madame, it will make you as strong and well as I am. And then, capering about madame, rushed off for a load of roquelaures, soufflets, and walking-sticks. Madame the countess did not feel too overcome by her promenade along the terrace to the corner of the bocage; on the contrary, the air-her native air-revived her, the beauty of the bursting syringas and lilacs, "flowering over" the desolation, cheered her. She was flattered to find that her recollection of the locality of the mushrooms was correct; while Madame Claude's treacherous memory had established them in quite another quarter. The whole procession was returning successfully to the chateau when Urlurette, having her apron full of mushrooms, and having more regard to her spoils than to her steps, missed a foot and fell as she ascended the terrace stairs. "It is nothing, mesdames!" cried she, looking ruefully at her crushed and scattered treasure, and turning very pale. "It is something, my dear' "The child is as white as a lily' Remain quiet, Angeline," urged the ladies alternatively, with an anxiety which savoured of tenderness. Urlurette had twisted her ankle as she fell, and though she continued to protest that she was not much hurt-"fi donc!" if she complained for such a bagatelle-she had to lean on the arm of Madame Claude in order to mount the rest of the steps, while madame the countess, declining all farther support on her own account, and even casting away her walkingstick, patted Urlurette reassuringly on the shoulder. In spite of every remonstrance, Urlurette was established in the salle, in madame the countess's nest among her pillows of worn and tarnished velvet; and very odd the little peasant cap and laced boddice looked in the midst | The of cambric frills and Valenciennes lace. countess was established in a fauteuil, and tall, erect unwearied Madame Claude stood on guard. Urlurette was not suffered to stir for the evening, though mesdames should have to sup on dry bread. Her foot became an object of solicitude to the ladies, who were better skilled nurses than they were housekeepers and and cooks, having in their early convent days been educated to that branch of notability, as became future Châtelaines. It had been the men of rank who had adopted cooking. It was passing strange for Urlurette to be thus treated-so much so that she closed her eyes lest she should make a baby of herselfuntil her mother and aunt believed that she slept. "Dost thou know, it strikes me that she has a look of thee, Renée," whispered Madame Claude. "Not that," answered madame the countess eagerly, "but I have recognized that she has the tournure of my lost Bernard-my boy from whom I was never separated-who would sit on my side of the coach and think that he was sheltering me when we were fired at as we rode through Bourges-thou rememberest, Claude? I am sure that it is my Bernard whom she resembles," added madame the countess after a fond sigh, "because I always thought that he was my good angel, and she has shown herself my Angeline, though the poor child shuns her name and lot." "I shall never shun them again," sobbed Urlurette, suddenly slipping down from her bed, limping to her mother and laying her head on the countess's knee; "I shall be proud and happy to be thy Angeline, and to learn whatever thou, my mother, and my aunt wish, since you have been so good as to suffer me to work for you." CŒUR DE LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER. BY MRS. HEMANS. The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the Abbey-church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Cœur de Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and reproached himself bitterly for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave. Torches were blazing clear, hymns pealing deep and slow, And light, as noon's broad light, was flung on the settled face of death. On the settled face of death a strong and ruddy glare, Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath, yet it fell still brightest there; Alas! that sceptred mortal's race had surely closed in woe! The marble floor was swept by many a long dark stole, As the kneeling priests, round him that slept, sang mass for the parted soul; There was heard a heavy clang, as of steel-girt men the tread, And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang with a sounding thrill of dread: A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle, with a mail-clad leader came. He came with haughty look, an eagle-glance and clear, But his proud heart through his breastplate shook, when he stood beside the bier! And silently he strove with the workings of his breast; But there's more in late repentant love than steel may keep suppressed! He looked upon the dead, and sorrow seemed to lie, A weight of sorrow, even like lead, pale on the fast-shut eye. He stooped-and kissed the frozen cheek, and the heavy hand of clay, "Oh, father! is it vain, this late remorse and deep! Speak to me, father! once again !-I weep-behold, I weep! I would give England's crown, my sire, to hear thee bless thy son! "Speak to me:-mighty grief ere now the dust hath stirred; Hear me, but hear me !-father, chief, my king! I must be heard!— "Thy silver hairs I see-so still, so sadly bright! And, father, father! but for me they had not been so white! I bore thee down, high heart, at last; no longer couldst thou strive;— Oh! for one moment of the past, to kneel and say, 'Forgive!' "Thou wert the noblest king on a royal throne e'er seen, And thou didst wear, in knightly ring, of all, the stateliest mien; And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, in war the bravest heart- "Thou that my boyhood's guide didst take fond joy to be!— 127 A PERSIAN FABLE. BY SIR JOHN MALCOLM. In former days there was an old woman, who lived in a hut more confined than the minds of the ignorant, and more dark than the tombs of misers. Her companion was a cat, from the mirror of whose imagination the appearance of bread had never been reflected, nor had she from friends or strangers ever heard its name. It was enough that she now and then scented a mouse, or observed the print of its feet upon the floor; when, blessed by favouring stars, or benignant fortune, one fell into her clawsshe became like a beggar who discovers a treasure of gold; her cheeks glowed with rapture, and past grief was consumed by present joy. This feast would last for a week or more; and while enjoying it she was wont to exclaim— "Am I, Most High! when I contemplate this, in a dream or awake? Am I to experience such prosperity after such adversity?" But as the dwelling of the old woman was in general the mansion of famine to this cat, she was always complaining, and forming extravagant and fanciful schemes. One day, when reduced to extreme weakness, she, with much exertion, reached the top of the hut; when there, she observed a cat stalking on the wall of a neighbour's house, which, like a fierce tiger, advanced with measured steps, and was so loaded with flesh that she could hardly raise her feet. The old woman's friend was amazed to see one of her own species so fat and sleek, and broke out into the following exclamation: "Your stately strides have brought you here at last; pray tell me from whence you came? From whence you have arrived with so lovely an appearance! You look as if from the banquet of the Khan of Khatai. Where have you acquired such a comeliness? and how came you by that glorious strength?" The other answered, "I am the sultan's crumb-eater. Each morning, when they spread the convivial table, I attend at the palace, and there exhibit my address and courage. From among the rich meats and wheat-cakes I cull a few choice morsels; I then retire and pass my time till next day in delightful indolence.' The old dame's cat requested to know what rich meat was, and what taste wheat-cakes had? "As for me," she added, in a melancholy tone, "during my life, I have neither ate nor seen anything but the old woman's gruel and the flesh of mice." The other smiling, said, "This accounts for the difficulty I find in distinguishing you from a spider. Your shape and stature are such as must make the whole generation of cats blush; and we must ever feel ashamed while you carry so miserable an appearance abroad. You certainly have the ears and tail of a cat, but in other respects you are a complete spider. Were you to see the sultan's palace, and to smell his delicious viands, most undoubtedly those withered bones would be restored; you would receive new life, you would come from behind the curtain of invisibility into the plain of observation: when the perfume of his beloved passes over the tomb of a lover, is it wonderful that his putrid bones should be reanimated?" The old woman's cat addressed the other in the most supplicating manner: "O, my sister!" she exclaimed, "have I not the sacred claims of a neighbour upon you? are we not linked in the ties of kindred? what prevents your giving a proof of friendship, by taking me with you when next you visit the palace? Perhaps from your favour plenty may flow to me, and from your patronage I may attain dignity and honour. Withdraw not from the friendship of the honourable; abandon not the support of the elect.' The heart of the sultan's crumb-eater was melted by this pathetic address; she promised her new friend should accompany her on the next visit to the palace. The latter, overjoyed, went down immediately from the terrace, and communicated every particular to the old woman, who addressed her with the following counsel: "Be not deceived, my dearest friend, with the worldly language you have listened to; abandon not your corner of content, for the cup of the covetous is only to be filled by the dust of the grave; and the eye of cupidity and hope can only be closed by the needle of mortality and the thread of fate. It is content that makes men rich; mark this, ye avaricious, who traverse the world; he neither knows nor pays adoration to his God, who is dissatisfied with his condition and fortune." But the expected feast had taken such possession of poor puss's imagination, that the medicinal counsel of the old woman was thrown away. The good advice of all the world is like wind in a cage, or water in a sieve, when bestowed on the headstrong. To conclude: next day, accompanied by her companion, the half-starved cat hobbled to the sultan's palace. Before this unfortunate wretch came, as it is decreed that the covetous shall be disappointed, an extraordinary event had occurred, and, owing to her evil destiny, the water of disappointment was poured on the flame of her immature ambition.-The case was this; a whole legion of cats had, the day before, surrounded the feast, and made so much noise, that they disturbed the guests, and in consequence the sultan had ordered that some archers, armed with bows from Tartary, should, on this day, be concealed, and that whatever cat advanced into the field of valour, covered with the shield of audacity, should, on eating the first morsel, be overtaken with their arrows. The old dame's puss was not aware of this order. The moment the flavour of the viands reached her, she flew like an eagle to the place of her prey. Scarcely had the weight of a mouthful been placed in the scale to balance her hunger, when a heartdividing arrow pierced her breast. A stream of blood rushed from the wound. She fled, in dread of death, after having exclaimed"Should I escape from this terrific archer, I will be satisfied with my mouse and the miserable hut of my old mistress. My soul rejects the honey if accompanied by the sting. Content, with the most frugal fare, is preferable." LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN. Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine? Or are fruits of Paradise Sweeter than those dainty pies Of venison? O generous food! Dress'd as though bold Robin Hood Would, with his maid Marian, Sup and bouze from horn and can. I have heard that on a day And pledging with contented smack Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? JOHN KEATS. NIGHT THOUGHTS. [Edward Young, born at Upham, Hampshire, 1684; Oxford; studied, but subsequently having taken orders, died 12th April, 1765. Educated at Winchester and he was appointed one of the royal chaplains and rector of Welwyn in Hertfordshire. He wrote numerous works in prose and verse, of which the most important are: Night Thoughts, a poem which has maintained its place in popular estimation to the present time. It is supposed to have been inspired by his melancholy reflec tions on the death of his wife in 1741; Busiris, Revenge, and The Brothers, three tragedies; The Last Day: The Force of Religion; On the Death of Queen Anne; The Instalment, and other poems; and a series of keen sa tires under the title of The Love of Fame, the Universal Passion.] Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! From short (as usual) and disturbed repose I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous; where my wreck'd desponding thought At random drove, her helm of reason lost: Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty now stretches forth Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve (That column of true majesty in man), Assist me; I will thank you in the grave; The grave your kingdom: there this frame shall fall A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. But what are ye? Thou, who didst put to flight Primeval Silence, when the morning stars, Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball; O Thou, whose word from solid darkness struck That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul; My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure, As misers to their gold, while others rest The bell strikes one. We take no note of time Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. How much is to be done! My hopes and fears Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man! How passing wonder HE who made him such! Who center'd in our make such strange extremes ! From diff'rent natures, marvellously mix'd, Connection exquisite of distant worlds! Distinguish'd link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity! A beam ethereal, sullied and absorb'd! Though sullied and dishonour'd, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! a frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! insect infinite! A worm! a god!—I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wond'ring at her own. How reason reels! O what a miracle to man is man, Triumphantly distress'd! what joy! what dread! Alternately transported and alarm'd! What can preserve my life? or what destroy? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; Legions of angels can't confine me there. "Tis past conjecture; all things rise in proof. While o'er my limbs sleep's soft dominion spreads, What though my soul fantastic measures trod O'er fairy fields, or mourn'd along the gloom Of pathless woods, or, down the craggy steep Hurl'd headlong, swam with pain the mantled fool, Or scaled the cliff, or danced on hollow winds With antic shapes, wild natives of the brain? Her ceaseless flight, tho' devious, speaks her nature Of subtler essence, than the trodden clod, Active, aërial, towering, unconfined, Unfetter'd with her gross companion's fall. E'en silent night proclaims my soul immortal: E'en silent night proclaims eternal day. For human weal Heav'n husbands all events: Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain. Why then their loss deplore that are not lost? Why wanders wretched thought their tombs around In infidel distress? Are angels there? Slumbers, raked up in dust, ethereal fire? They live! they greatly live a life on earth Unkindled, unconceived; and from an eye Of tenderness let heav'nly pity fall On me, more justly number'd with the dead. This is the desert, this the solitude: Yet man, full man, here buries all his thoughts; Where Time, and Pain, and Chance, and Death expire! To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. The weak have remedies; the wise have joys. A change of evils is thy good supreme; Nor, but in motion, canst thou find thy rest. Man's greatest strength is shown in standing still. 1 Narcissus. |