her from falling. I looked up, and recognized a well remembered face-it was the old Hag of the Mountain Glen, come to fulfil her malediction. Her curse was surely upon her victim; for Jacqueline turned pale as ashes, and in vain endeavoured to speak. Still she kept her eye fixed upon him with a horid glare; and free from the superstitious awe that had fallen upon all the beholders, I marked the workings of Jacqueline's mind; rage, frenzy, despair, alternately succeeded, and his brow changed with the rapidity of thought. At last one pale streak remained along his temples; it proceeded from a sick heart, overpowered in the conflict of passion. He fainted and fell; there was a general shriek. All believed the unwelcome visiter had come on this fearful errand from another world. The cry roused her; she turned, and calmly bade the company be silent. "I came to save him from deep crime," said she, "and that young woman from ruin. He is my husband!" I shall drop the curtain here. It only remains to say, that the match was instantly broken off. Mary Delamere speedily recovered her health, and the next spring she was led to the altar, a lovely and a happy bride, by whom, I leave my ingenious reader to discover. P. VIRTUOUS SINGULARITY IN OPPOSITION TO PRIVATEERING. AN ANECDOTE. DURING the American war, the Amazon privateer was fitted out by the merchants of Belfast on a joint subscription. One respectable merchant who had spent the early part of his life at sea as the captain of a trading vessel refused to join, but lent fifty pounds, the amount of a share, to the poor house to support the cotton manufacture, then carrying on, in its infancy, for the benefit of that institution. Such virtuous opposition to the general current is deserving of being preserved as a proper example, and as a distinguished mark of disapprobation against the vicious and anticommercial spirit of privateering. Dr. Franklin recommended to the Americans to propose in all their treaties, that in the case of future hostilities between them and any nation, no countenance should be given by either parties to privateering. The article was only accepted by the Prussians, who were not much engaged in maritime pursuits. K. A MONODY. POETRY. BY DR. M'HENRY. On the death of the author's earliest and most confidential friend, Mr. Thos. Moore, of Larne, Ireland; who in September, 1819, fell a victim to the Yellow Fever, at Charleston, S.C. after little more than two days illness. In Carolina's fatal clime, From whence fair health in terror flies; Cut off in manhood's glowing prime, My earliest friend now lowly lies! No more his heart's warm throb shall rise To beat in sympathy with mine! For mute that voice, and clos'd those eyes, I thought would cheer my life's decline! Ah! what avail'd his verdant age, Could art or anxious friendship bring. It deeply pierc'd with scorpion sting, And health and life at once destroy ed; Oh! then he rose on heaven-ward wing And left to me a dreary void! Long had my heart esteem'd his worth; Long his unchanging faith had tried: In one lov'd vale we had our birth, And hoped that there we should have died! But o'er yon foaming ocean wide, Fate called him from his native shore; "Adieu, my friend!" he said and sigh'd, "We part, perhaps, to meet no more!"* It was in the autumn of 1817, when the separation here alluded to, took place. "When shall I see you again?" was the last question I addressed to him. "God only knows; perhaps not in this world!" was the emphatic reply; and we separated with heavy hearts; mine labouring under a melancholy presentiment that the words were ominous. Friend of my youth! thy words were true, And deep they sunk into my heart; The solemn tone of that adieu, Its fears too truly did impart: But while my tears of sorrow start, Faith whispers yet of joys in store, That where in glory now thou art, We'll meet-though here we meet no more! For thee, not Carolina's maids, Like Erin's fair, in secret mourn! Nor stranger's hands, 'mid torrid glades, With vernal flowers thy grave adorn! Nordews on bending shamrocks borne, Their weeping lustre there display; Nor linnets from their native thorn, Sing softly o'er thy hallow'd clay! Yet tribute shall to thee be paid, In plaintive numbers, by thy friend; And still to join thy sainted shade, His dearest wishes shall ascend! While to his strains thine ear will bend, Indulgent, as it oft hath done, Till, all his sorrows at an end, He wins the prize that thou hast won! FOR THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINI. EDWARD AND EMMA.—A TALE, Young Emma was as fair a maid, As nature e'er with beauty blest; Her mind was fairer than her form, And tender was her virgin breast. Her eyes were bright as that sweet star, Which bids the lark her mattins sing, Like early blossoms, were her cheeks, The first, faint blush, of infant spring. But love too soon that bloom destroyed, And made those early blossoms pale: And withered by a fatal blight, This fair, mild, lily of the vale. For oft with many a melting sigh, And Emma thought his vows sincere. In heart felt, plaintive notes he sang So fondly Emma loved again. Ah! when a parent bids them part, He goes, and soon a gayer scene, On festive Gallia's mirthful shore, Drives from his thoughts, his rural maid, And Emma, is beloved no more. Not so the mournful maiden felt, No pride her gentle bosom knew, Of injured love the wound to heal; Her heart was all sincere and soft, And keenly such a heart must feel. Her faithless Edward's long neglect, But smiling saw the hour approach, Around her grave, the village maids, Their cypress garlands weeping bring, And offer to her virgin shade, The earliest tributes of the spring. Now tired with vain and guilty joys, His once loved Emma now no more! Distracted at the horrid tale, He sought the spot, where Emma lay; Her generous love, her beauteous form, That bleeding heart, which broke for him, He wept for now, but wept in vain; Long o'er her grave, he weeping hung, That frowns on dashing waves be- Thrice on his injured Emma's name, Ye parents, know from this sad tale, How little age can judge for youth, How little wealth can weigh with love! And you, ye swains, while through your veins, The tide of youth impetuous flows; Let not your soft persuasive tongues, And lastly you, ye British maids, Oh, think on Emma's hapless lot, Her ebon locks like raven's plume, Flow'd o'er her robe's unsullied snow, Her cheek display'd health's roseate bloom, She came to soothe the sufferer's wo. The music ceas'd-she gaz'd around, And thus she spoke in sweetest Cease beauteous Erin, cease to weep, Thy days of joy and liberty, Thy glory shall not always sleep, And happiness will bloom for thee. What though a proud oppressor's pow'r Has trampl'd on thy lawful right, Soon, soon will come that happy hour, When as yon glitt'ring moon-beam bright, Thy fame shall live through ev'ry age; The home of freedom thou shalt be, Rever'd by poet, and by sage; Behold thy guardian sprite in me!" She spoke, and left her airy stand, To find a home beyond the sky: And Oh! may Erin's hapless land, Still own her guardian spirit nigh., ANNA. His voice was like the portent gale, Whose hollow accents herald death, Mingling a quivering, plaintive wail, With the wild pantings of his breath; His smile-the lurid moon-beam's glow O'er surging clouds of sable hue, Were a poor image of the wo That met the shudd'ring, aching view! His soul was tuned to thought sublime, His heart to feel supernal love; Of life below, like wild-fire rose ; Love, hate, despair, and bliss between He knew no path-his friends and foes. Sincere-he met deceit from all ; Artless-he was the dupe of guile; Loving-he felt deep treachery's thrall; Then came the crisis of his fate, And found a dagger in a smile; The passion-chalice of his grief, The sullen mood so desolate, The agony that mock'd relief. He could not live alone, nor see Yet prayed to be fore'er forgot; And even looked with doubt to heaven: That angels could his tortures quell. In every star he saw a fiend, And in the grave his mightiest foe, While all around him seemed to blend Their meannesses to shroud his wo; He mingled with the world, and met Faces that smiled, but not for him; He knew their visor'd lies, and yet They made his grief and sorrow dim. Like moonlight o'er a marble stone, He roamed amid the laughing crowd, Despairing, wild, undone, alone, Enveloped in a breathing shroud; He felt that love and hope had fled, That life was like sepulchral light, And, while pangs burned, that once had bled, He vanished in eternal night, FOR THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE. AN EVENING REVERIE. It was the time of twilight-and the stars Upon that night For 'twas the interregnum of the moon, That gave to darkest night its twinkling beam, As apprehensive that the parting Sun Still watched behind the half closed gate of Day, All Heaven and earth was still-or if a sound Breathed out upon the air, 'twas one that made The intervening silence more profound. The trees scarce dared to wave their verdant heads, As tho' they felt that stillness; and the birds That went at times athwart the sleeping air, Scarce flapped their wings for awe. What should men do, At such a season, when the very deer, Amid the solitude of twilight glades, Drop on their knees, and turn their eyes to Heaven, As tho' they offered homage unto God. What should men do! O! thou redeeming Lord! When Heaven and Earth are bowing at thy throne, In grateful adoration-where is man, On whom the perfect measure thou hast poured 0. |
