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, "Dost thou see them, boy?-through the dusky pines Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy? For in the rocky strait beneath, Lay Suliote sire and son: They had heaped high the piles of death "They have crossed the torrent, and on they come: And now the horn's loud blast was heard, Till even the upper air was stirred, "Hark! they bring music, my joyous child! 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, "Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth? And from the arrowy peak she sprung, 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 COME near! Ere yet the dust WILSON. Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, Come near !—once more let kindred lips be pressed Look yet on this young face! What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impressed. Ye weep, and it is well! For tears befit earth's partings! Yesterday, Where'er he moved-the welcome and the blessed. Look yet on him whose eye Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth. The beings born to die?— But not where death has power may love be blessed. How may the mother's heart Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again? Is he not gone, our brightest and our best? Look on him! Is he laid To slumber from the harvest or the chase?— Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest. His voice of mirth hath ceased Amidst the vineyards! there is left no place Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast. Yet mourn ye not as they Whose spirit's light is quenched! For him the past All is not here of our beloved and blessed. ["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?" BYRON. PINDEMONTE. I. "TWAS but a dream! I saw the stag leap free, II. 'Tis past! I wake, A captive, and alone, and far from thee, 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 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, III. And thou too art in bonds! Yet droop thou not, |