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THE SULIOTE MOTHER.

[It is related, in a French life of Ali Pasha, that several of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into the mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves with their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves of the enemy.]

SHE stood upon the loftiest peak,

Amidst the clear blue sky;

A bitter smile was on her cheek,
And a dark flash in her eye.

"Dost thou see them, boy?-through the dusky pines
Dost thou see where the foeman's armour shines?
Hast thou caught the gleam of the conquerer's crest?
My babe, that I cradled on my breast!

Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy?
-That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!"

For in the rocky strait beneath,

Lay Suliote sire and son:

They had heaped high the piles of death
Before the pass was won.

"They have crossed the torrent, and on they come:
Woe for the mountain hearth and home!
There, where the hunter laid by his spear,
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear,
There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep,
Nought but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!"

And now the horn's loud blast was heard,
And now the cymbal's clang,

Till even the upper air was stirred,
As cliff and hollow rang.

"Hark! they bring music, my joyous child!
What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild?

Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire,

As if at a glance of thine armèd sire?

Still-be thou still!-there are brave men low:

Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now!"

But nearer came the clash of steel,
And louder swelled the horn,
And farther yet the tambour's peal
Through the dark pass was borne.

"Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth?
Boy! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,——
Free, and how cherished, my warrior's son !
He too hath blessed thee, as I have done!
Ay, and unchained must his loved ones be-
Freedom, young Suliote! for thee and me!"

And from the arrowy peak she sprung,
And fast the fair child bore:-
A veil upon the wind was flung,

A cry-and all was o'er!

THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD.

[The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the Greek funeral service, in which relatives and friends are invited to embrace the deceased (whose face is uncovered) and to bid their final adieu.-See Christian Researches in the Mediterranean.]

"Tis hard to lay into the earth

A countenance so benign! a form that walked
But yesterday so stately o'er the earth!"

COME near! Ere yet the dust

WILSON.

Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow,
Look on your brother; and embrace him now,
In still and solemn trust !

Come near !—once more let kindred lips be pressed
On his cold cheek; then bear him to his rest!

Look yet on this young face!

What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone,
Leave of its image, even where most it shone,
Gladdening its hearth and race?

Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impressed.
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest!

Ye weep, and it is well!

For tears befit earth's partings! Yesterday,
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay,
And sunshine seemed to dwell

Where'er he moved-the welcome and the blessed.
Now gaze! and bear the silent unto rest!

Look yet on him whose eye

Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth.
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth,

The beings born to die?—

But not where death has power may love be blessed.
Come near! and bear ye the beloved to rest!

How may the mother's heart

Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again?
The spring's rich promise hath been given in vain—
The lovely must depart!

Is he not gone, our brightest and our best?
Come near! and bear the early called to rest!

Look on him! Is he laid

To slumber from the harvest or the chase?—
Too still and sad the smile upon his face;
Yet that, even that must fade:

Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest.
Come near! and bear the mortal to his rest!

His voice of mirth hath ceased

Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace,
At the gay bridal-feast!

Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast.
Come near! weep o'er him! bear him to his rest.

Yet mourn ye not as they Whose spirit's light is quenched!

For him the past
Is sealed: he may not fall, he may not cast
His birthright's hope away!

All is not here of our beloved and blessed.
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest!

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["THE LADY ARABELLA," as she has been frequently entitled, was descended from Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry VII., and consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth as well as James I. This affinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to prevent her marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment of that domestic happiness which her heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a secret but early-discovered union with William Seymour, son of Lord Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers were immediately placed in separate confinement. From this they found means to concert a romantic plan of escape; and having won over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised in male attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sickness and suffering, stole out in the night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat and servants were in waiting. She embarked; and at break of day a French vessel engaged to receive her was discovered and gained. As Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel should lie at anchor for him; but this wish was overruled by her companions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, "which," says D'Israeli, "occasioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adventure. Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower; he reached the wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived at Lee. The time passed; the waves were rising; Arabella was not there; but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to take him on board, he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was not the French ship charged with his Arabella; in despair and confusion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum altered its course, and landed him in Flanders." Arabella, meantime, whilst imploring her attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for the expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a vessel in the king's service, and brought back to a captivity, under the suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank. What passed in that dreadful imprisonment cannot perhaps be recovered for authentic history, but enough is known-that her mind grew impaired, that she finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of her imprisonment was short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some effusions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent and rational, yet remain among her papers."-D'Israeli's Curiosities of Litera

ture.

The following poem, meant as some record of her fate, and the imagined fluctuations of her thoughts and feelings, is supposed to commence during the time of her first imprisonment, whilst her mind was yet buoyed up by the consciousness of Seymour's affection, and the cherished hope of eventual deliverance.]

"And is not love in vain Torture enough without a living tomb?"

"Fermossi al fin il cor che balzò tanto."

BYRON.

PINDEMONTE.

I.

"TWAS but a dream! I saw the stag leap free,
Under the boughs where early birds were singing;
I stood o'ershadowed by the greenwood tree,
And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringing
Far through a royal forest. Then the fawn
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn
To secret covert; and the smooth turf shook,
And lilies quivered by the glade's lone brook,
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career,
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear,
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance
Into the deep wood's heart; and all passed by
Save one-I met the smile of one clear eye,
Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there,
Seymour! A soft wind blew the clustering hair
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train,
And fling, methought, thy hunting spear away,
And, lightly graceful in thy green array,
Bound to my side. And we, that met and parted
Ever in dread of some dark watchful power,
Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless-hearted,
Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour
Even like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath
Of hidden forest-flowers.

II.

'Tis past! I wake,

A captive, and alone, and far from thee,
My love and friend! Yet fostering, for thy sake,
A quenchless hope of happiness to be;

And feeling still my woman-spirit strong,

In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong

A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love
Shall yet call gentle angels from above,

By its undying fervour, and prevail

Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale,

Through hearts now cold; and, raising its bright face, With a free gush of sunny tears, erase

The characters of anguish. In this trust,

I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust,

That I may bring thee back no faded form,

No bosom chilled and blighted by the storm,

But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet,
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet.

III.

And thou too art in bonds! Yet droop thou not,
O my beloved! there is one hopeless lot,

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