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ONE moment more, beneath the old elm, Mary,
Where last we parted in the flowing dell-
One moment more through twilight tints that vary,
To gaze upon thy grave, and then, farewell!
Ere from this spot, and these loved scenes I sever,
Where still thy lovely spirit seems to stray-
One look-to fix them on my soul forever-
And then away!

Mary, I know my steps should now be shrinking
From this sad spot-but on my mournful gaze
A scene floats up that sets my soul to thinking
On all the dear delights of other days!
I'm gazing on the little foot-bridge yonder

Thrown o'er the stream whose waters purl below,
Where I so oft have seen thee pause and ponder,
Leaning thy white brow on thy hand of snow.
I'm standing on the spot where last we parted,
Where, as I left thee in the fragrant dell,
I saw thee turn so oft-half broken-hearted-
Waving thy hand in token of farewell.

I start to meet thy footstep light and airy

But the cold grass waves o'er thy sweet young head; Would that the shroud that wraps thy fair form, Mary, Wrapped mine instead!

In vain my heart its bitter thoughts would parry,
An adder's grasp about its chords seem curled,
For you were all I ever thought of, Mary-
Were all I doted on in this wide world!
And yet, I'd sigh not while thy fate I ponder,
Did memory only bring thee to my eyes
Pale as thou sleepest in the church-yard yonder-
Or as an angel dazzling from the skies!

I then at least could treasure each sweet token
Of thy pure love-and in life's mad'ning whirl
Steel my crushed heart-had not thine own been broken,
Poor hapless girl!

But, Mary-Mary, when I think upon thee,
As when I last beheld thee in thy pride-

And on the fate-oh God!-to which he won thee-
I curse the hour that sent me from your side!
Oh why wert thou so richly, strangely gifted
With mortal loveliness beyond compare?
The look of love beneath thy lashes lifted-
Its fatal sweetness was to thee a snare!
Yet sleep, my sister-I will not upbraid thee-
Thou wert too sweet-too innocently dear;
But he the exulting demon who betrayed thee-
He lives, he lives, and I am loitering here!
Even now some happier fair one's chains may bind him
In dalliance sweet-but I'll avenge thee well!
Avenge thee?-Yes! a brother's curse will find him,
Though he should dive into the deeps of hell!

I swear it, sister-as thou art forgiven-
By all our wrongs-by all our severed ties,
And by the blessedness of you blue heaven,
That gives its world of azure to mine eyes!
By all my love-by every sacred duty

A brother owes-and by you heaving sod,
Thine early grave-and by thy blighted beauty,
Thou sweetest angel in the realms of God!

I swear it, by the bursting groans I smother,
And call on Heaven and thee to nerve me now.
Mary, look down!-behold thy wretched brother,
And bless the vow!

Sister, my soul its last farewell is taking,

And I for this had thought it nerved to-night, But every chord about my heart seems breaking, And blinding tears shut out the glimmering sight.. One look-one last long look to hill and meadowTo the old foot-bridge and the murmuring mill, And to the church-yard sleeping in the shadowCease tears and let these fond eyes look their fill! One look and now farewell ye scenes that vary Beneath the twilight shades that round me flow! The charm that bound my wild heart here, was Mary— And she lies low!

SONNET TO MACHIAVELLI.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MAMIANI.

THOU mighty one, whose winged words of yore
Have spread on history's page Italia's wars,
The sad mischances of intestine jars,
Like beacons blazing where the breakers roar.
Still canst thou glance our civil discords o'er?
Some solace for us canst thou not divine?
Canst thou not oil on troubled waters pour,

And soothe each petty tyrants ruthless mind? Why else unveil the falsehood of our land, Which sees not why its tale thou deign'st to tell? Why else didst thou with an unsparing hand Make bare the wounds whose angry scars will tell The lasting shame of ignomy's brand, All petrified at history's command?

THE DARSIES.

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

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Don Pedro. I pray you, hold me not responsible for all these travelers' tales. I am but the mouthpiece of others: therefore, if I question the infallibility of the Pope, summon me not before the Inquisition; if I speak treason against the king, clap me not up in the Tower; and if I utter heresy against the ladies, let me not be flayed alive by the nails of enraged damsels. OLD PLAY.

"THERE is no use in wasting words, Cousin | Charles; you never can persuade me that men love more devotedly than women."

"How can you be so unreasonable, Anne? I only want to convince you that affection being an essential part of woman's nature, she cannot help loving something or somebody all her life. The most she does, even in her most intense devotion, is to individualize the general sentiment which pervades her character; but when men love, they actually take up a new nature, and concentrate upon it all their strength of mind and force of character."

"You have certainly a droll method of reasoning, cousin; because women are loving creatures, therefore they cannot love as well as the rougher sex."

"You are willful, Anne, and are determined not to understand me. I mean that love is usually a habitude with women, while with men, if it exists at all, it is a positive, determinate thing—a graft, as it were, upon their sturdy natures, and partaking therefore of the strength of the stock which nourishes it."

"How can you say so when men are always in love, from the time they quit the nursery until they are gray-headed, or married?"

"Such attachments are mere fancies." "Pray, how is one to distinguish between a fancy and a fact in so delicate a matter?

"It is difficult to decide at first, because in their inceptive state they are much alike; but time is the true test. A fancy, a mere intoxication of the senses, is scarce worth talking about; but in a genuine manly love there is a depth, a fervor, a disinterestedness, a devotion, such as woman can never feel-nay, which they can rarely appreciate."

"Heresy-rank heresy-Cousin Charles. I appeal to Uncle Lorimer, who has heard our whole discussion, if you do not deserve excommunication with 'bell, book and candle,' for holding such opinions." The cousins were sitting together in the twilight, and, as the shadows of evening deepened around them, the light of the soft-coal fire in the polished grate gave a beautifully cheerful look of home comfort to the pleasant apartment. An old gentleman, whose silver hair glittered in the fire-light, had been sitting in the chimney-nook, and, thus appealed to by his merry niece, he smiled good-humoredly as he replied

"If you submit the dispute to me, I must decide against both."

"Why so?"

"Because you are both too generalizing in your remarks. In this work-a-day world of ours there is a daily and hourly need of the tender, watchful, kindly ministry of sympathy and affection; now the peculiar attributes of woman's nature are such as fit her for this ministry; and whether it be a mere habitude or not, it is the quality most needed by men and most generally possessed by women."

Anne clapped her hands, and looked triumphantly at her cousin; but Uncle Lorimer continued

"I must agree with Charles, however, that when men give out their whole strength to a genuine affection, it is a more unselfish, magnanimous and higher emotion than ever could dwell in the bosom of woman. The same qualities which make her the gentler half of man mingle their leaven in her affections. For instance, a woman will make any sacrifice for one whom she loves, she will bear all kinds of privation and suffering for his sake, but earth holds not the creature more pitilessly exacting of affection than she is, or more jealously awake to every whisper of distrust. Another weakness in her character is vanity; and I must confess I never yet found a woman so much in love with her lover, that she would not curl her bair and dress in her best to meet the eyes of other men."

"Oh! uncle. You are worse than Charles."

"But perhaps you will like to hear my whole opinion, Anne. I have said that women possess most of the quality which is required in daily life; as I am not one of those who pretend to despise good habits because they are not heroic virtues, I think you ought to be satisfied with my decision."

"But you attribute so much nobler a quality to men."

"That is true, but let me comfort yon by just whispering in your ear, that not one man in a thousand is capable of such an affection. True sentiment is the rarest thing upon earth. To use the language of your favorite poetAccident, blind contact, and the strong necessity of loving, often bring together hearts which habit afterward keeps united. Few, very few, create an ideal in their youth and see it substantiatize into a reality as life goes on. Still fewer of those men who are capable of real love ever bestow its treasures upon one who can appreciate them. I think I have never known a single instance of such an attachment being reciprocated and rewarded."

"Did you ever know more than one man who possessed this faculty of loving, uncle?"

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"In the course of my long life I have known three; | and if you choose I will tell you the history of one of these, to prove my theory."

"Among my earliest school friends and playmates were Edgar and Herbert Darsie. They were twinbrothers, the only children of a widow, whom I remember as a tall, pale lady in close mourning, which she never laid aside till the day of her death. There was little of that resemblance between the twins which generally makes the pleasant puzzle of mothers and nurses in similar cases; for, though alike in feature and height, and even in their peculiarity of gait and manner, yet Edgar had the fair complexion, blue eyes, and light silken hair of his mother; while Herbert's olive complexion, dark eyes, and curling black locks betrayed the French blood which he derived from his father. They were cheerful, happy-tempered boys, and possessed a certain natural sweetness of manner, which made them universal favorites with old and young. Their mother lived in the retired but handsome style which, in those days, was considered the proper mode of showing respect for the memory of a husband. She kept up the establishment exactly as it had been during Mr. Darsie's life, and seemed to find her only pleasure in doing precisely as he would have wished. She was apparently in the enjoyment of a handsome income, kept her carriage, and had a number of servants, while the house and grounds exhibited taste as well as no stint of expense.

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him suffering had been a teacher of all good things, and the misfortune of being cut off from fellowship with the world had taught him to find resources within himself. He could not and did not expect Edgar to sympathize in all his tastes, for he was conscious that their paths must henceforth be divided ones. He schooled himself to overcome the pang which this reflection gave to his sensitive spirit, and tried to find in his brother's enjoyments of outer life, a pleasure which he could only receive from the reflection of another's joy.

Soon after their return from Europe, Mrs. Darsie received into her family the orphan child of a poor clergyman, partly from charity, partly with a view to furnish a companion and attendant for Herbert. Jessie Graham was a pale, delicate-looking child, about twelve years old, when she took up her abode with her benefactress. Her thin and almost transparent cheek, her bloodless lips, and large gray, timid-looking eyes, spoke of fragile health, and of a certain shyness of character which might be the result of early anxieties, or perhaps denoted feebleness of mind and indecision. But she was a sweettempered, gentle little girl, and her compassion for Herbert's melancholy condition soon dissipated her shyness toward him, though to every one else, even to Mrs. Darsie, she was as timid as a startled fawn.

To divert his lonely hours Herbert undertook her instruction. He was but a boy of fifteen, but sorrow had given him the stability of manhood; and never did a more discreet, tender, and watchful Mentor attempt the training of a female mind. Jessie was docile and intelligent, quickly acquiring every thing which called forth the perceptive faculties, but utterly incapable of abstract reasoning or profound reflection. Her mind possessed a certain activity, and a kind of feminine patience that enabled her to do full credit to her teacher, without ever attaining to his high reach of thought. To cultivate her mental powers, to impart to her a portion of his accomplishments, and to train her moral sense, now became Herbert's

The boys were about twelve years of age, when an accident happened to Herbert, which, though apparently slight at first, finally led to the most disastrous consequences. While skating, he fell and received some injury, which, after months of suffering, finally developed itself in an incurable disease of the spine, entailing upon him a life-time of pain, and branding him with frightful deformity. The tall, lithe, graceful boy, whose step had been as light and free as the leap of the greyhound, was now a dwarfed and distorted cripple. As soon as he was able to leave his sick-room, Mrs. Darsie placed Edgar at boarding-chief occupation. That such employment of heart school, and sailed for Europe, with the intention of giving Herbert the benefit of all the modern discoveries in medicine. She designed to be absent a year, but, led on by fallacious hopes, she traveled farther, and remained much longer than she had anticipated. Three years elapsed before her return, and to all appearance Herbert had derived little benefit from the various experiments to which he had been subjected. | He was still dependent on his crutch, and his gnarled and stunted figure presented a pitiable contrast to the tall and well-knit form of his brother. But his health was somewhat improved; his paroxysms of pain were less frequent, and he could now enjoy weeks of comparative ease and comfort.

The brothers had early been remarkable for their affection for each other, and their unbroken concord, but their long separation had not been without its effect upon them. Edgar was gay, active, volatile, and not destitute of a leaven of selfishness; while Herbert had become grave, quiet, gentle in manner, and most thoughtful and considerate for others. To

and mind saved him from bitterness and misanthropy there can be no doubt; but whether he did not pay dearly for his exemption we shall see in the sequel.

Time passed on without making any great change in the affairs of the Darsies. Edgar went through college rather because it was necessary to a gentlemanly education than from any love for study, and, immediately after graduating, he set off on the tour of Europe. In the meantime Herbert continued to lead his usual quiet life, driving out in his low ponycarriage every day, teaching Jessie all she would learn, and surrounding himself with pictures of his own painting in the intervals of his severer studies.

It was on the anniversary of their birth-the day they attained their twenty-first year-that the brothers again met upon their own hearth-stone. Mrs. Darsie's health had begun to fail, and Edgar, at Herbert's suggestion, had unwillingly torn himself from the enjoyments of Parisian life to return to his quiet home. He found his mother sadly changed, and evidently suffering from the insidious disease which

so slowly saps the foundations of health and life. Herbert, like all deformed persons, had early lost the freshness of youth, and he was not surprised, therefore, to find him looking at least ten years older than himself, but he was astonished at the intellectual beauty which seemed to radiate from his noble countenance. To the shapeless form of a stunted tree he united the head of a demi-god. The beauty of his classical features, the splendor of his deep, dark eyes, and rich glossy hair curling in heavy masses round his temples, gave him the appearance of a magnificently sculptured head joined on to some distorted

torso.

But if Edgar was startled at the change in his mother and brother, how was he amazed and bewildered when he saw Jesse Graham! The pale, puny, frightened-looking little girl had expanded into one of the very loveliest of women. At eighteen Jessie had all that delicate yet fresh beauty which a painter would select as his model for a youthful Hebe. "A rose crushed upon ivory" was not too extravagant a simile for her cheek; her lips were like the berry of the mountain-ash; and her eyes so soft, so tender, with just enough of their former shyness to make them always seem appealing in their expression, were like nothing else on earth."

"You are extravagant, Uncle Lorimer; pray how did you avoid falling in love with such a creature?" asked Anne, saucily.

"By the best of all preventives-pre-occupation. But my story has to do with others, not with me. Soon after Edgar's return, his mother took an opportunity to inform him of her plans with regard to Jessie. She had watched the progress of Herbert's attachment to his young pupil, and she believed it to be fully reciprocated by the docile girl. She had, therefore, as she thought, fully provided for Herbert's future happiness; and, lest Edgar should be attracted by Jessie's loveliness, she hastened to tell him that in the beautiful orphan he beheld his brother's future wife. Mrs. Darsie was a weak woman, though kind-hearted and affectionate. She proceeded to inform Edgar how the idea first came into her headhow she had told Herbert of it-how she had been at first shocked at the thought of sacrificing Jessie's youthful loveliness to such a union-how she discovered his secret love even from his heroic selfdenial-how she had finally succeeded in persuading him that Jessie really loved him better than any one in the world-and how he had at last consented to entertain the hope and belief that Jessie might become his wife without repugnance. To Edgar's very natural question, whether Jessie was really willing to marry Herbert, his mother replied that as yet Jessie knew nothing of their plans, Herbert | having forbidden her to use her influence in the matter, being determined that if he won Jessie, it should be through her own free and unbiassed will.

Whether it arose from that perverseness in human nature, which teaches men to value a thing just in proportion to its difficulty of attainment, or whether Jessie's loveliness was irresistible to a man of Edgar's temperament, I cannot determine; but certain it is,

| that from that time he looked upon her with far dif-
ferent eyes than he had at first regarded her. Edgar
was precisely the kind of man who is always suc-
cessful with women. His talents and accomplish-
ments were all of the most superficial kind, but he
danced well, sung beautifully, played the guitar
gracefully, and withal was exceedingly handsome.
His voice was perfect music, and when he bent down
in a half-caressing manner over a lady's chair, fling-
ing back his bright, silken hair, and gazing in her
face with eyes full of dangerous softness, while his
rich voice took the sweetest tone of deference and
heart-felt emotion, was next to impossible for any

woman to resist his fascinations."
"Was his character a perfectly natural one, uncle,
or was this exquisite manner the result of consum-
mate art?"

"It was natural to him to wish to please, and he aided his natural attractions by a certain devotedness of manner, which made each individual to whom he addressed himself appropriate his tenderness as her own right. Jessie had lived in such close seclusion that she knew nothing of the world or its ways. It is probable that had Herbert asked her to become his wife before the return of Edgar, she would have easily consented, for she certainly loved him very dearly, and long habit of associating with him had accustomed her to his deformity. To her he was not the shapeless dwarf, whose crippled limbs scarce bore the weight of his crooked body. He had been her ideal of excellence-the friend, the Mentor who had made her orphaned life a blessing, and she could imagine no stronger, deeper affection than that which he had long since inspired.

But after Edgar had been at home a few months, she was conscious of a great change in her feelings. She loved Herbert as well as ever, but she had learned the existence of another kind of affection. Edgar's sweet words and honied flatteries were unlike any thing she had ever heard before, and unconscious of any disloyalty to Herbert, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of this new sensation of happiness.

Herbert was tried almost beyond his strength, for it was when his mother lay on what was soon to be her death-bed that he first suspected the fatal truth respecting his brother and Jessie. A lingering illness, protracted through many weeks (during which time Herbert was his mother's constant companion, while Edgar enjoyed the opportunity of unrestrained companionship with Jessie,) finally terminated in Mrs. Darsie's death; and, as Herbert closed her eyes, be could not but feel that sinking of the heart which told him that he was now alone upon earth. Immediately after his mother's funeral he was taken alarmingly ill, and for several days his life was considered in imminent danger. It was not until his recovery that he again saw Jessie Graham, who, in compliance with the world's notions of decorum, had left the home of her childhood on the decease of her benefactress. She had found her temporary abode in the family of a friend in the neighborhood, and Herbert's sick-bed had known no other attendance than that of the housekeeper and servants. In his first interview

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with Jessie after his convalescence, he drew from | poverty, Herbert's decision was at once made. He her a confession, or rather an admission of her love proposed dividing his income with Edgar, on confor Edgar. The manner in which she confided this dition that his brother should marry Jessie, and reto him—the frank, sisterly feeling which seemed to side in the home of their childhood, while he himself animate her, stung him to the heart. But he possessed should travel into distant lands. But Edgar, with great self-command, and Jessie never suspected the the quick-sightedness of selfishness, saw how deeply actual state of his feelings while she confided to him Herbert's soul was interested in the matter. Preher own. tending a jealousy of his brother's influence over Jessie-a jealousy of which he declared himself ashamed, yet which he could not subdue-he said that if he had the means he would marry Jessie, and take her far from all her early associations, but that he would never let her live in Herbert's house, or in a place where she might at any time be subject to his visits.

As soon as practicable after Herbert's recovery, his mother's will was opened, and then arose a new subject of wonder and dissatisfaction. No one but Mrs. Darsie and her lawyer had known that she had been merely in the enjoyment of a life interest in her forfune; but it was now ascertained that her husband's estate had been very trifling, and that her large income was the product of a handsome fortune bequeathed to Herbert by an old uncle, in consideration of his physical misfortunes. The yearly product was given to Mrs. Darsie during her life, but at her death the whole reverted to Herbert. His father's property, amounting only to a few thousand dollars, was bequeathed solely to Edgar, and a legacy of five hundred dollars, (to purchase her wedding-dress, as the will stated,) marked the testator's wishes regarding her protégé, Jesse Graham. Every body was surprised at this development, but no one more so than the brothers. Why their mother had left them in such close ignorance of their affairs, it is impossible to say, but they certainly had no suspicion of the facts until they were thus legally made known.

One of the first wishes of Herbert's heart was to see Jessie placed in her proper position, and he therefore nerved himself to speak to Edgar on the subject. What was his surprise, therefore, when his brother treated the whole thing as a boyish affair, and avowed his determination to spend his pittance (as he termed it) abroad, and then to repair his fortunes by a wealthy marriage! If ever the gentle spirit of Herbert entertained a feeling of abhorrence for any living creature, it was at that moment. His own hopes had been ruthlessly blighted, and Jessie's heart estranged from him, merely to gratify a boyish fancy!

What he suffered, and what he felt, however, it is not for me to attempt describing. He had garnered up all his treasures of affection in Jessie and his brother. Now Jessie was lost to him, and Edgar was a villain. How he, with his delicate sensibility, his high sense of honor, and his stern principles of duty, must have suffered, I leave you to imagine. But his love for Jessie conquered all other feelings. He knew that her happiness depended on her union with Edgar, for she was precisely that kind of character, which, though infirm of purpose in the outset, yet have a certain tenacity of feeling when once a decision has been made for them. He revolved many schemes in his mind before he could form a practicable one, and at last he suffered his frank and candid nature to lead him with its usual directness to his object. He asked Edgar to be more explicit in his confidences, and when Edgar declared that had he been the heir of wealth he would gladly make Jessie his wife, but that nothing would ever induce him to tie himself down to a life of privation and

Pained as he was by this appearance of distrust, Herbert's conscience accused him of cherishing a wicked love for one who was about to become his brother's wife, and he therefore submitted meekly to this new trial. What terms were finally decided upon could only be known at that time to the two brothers.

Six months after Mrs. Darsie's death Edgar was united to Jessie Graham, in the little village church, and immediately after the ceremony, the weddingparty left for New York, from whence they sailed a few days afterward for Havre.

Herbert dismissed the greater part of the servants, shut up all except one wing of the large house, sold off the carriage and horses, (reserving only the little pony-carriage, without which he would have been deprived of all means of locomotion,) and restricted his expenses within such narrow limits, that people began to consider him mean and miserly. He withdrew entirely from society, and lived more utterly alone than ever. His books, his pictures, his music, were now his only companions. Yet he did not forget that earth held those to whom even he might minister. The door of the poorest cottages often opened to admit the distorted form of the benefactor and friend, but the sunlight on the rich man's threshold was never darkened by his shapeless shadow.

Edgar Darsie went to Paris with his beautiful wife, and there he lived in luxury and splendor, surrounded by every thing that could minister to his love of pleasure. Only himself and one other, the lawyer who had drawn up the papers, knew whence his wealth was derived. Even Jessie never suspected that Herbert was living with the closest economy in order that the poor should not suffer from the lavish generosity which had induced him to secure to his brother more than three-fourths of his whole income as a bribe to insure her happiness.

Ten years passed away, dragging their weary length with the lonely and suffering Herbert, winging their way on golden pinions to Edgar, weaving their mingled web of dark and bright to the womanly heart of Jessie. She had witnessed the changes of a fickle nature in her husband-she had learned to endure indifference, and to meet with fitful affection from him-she had borne children, and laid them sorrowing in the bosom of mother earth-she had drunk of the cup of pleasure and found bitterness in its dregs; and now she stood a weeping mourner beside the

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