of feature characterized Mardaunt throughout the brief, but most solemn ceremony; his voice did not vary a tone, or his dark, bright eye droop for one moment upon the trembling girl by his side. The colour came and went upon her cheek; 1 er lips quivered, and her eyes filled so full of moisture, his face, and was gone for ever! Many years before the period at which our story opens, Mr. Ellerslie and the father of Edward Mordaunt were school companions, and as time progressed, college mates together. A friendship of unusual warmth and strength sprung up between them. Ellerslie parted from his friend to go abroad; he spent many years in travel, and ere he returned, he loved and won for his own, a young English girl of beauty and high rank. Lucy Howard was an orphan, under the guardianship of her brother, and dependent upon him. She loved Walter Ellerslie, and opposition to her inclinations, with much severity towards her, drove her into the rash measure of eloping with her lover, who bore her proudly to his home beyond the sea. He was not, however, independent of his father, whose republican pride was outraged at his son's condescending to run away with any man's daughter, when, in the father's opinion, he was equal to the proudest lady of either land. It would be difficult to say which of the two felt most displeasure, the sturdy democrat or the inore aristocratic brother, whose heart was bitter with disappointment that his fair and beautiful, and well-descended sister, should wed a man who could neither grace her beauty with a coronet, nor increase its splendour with the lavish adornings of great wealth. The young husband, made acquainted with his father's state of feeling towards him, shrank from exposing his wife to the equivocal welcome that awaited her in the home of his childhood; he gladly accepted the urgent invitation of Mr Mordaunt to live with him, and pursue his profession in city. Thither they went, and for three years Walter Ellerslie and his young wife found a happy home with this faithful friend and his gentle and lovely lady. The Mordaunts had but one child, a son-the same already introduced to the reader. He was eight years of age at the time "our Lucy" was born; and then the fathers, encouraged by the smiling sanction of the mothers, promised these children to one another, and engaged that the one who lived longest, if the parties were of suitable age, should see their engagement fulfilled. On his dying bed, Mr. Mordaunt had wrung from his reluctant son a promise, that when called upon by Mr. Ellerslie, he would marry his daughter. It cost Edward Mordaunt much to make it; but his father had been gentle, patient, and faithful with him all his life; then a memory haunted him, a memory of a soft voice that still seemed sounding in his ear, of a love that had lighted up all the brightest and happiest moments of his existence. It is true, she was "low in the grave" now, but she had pleaded with him to obey his father; and it is matter of question which influenced him most, the dying father or the dead mother. Three years passed away, and no requirement was made for Mordaunt; he mingled among men, and planted his foot firmly on the threshold of life, as one who meant to go up. The memory of his promise grew dim; in the excitement and earnest pursuit of his profession, he had well nigh forgotten that he was bound. So he felt it, and many a bitter thought linked darkly in his mind with the name of Lucy Ellerslie. Through all his early youth and graver manhood, his father had kept it perpetually before him; it was most injudicious; and when all mention of it ceased, on the death of Mr. Mordaunt, the sense of relief was inexpressibly great. He ceased to think about it; he hoped he might never hear of it again. With Lucy it had all been different. She was fifteen when her father first informed her of the engagement he had made; and he accompanied this account with so many kindly things of Edward Mordaunt, and his own debt of gratitude to his father, that a responsive chord awoke in the maiden's heart. On her sixteenth birthday, he renewed the subject, and again found his child easily led by one who had moulded her young mind in many things after his own. Yet with sad thoughts and sorrowful forebodings did Walter Ellerslie look forward to this marriage. He felt he had done wrongly, yea, rashly, in taking the future destiny of two human beings into his own fallible hands. He was well advised of all Mordaunt's views, through a source on which he could rely, and he trembled for the fate of his young daughter, whom he had nurtured so tenderly. Full surely, if his error was great, his punishment was also; the latter years of his life were clouded, and their brightness turned to sorrow by the memory of that early promise. Still he adhered to it; it was made to the dead, and, in his view, to recede from it was impossible. He refrained from all communication with Mordaunt, in the constant hope that he would come forward voluntarily. Not so; things remained as they had been, when Mr. Ellerslie's sudden illness brought matters to a speedy termination. Mordaunt was summoned, and ere the lamp of life went out, it witnessed the fulfilment of a promise that had been the source of Walter Ellersley's heaviest sorrow. His daughter did not know this was so; he carefully concealed from her his anxious forebodings; and although she sometimes wondered they never saw Mr. Mordaunt, she left it in her father's hands without inquiry, and with a quiet and hopeful looking forward to the future. The child of so much love, of so much luxury, she could not easily think of disappointment. She was eighteen at the period when our story opens, as carefully reared, as fully and thoroughly edu cated as large means and leisure will admit. She had lived in much seclusion, as Mr. Ellerslie deemed such a course in accordance with his promise; yet he sometimes feared a natural timidity of disposition and much sensitiveness of spirit, had been fostered in Lucy's character in consequence. She was a child of God, but she had been in a remarkable degree exempt from temptation; her life had been like a gentle stream, winding its smooth and silvery way beneath pleasant trees, and by the side of flowery banks, and among broad and fertile fields, which stirred not even the surface of its quiet waters, but rather invited to repose. But a change was coming, when the tumultuous waves of human passion would overleap these bounds, and when a something stronger than human passion must say to the raging waters," Peace, be still!" The evening of the day after her father's funeral, Lucy sat alone-alone, indeed! She began to feel it so. She had not seen Mr. Mordaunt since her marriage; in the midst of her sore bereavement, she was painfully sensible of this avoidance. She knew not what to trust to the future was dark, and hope grew dim in her heart, but did not go fully out. She received a message from him, requesting permis sion to see her; she gave it willingly-yet it was not without dread she saw him enter, and his cold salutation did little to reassure her. He said "he was sorry to trespass on her time, but was hurried with home engagements, and would gladly come to a full understanding with her in regard to their most unhappy position." He paused, apparently for an answer; Lucy made none, and he went on--" I can well imagine your situation to be equally distressing with my own, and I yield to you the privilege of deciding as to our future course when you shall fully know my views. The species of coercion that has urged us on to our present position no longer exists in either case; the fatal engage ment of our fathers has been kept, and cannot, I think, bind us to live together. I propose that we separate; I relinquish all claim to your father's property, and will make any other arrangement in regard to pecuniary matters you desire. To live with each other would be only to increase our misery-apart, we may some times be enabled to forget the blight that has fallen on our lives. These are my feelings; I leave it to you to decide." matter to your decision, and will endeavour to abide by it." Lucy held her clasped hands towards him im"Leave me now," said Lucy, scarcely know-ploringly, while the tears rolled down her pale ing in her anguish what she said. "Leave me; cheeks. "We ought to live together; it is our oh, leave me !" duty," she said. Without a word, he left the room. Was this all true? How often the heart asks this question when the first great sorrow breaks upon us. Had he cast her off? Given her up with scorn? Had he dared to do this? Did he think she would force herself upon him?—she thought, as with streaming eyes and burning cheeks, she paced the room. Never! never! She would give him back scorn for scorn; for his contempt he should meet double; he should know she could live without him that she despised hiin! "What is right for you to do, Lucy?" She started as if a voice had spoken-and so it did. She heard it over the noise and tumult of angry passion, and her heart was still! Her sobs came not so convulsively, and her tears flowed gently. She tried to think; the impulse was strong within her to command him from her presence for ever; her pride was deeply wounded; it was clear he did not mean to acquaint himself with her character, and see if she were worthy to be loved. The cherished darling of her father's heart, his tender nurture had little prepared her for a trial like this: young in years, younger in the Christian life, how could she meet it? Yet she did--for back of all, of impulse, and the prompt feeling to resent, was the desire to do right. She wavered in it, she shrunk from it, but back it came again, each time growing stronger, each time making duty clearer. Lucy prayed; and may they who doubt the efficacy of prayer be enabled, when their trial is upon them, to pray as she prayed, as a child to a father, as a suffering child to Him whose love had brought this trial upon her. She rose up, at peace with her husband; anger, and pride, and passion were stilled; she suffered and struggled yet, but without any portion of her first stormy feelings. The next morning she sent for Mordaunt. He seemed embarrassed, looked pale and harassed. Bowing, he said, coldly, "I am glad to find you have come to a decision, and I do hope, madam, it will be in accordance with the best interests of both." He stepped suddenly forward, took the trembling hands between his own, and led her to the window, fixing his stern gaze upon the tender and beseeching eyes that shrank from his glance. He said, "You will understand, Lucy, that while you bear my name, and are mistress of my house, you can never be more to me. I will not take to my heart a woman who can thus force | herself upon me. Yet more-I have bitter feelings towards you; your very name has been hateful to my ears since first my father commanded me to marry you. Think well upon what you are doing, and then say if, in view of all this, you will go with me?" "Yes," she said, gaspingly; "yes, unless you command me to stay. I have promised-" The words died on her lips. He released her, sighed heavily as he drew his hand slowly across his forehead, and turning from her, said, "Let it be so-we will go together;" and he thought, as he passed from the room, "the suffering is not all mine, either." Lucy reached the sofa, and sank down there, with her arms thrown over her face she lay motionless, sensible only of the great and heavy anguish that was in her heart-it was night there. As you have heard the murmur of a faroff stream when all was hushed, came low, soft words to Lucy-" Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." It was even so; she knew the voice of the meek-hearted who had borne so much for her! The darkness lighted, and the heavy weight upon her heart grew fainter; she was cheered, for a mighty sympathy had met her, and breathed of comfort and a patient waiting for the end. She still wept but what are tears? "Thank God, bless God all ye who suffer not As the sun mingling with the clouds of April, so did a deep and peaceful feeling steal into Lucy's troubled heart-she was comforted; and because her exhaustion had been great, and many sleepless nights her portion, she folded her hands as a young child would do, over her bosom, and slept. Perhaps an hour after, there was a gentle tap on the door; there was no Lucy was silent, and her heart nearly failed her. With visible effort, she said, "Have you never thought, sir, it would be better for us to live together? Might not mutual acts of kind-answer-it opened, and Mordaunt stood beside ness bring about a different state of feeling?" "Impossible!" exclaimed Mordaunt. "Do not deceive yourself. We cannot be happy in the horrible circumstances in which we are placed." her. He gazed long and earnestly. He marked the swollen eyelids, the traces of past suffering about the delicate mouth, and again he sighed heavily. She breathed softly, and her sleep was deep and quiet. "Can she sleep," he thought, "when she has so much cause for sufferingwhen, indeed, she has suffered as much, per"A promise forced upon us," interrupted haps, as her nature will admit of? Has she so Mordaunt, impatiently, "and not binding, in little sensibility? Perhaps it is better so-she my view, upon either of us." He checked him- may be happy, when a woman of stronger feelself, and added, calmly, "I have submitted thising would be wretched." These were his "We have promised," faltered poor Lucy, "before God, to love and |
