acquire the force of one of those mighty serpents which cling round their prey till it dies, and strangle by compression. Cosmo, fainting in this irresistible grasp, could not help casting a look of wonder at his antagonist's visage. He was met by a glance, an indescribable gleam of triumphant malignity, which turned his look of wonder into one of horror. He never struggled more; he felt his brain burn, his sinews wither, his heart stop. A flash of living fire seemed to dart from the deep, wild eye that now glared upon him; he felt its consuming power in the depths of his soul. He was in the grasp of a fiend!

At the instant a new change in his terrible antagonist's visage, shot, like a shaft of hideous light, into his memory. He saw the countenance of the dragoon, his first tempter. His first tempter and his last were one; and he felt the whole agony of the delusion; he had been marked for ruin from the beginning! In his pangs he uttered one cry of sorrow to Heaven, for the forgiveness that he was never to hope from man. A darkness suddenly came over his eyes; he dropped on the ground in a convulsion of preternatural terror.

When he came to his senses again, he was lying beside the waters of a magnificent lake. A ruined cottage was nigh; a desolated vineyard spread its withered shoots over the ground. Father, sister, all were gone. An ecclesiastic stood by his side, who spoke to him words of peace and wisdom. He listened;

but he felt that the hand of death was on him. Ten years had passed away since he had left that shore. Madness had rescued him from the consciousness of his misery. A holy and virtuous man had found him, and driven away the fiend that had fettered his soul. Such at least is the tradition of the Calabrese. His reason had returned; but it was only left for him to give the warning of his fate to the surrounding peasantry. He died calm, and cautioning them against the temptations of a spirit of change. The awe-struck peasantry erected to his memory the little monument which stands on the shore of the Santa Rosa to this day. It simply contains his name, and the lines. "Let all who would live happy live contented: Ambition is not made for Man."

THE CHRISTIAN WARFARE.

Is human life, then, an Enchanted Land,'
Such as in Bunyan's Pilgrim tale we find,
Where men with demons combat, hand to hand,
Or work their pleasure with a willing mind?
'Tis even so. And who of human kind,

In human strength, successfully hath striven
To burst the chains wherewith foul PASSIONS bind
Their wretched thralls? To holier hands 'twas given
To foil the rampant fiends, and clear the path to Heaven.

P.

THE FEAST OF DUNKELD.

I.

BLACK Roderick sits in his stately chair,
And cheerily to each guest doth call,
Whilst many a knight and lady fair

Go strolling around his lighted hall:
But the joy is forced, and fadeth soon;
The torches look reddening tow'rds the moon :
Some evil sound or a ghastly sight

Hath shaken bold Roderick's heart to-night!

11.

"Stand forth!" cries the Earl to his minstrels grave:

Now plunge your hands 'mid the golden strings,

And force coy Music from out her cave,

And cease not one till the wild witch sings-
Sings, like a dream of the drunken brain,
When laughter shouts at the tears of pain;
And sing ye-as ye sang to my lady bright:
O, Jesu! I would she were here to-night!"

III.

A terrible smile o'er his visage plays,
And back he is sinking to stately rest;
But a hand on his broidered arm is laid,
And close by his side sits a ghastly guest:
With cold blue eyes, and a face of stone,
It smiles on the lord of the feast alone;
And he who ne'er bent at a king's command
Now shrinks from the touch of a pale small hand.

IV.

"Ho! Sound to the moon, as the earthquake sounds !
Strike merriment forth from your stormy drums!
What matter who goeth her midnight rounds?
What matter what devil or phantom comes?

A health to the living, a health to the dead!"
Ha! look-look- he droppeth his useless head!
He is struck and a corse, with a stony stare,

Is all that is left in the stately chair!

His courage is fled!

His spirit is shed!

He is dead, dead!

And thus was closed the great feast held

Long ago in the Castle of Dunkeld !

C.