But now 'tis time of rest-and she is led
By ready handmaids-to the bridal bed.

And he has follow'd-and the rout is still;
The splendid hall is desolate and lone.

But hark!-what scream is that so loud and shrill? Hark! from whence comes that death-proclaiming groan?

'Tis from the bridal-chamber-sound so dread
Has roused each vassal from his scarce press'd bed.

Yet ere they reach that chamber nought is heard;
The shriek-the groan-assail no more the ear;
They challenge-but the echo of the word

Through the long corridor is all they hear.
At length, impatient grown, they force the door-
The bride and bridegroom-welter in their gore!—

Yes! there they lay-she with that solemn air
She wore when at the altar and the board;
Her eye had still that self-same vacant stare
Which seem'd with secret purpose deeply stored;
Her lovely hand a chasten'd dagger bore,
Steep'd to the golden hilt in human gore.

Her bosom, fair as was the mountain snow,

Was bare-and oh there was a deadly wound, From which even then the pure life-blood did flow, And curtain'd with its purple stain the ground. And on that bosom lay resemblance true

Of her first love, given when he first did woo.

And near her lay the bridegroom-through his heart
The steel of death had sped with frenzied force;
That robe which could such dignity impart

Is now the winding-sheet to shroud the corse
And as the vassals raised it from the ground
A bloody ringlet fell from out the wound-

A ringlet of dark colour !—he was fair!
And her locks were of a far deeper shade!
The wondering domestics fearful stare,

And marvel how the gory lock was laid
Upon the steel-rent bosom, as though 't were
Some once secreted purpose to declare.

The tale was spread abroad-and many said
(And they were of the band of suitors too),
The riddle was explain'd why she did wed

With him who erst did unsuccessful woo;
And it was spread abroad, in whisper plain,
The lover by the husband had been slain.

And years had pass'd away, when one, whom time Had furrow'd with the marks of many a year, Came as he said from distant foreign clime,

To shed a last, a deep repentant tear.

He spoke of forest vast-of river deep-
Of blood-of murder-and of endless sleep.

He had been there-the bridegroom's vassal he,
And his the whisper in the forest drear,
Beneath the hidden shelter of the tree,

When doubt and terror struck the victim's ear;
And his the part, to plunge him 'neath the wave,
To give him in the billows a cold grave.

But they are gone-the victim and the foe,
To render up their catalogue of sin
The judgment fits not human mind to know,
It is the finale of the soul within!
And all the mortal sense can comprehend
Is, that there is a judgment and an end.

Pocket Magazine.

CUPID TO A LADY.

La bagatelle, la science,

Les chimeres, le rien, tout est bon.

'Twas-let me see-three months ago,
To Bath, one morn, you chanced to go,
I took my station near your eye,
On mischief bent, I scarce knew why,
And as you pass'd thro' Pulteney-street,
A handsome youth you chanced to meet.
In playful mood, I wing'd a dart,

With aim too sure, and pierced his heart.
I wish before I'd acted so

I'd burnt my darts, and broke my bow.
Poor youth whole nights awake he lies,
The salt tears streaming from his eyes;
Your image, wheresoe'er he goes,
Still haunts his path, and wakes his woes;
His strength decays, his cheek turns pale,
And e'en his look reveals his tale.

La Fontaine.

Madam! throughout the world 'tis known
That woman's heart is pity's throne,
Oh do not then refuse to melt
At passions so intensely felt!
But, having frown'd his doom awhile,
Reprieve our captive with a smile.

Then I, when Hymen has entwined
His myrtle wreath your brows to bind,
That love through life may ne'er grow cold,
Will fix
my rose in every fold.

Pocket Magazine.

CHARACTER OF THE COMMON-PLACE MAN,

cr

USUALLY BAPTIZED A NICE YOUNG MAN."

He is a person who always hits the exact level of mediocrity, and never for an instant sinks below or rises above the surface. Like the tragedy of Cato, he is an elegant petrifaction of feeling; and makes a bow, or hands a chair, or manufactures a pretty speech, with the most faultless regularity.

In relating an anecdote, he does it with the hard dryness of systematic stupidity, and professes a most. orthodox horror of all who are addicted to embellishment or invention. In cutting a sly joke, he summons up the usual quantity of laugh for the occasion; and if others follow so laudable an example, he displays a formidable array of grinders, all armed for the grin. His religious dogmas are strictly orthodox. He opines that Belzebub has got large saucer eyes and hoofs; and that his tail is a yard long by the measure in his father's warehouse. Is of opinion, that if it does not rain sufficiently to spoil his new clothes, it would be highly advisable to attend church on Sundays; but thinks, with due deference, that the advantage derived from religion will not equal the manifold inconveniences of wetting a new suit. Has a slight idea that bishops are the keys of salvation, and that there is no possibility of going to heaven, unless they sign the certificate of good conduct, and unlock the doors of eternity. Measures their piety by their size, and thinks that a fat episcopal drone, some few yards in circumference, has a better chance of the loaves and fishes in the next world, than the starveling curate, who looks as if he once existed, but was now wandering about a forlorn ghost, to look for his defunct pinguity. Imagines that true religion consists in manfully wrestling with a sleepy sermon, and trusts that charity is shown in giving away a superfluous shilling at the

church door, and grumbling the whole way home. Is possessed with a notion that Primrose Hill is the acmè of picturesque perfection; and that, after all, the ponds on Hampstead Heath are exceeding pretty. Has heard that the Highlands of Scotland are monstrous magnificent; but wonders how that can be, since they are nearly five hundred miles from Cannon-street, Great Eastcheap. Writes valentines to a young lady, at the time specified by established usance, on a fine sheet of gilt-edged paper, with the lines written in large text, and duly stopped with a profusion of commas, semicolons, and notes of admiration, being the only notes of admiration in the whole composition. Thinks that the new pantomime resurrection and innovation of Lear are charmingly touching. Endeavours to encore the storm, that he may have the most for his money. Deems that it is perfectly right for them all to marry, and live very happy afterwards; and thinks that Lear had no right to ask any one to unbutton his waistcoat, and tell the storm to rumble its bellyful and spit ;" and wonders how Shakspeare could be so indelicate. Eats twelfth cake at Christmas, and considers himself privileged to make himself ill with goose-munching on Michaelmas day, inasmuch as it comes only once a year. The Déjeuné.