Kath. But, brief or long, I feel my fate hangs on it. Selby. His sceptred hand He forth in token of forgiveness stretch'd, And clapp'd his cheeks, and courted him with gifts, Mrs F. But for that other Selby. He dismiss'd him straight, From dreams of grandeur, and of Caliph's love, Where friends, turn'd fiends, and hollow confidants, Your penance is-to dress your cheek in smiles, Sister, your hand; Your wager won, makes me a happy man ; Though poorer, Heav'n knows, by a thousand pounds. Widow, your hand. I read a penitence In this dejected brow; and in this shame Your fault is buried. You shall in with us, And, if it please you, taste our nuptial fare: For, till this moment, I can joyful say, Was never truly Selby's Wedding Day. (Aside.) VOL. XXIV. 5 G THY Voice is in mine ear, Belov'd! Thy look is in my heart, Thy bosom is my resting-place, And yet I must depart. Earth on my soul is strong-too strong Too precious is its chain, All woven of thy love, dear Friend! Thou seest mine eye grow dim, Belov'd! A little while between our hearts Alas! thy tears are on my cheek, I know that from thine agony The bitter conflict less Oh! sad it is, and yet a joy To feel thy love's excess! But calm thee! let the thought of death The Voice that must be silent soon, A token of consoling love, Even from this hour of strife. I bless thee for the noble heart, The tender and the true, Where mine hath found the happiest rest I bless thee, faithful Friend and Guide, I bless thee for kind looks and words, The wife of a Vaudois leader, in one of the attacks made on the Protestant ham 1 ets, received a mortal wound, and died in her husband's arms, exhorting him to courage and endurance. For the voice which ne'er to mine replied I bless thee for the last rich boon The right to gaze on Death with thee, And yet more for the glorious Hope Did not thy Spirit ever lift The trust of mine to Heaven? Now be thou strong!-Oh! know we not A shadow and a trembling still Were mingled with our bliss! We plighted our young hearts, when storms In full, deep knowledge of their task- Be strong! I leave the living voice With the thousand echoes of the hills, To rouse the valiant from repose, Hear it, and bear thou on, my Love! Our mountains must be altars yet, There must our God be worshipp'd still With the worship of the Free- F. H. Thou art like a City of the Past, With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth, Yes! thou art like those dim sea-caves, And the shapes, through thy mysteries that come and go, But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep! And thy bowers are fair-even as Eden fair! They are there-and each blessed voice I hear, I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow, I listen to music of long ago; But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint through the lay"It is but a dream, it will melt away!" I sit by the hearth of my early days, All the home-faces are met by the blaze And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say— "It is but a dream, it will melt away!" And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone, Oh! a haunted heart is a weight to bear Bright faces, kind voices !-where are ye, where? Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams! For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er return. Call out from the future thy visions bright, From the world o'er the grave take thy solemn light, Show me my home, as it yet may be. As it yet may be in some purer sphere, So my soul may bear on through the long, long day, F. H. AN EXECUTION IN PARIS. In the month of March 1825, Louis Auguste Papavoine lost his head. He was guillotined at the Place de Grêve for the murder of two children in the Bois de Vincennes. The man was mad, beyond all doubt, and in Great Britain would have been sentenced to perpetual confinement as a lunatic; but the French criminal court refused to admit the plea of insanity, and he was given over to the executioner; the Cour de Cassation having rejected his appeal from the decision of that which tried him. To my shame be it spoken, I wished to see an execution by the guillotine. There was a sort of sanguinary spell attached to this instrument, which irresistibly impelled me to witness one of its horrid triumphs. When I thought of it, the overwhelming tragedy of the Revolution was brought before my eyes-that Revolution which plunged Europe in seas of blood, and stamped an indelible impression upon the whole fabric of modern society. There was something appalling in the very name of this terrific engine. M. Guillotine, its inventor, was also one of its victims-he perished by his own contrivance. Let no man hereafter invent an instrument of punishment. Perillus contrived the brazen bull, and was among the first to perish by it. Earl Morton, who brought the "Maiden" to Scotland, underwent a like fate; and Deacon Brodie was hanged upon his own drop. The day on which Papavoine suffered was beautifully fair; and, profiting by this circumstance, the idle population of the French capital flocked in myriads to witness his exit. It was calculated that there were not fewer than eighty thousand spectators. The Place de Grêve was literally paved with human beings. A person might have walked upon their heads without difficulty; and so closely were they wedged together, that had any object larger than an apple been thrown among them, it could not have found its way to the ground. Men, women, and children, were clumped into one dense aggregate of living matter; and as the huge multitude moved itself to and fro, it was as the incipient stirring of an earth quake, or as the lazy floundering of the sea, when its waves, exhausted by a recent storm, tumble their huge sides about, like the indolent leviathan which floats upon their surface. There was no spot of the Place unoccupied.. save immediately around the scaffold, where a portion was squared off, and kept clear by a strong body of mounted gendarmerie, who kept back with their horses the living wall, which was every moment threatening to break asunder by the pressure behind, and intrude its animated materials into the proscribed area. Nor was the Place de Grêve the only spot so crowded. The quays along the Seine were equally peopled, and even the opposite banks of that broad stream were filled with multitudes. Notre Dame shone with spectators, who had mounted its beetling towers to catch a dim prospect of the sacrifice; and every window and height, which afforded the most distant view, were similarly occupied. In Paris, as in London, it is customary to let out those windows where a good view can be obtained; and on any occasion of particular interestas the present happened to be-considerable sums are asked, and given. Sometimes half a Napoleon is demanded for a single place; and the sum varies from that to half a franc, according to the eligibility of the si tuation. Many of the windows are so near to the guillotine, that a very favourable prospect of the painful. spectacle can be obtained; and these, of course, are crowded with persons who can afford to pay well for the gratification of their curiosity—if there be, indeed, any gratification in witnessing the instantaneous and sanguinary death of a fellow creature. Yet the view, even from the best windows, is not equal to that from within the open area. But into this space, it is no easy matter to get a footing; the few who are admitted being military men, and such of their friends as they choose to bring along with them. Indeed, at this time, there were few or no officers of any rank within the opening. It was mostly occupied by the gendarmes, who were there upon duty; and by a few dozens of common soldiers, whom curiosity |
