man repeat; and it is upon record, that Ralph De Boteler, Baron of Sudley, was the first high admiral of England. The young heir always evinced a strong affection for Margaret; so much so, indeed, as sometimes to raise a suspicion in the baroness that her son loved his foster-mother better than herself.

We must not forget Bridget Turner, who was so affected at the death of her husband, and perhaps, too, at the failure of the rising, that she took a journey on foot from Maidstone to Sudley, on purpose to reproach Holgrave with having been the cause of her husband's death. Margaret strove to tranquillize her unhappy feelings, and Holgrave endeavoured to convince her that, although Turner's removal from Sudley might be attributed to him, his connexion with the rising was his own act. And at length Bridget, finding that she was paid more attention by Margaret and Holgrave than she had received even from her own son, took up her permanent abode with them; and sometimes, when she could get the ear of an old neighbour, and talk of former times, and tell what her poor husband had done for Holgrave, when he was a bondman, she felt almost as happy as she had ever been. About twenty years after this, Margaret, who had become a full, comely dame, and was by many thought better-looking now than in her youth, was one day bustling about her kitchen, for on the morrow her eldest son, who had accompanied the Lord Ralph on a naval expedition, was expected to bring home, from the galleyman's, in London, a counterpart of the pretty little Lucy. She was busy preparing the ingredients for some sweet dish, when one of Holgrave's labourers came in, and requested her to go to his hut directly, for an old man, who seemed dying, desired much to see her. Providing herself with a little wine, Margaret hastened to the cottage; and here, on a straw bed, lay a man with gray hairs hanging about his shoulders, and with a face so emaciated, and a hand so skeleton-like, that she almost shuddered as she looked. The invalid motioned the man to withdraw, and then, fixing his black eyes, that appeared gifted with an intense —an unnatural brilliance, upon Margaret, who seemed fascinated by the gaze, he said in a tremulous voice,

66

Margaret, do you know me?" "Know you!

- know you!" she repeated, starting from the seat she had taken beside him, and retreating a few steps.

"Do not fly me, Margaret. I cannot harm you- I never could have harmed you, Do you not know me?"

be

-

"Surely," said Margaret, trembling from head to foot - "surely it cannot

"I see you have a misgiving that it is Thomas Calverley - it is he! But be seated, Margaret, and listen to the last words I shall ever breathe in mortal ear."

Margaret was so shocked and overpowered, that she obeyed.

Margaret," said the dying man, as he raised himself a little from his bed, "I know not why I sent for you, or why I dragged my weary limbs from beyond the sea to this place; but as I felt my hour was coming, I longed to look upon you again. You are and have been happy - your looks bespeak it but Margaret, what do mine tell of? Of weary days and sleepless nights-of sickness of heart, and agony of soul-of crime of pain of sorrow, and deep destroying love!" His strength was exhausted with the feeling with which he uttered this, and he sank back on the bed.

Margaret was exceedingly agitated, and was rising to call for assistance, but he caught her hand in his cold grasp. "Do not go yet," he said, in a low voice-"I came far to see you!" His grasp relaxed, and Margaret, drawing away her hand, poured some wine in a cup, and held it to his lips:

he swallowed a little, and, looking up in her face, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. "You are going to leave me, Margaret ?"

"Yes," she replied, “I must go now, but I will see you again." "Never!-you will never see me again!" he said, with fresh energy: "but, before you go, tell me that you forgive me all that is past."

"I do forgive you, indeed, as truly as I hope to be forgiven!" said Margaret, affected-and turning away, she left the cottage.

On the third day from this, Calverley, bearing the felon's brand, unwept and unknown, was laid in the stranger's grave.

THE END OF THE BOUDMAN.

SELECT POEMS.

ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON,

ON THE PUBLICATION OF CHILDE HAROLD.

BY GRANVILLE PENN.

COLD is the breast, extinct the vital spark,
That kindles not to flame at Harold's muse;
The mental vision, too, how surely dark,
Which, as the anxious wanderer it pursues,
Sees not a noble heart, that fain would choose
The course to heaven, could that course be found;
And, since on earth it nothing fears to lose,

Would joy to press that bless'd etherial ground,

Where peace, and truth, and life, and friends, and love abound.

I "deem not Harold's breast a breast of steel,"
Steel'd is the heart that could the thought receive,
But warm, affectionate, and quick to feel,
Eager in joy, yet not unwont to grieve;
And sorely do I view his vessel leave-
Like erring bark, of card and chart bereft -

The shore to which his soul would love to cleave;
Would, Harold, I could make thee know full oft,

That, bearing thus the helm, the land thou seek'st is left.

Is Harold "satiate with worldly joy?"

Leaves he his home, his land, without a sigh ?" 'Tis half the way to heaven!-oh! then employ

That blessed freedom of thy soul, to fly

To him, who, ever gracious, ever nigh,

Demands the heart that breaks the world's hard chain;

If early freed, though by satiety,

Vast is the privilege that man may gain;

Who early foils the foe, may well the prize obtain.

Thon lovest Nature with a filial zeal,

Canst my mankind to brood with her apart;

Unutterable sure, that inward feel,

When swells the soul, and heaves the labouring heart

With yearning throes, which nothing can impart
But Nature's majesty, remote from man!
In kindred raptures, I have borne my part;
The Pyrenean mountains loved to scan,
And from the crest of Alps peruse the mighty plan.

""Tis ecstasy to brood o'er flood and fell,"
"To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,"
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flocks that never need a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;
This is not solitude! 't is but to hold

Converse with Nature's God, and see His stores unroll'd."

Forget we not the Artist in the art, Nor overlook the Giver in the grace; Say, what is Nature, but that little part Which man's imperfect vision can embrace Of the stupendous whole, which fills all space; The work of Him by whom all space is bound! Shall Raphael's pencil Raphael's self efface? Shall Handel's self be lost in Handel's sound? Or, shall not Nature's God in Nature's works be found?

But Harold "through sin's labyrinth has run,"
Nor "made atonement when he did amiss ;"
And does the memory of that evil done
Disturb his spirit, or obscure his bliss!
'Tis just; 't is Harold's due-yet let not this
Press heavier on his heart than heaven ordains;
What mortal lives, not guilty nor remiss?
What breast that has not felt remorse's pains?
What human soul so pure, but mark'd by sin's dark stains?

And can this helpless thing, pollute, debased,
Its own disfigured nature e'er reform ?
Say, can the sculptured marble, once defaced,
Restore its lineament, renew its form?
That can the sculptor's hand alone perform,
Else must the marr'd and mutilated stone
For ever lie imperfect and deform;—
So man may sin and wail, but not atone;
That restorative power belongs to God alone.

Yet is atonement made:- Creation's Lord
Deserts not thus the work his skill devised;
Man, not his creature only, but his ward,
Too dearly in his Maker's eye is prized,
Than thus to be abandon'd and despised.
Atonement is the Almighty's richest dole,
And ever in the mystic plan comprised,
To mend the foul defacements of the soul,
Restore God's likeness lost, and make the image whole.

Oh! if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be,
A land of souls beyond death's sable shore,"
How would quick-hearted Harold burn to see
The much-lov'd objects of his life once more,
And Nature's new sublimities explore
In better worlds! Ah! Harold, I conjure,

Speak not in ifs; -to him whom God hath taught,
If aught on earth, that blessed truth is sure;
All gracious God, to quiet human thought,

Has pledged his sacred word, and demonstration wrought.

Did Babylon, in truth, by Cyrus fall

Is't true that Persia stain'd the Grecian land? Did Philip's son the Persian host enthrall? Or Cæsar's legions press the British strand? Fell Palestine by Titus' sword and brand?Can Harold to such facts his faith intrust! Then let him humbly learn, and understand: "Then Christ is risen from the dead!" - the first Dear pledge of mortal frames yet mouldering in the dust.

·

But Harold "will not look beyond the tomb,"
And thinks "he may not hope for rest before:"
Fie! Harold, fie! unconscious of thy doom,
The nature of thy soul thou know'st not more;
Nor know'st thy lofty mind, which loves to soar;
Thy glowing spirit, and thy thoughts sublime,
Are foreign to this flat and naked shore,
And languish for their own celestial clime,
Far in the bounds of space,

beyond the bounds of time.

There must thou surely live- and of that life
Ages on ages shall no part exhaust:
But with renew'd existence ever rife,
No more in dark uncertainty be toss'd,
When once the teeming barrier is cross'd;
(The birth of mortals to immortal day)
O'let not then this precious hour be lost,
But humbly turn to Him who points the way
To ever-during youth, from infinite decay!

Such, such the prospect, such the glorious boon,
The last great end in Heaven's supreme design;
Deem not thy cloud continuous, for soon
Must truth break in upon a soul like thine,
Yearning, unconscious, for the light divine;
Oh! hear the gracious word to thee address'd
By Him, thy Lord, almighty and benign—
"Come unto me, all ye by care oppress'd!

Come to my open arms, and I will give you rest!"

Would thou hadst loved through Judah's courts to stray; Would Sion Hill Parnassus' love might share;

What joy to hear thy muse's potent lay

The sacred honours of that land declare,

And all that holy scene engage her care;

Where poets harp'd ere Homer's shell was strung,
Where heavenly wisdom pour'd her treasures rare,
Long, long ere Athens woke to Solon's song,

And truth-inspired seers of after ages sung.

But, thanks for what we have; and for the more
Thy muse doth bid the listening ear attend,