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DISBROWE.

I started, as you know, with my fleet hound And my true gun-two surer friends, dear Coz, Than court or camp can give,-just as the dawn Began to blush upon the mountain's brow: And long I rambled, free from care or thought, Save once or twice, perchance, when, sooth to say, A doubt came o'er me of your sudden change Of 'haviour to me :-well! some hours thus passed With various success-I reached the forestThe Cheviot forest - you remember it?

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Was a mosaic of flowers :-daisies flashed up
Glad glances from the scented grass,-like eyes
From perfumed curls ;-primroses, sick with odour,
Languished around and filled the air with sighs;
Whilst harebells meek, that ever read the earth,
Bent down their beauteous lips to sip the dew :-
And there were violets too, sweet Coz, as fair
As that which you have kept for my poor sake,
And blue as your own swimming eyes, my Emily!
And birds were carolling, and bees were humming,

And pilfering in their progress all the sweets
The rich flowers had so craftily wrapt up
Within the fair folds of their painted hoods!
And winds, that have no usherer, entered in,
Roving through every green recess and nook,
Like a young girl in search of mysteries,
Love-secrets, and all that. Oh, it was sweet!
And there I lay, until my fancies took

Full many a strange and dreamy shape; and then

Sleep stole upon me, like a gentle thief;'

And dreams of hounds, and horses, and wild waves,

The combat's hurry, and the conqueror's haste,

Worked in my mind; and then too-it was odd—

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There was a stormy breath abroad-the wind,
That had played gently in the morning hour,
Piped sullenly, and wrestled with the trees,
And tossed the torn leaves on my path, and threw
The oak's strong branches, like a maniac's arms,
Afloat upon the air,-and of its fruits,

The clattering acorns,-made wild castanets,

To which it danced in furious merriment!

And rose o'erhead the dense clouds, black with showers,

Like the dark eyes of a fond fearful woman,

That fill, and fill, until they flood! and so

They did, those clouds,-and lightnings flung about

Their forked banners, thunders growled aloud,

And I was wet and weary.

EMILY.

My poor, poor Cousin! you were wet and weary,
And I so warm and snug! but trust me coz.!
I thought of you. Where found you shelter?

DISBROWE.

In Margaret's hut, your good old nurse, and she Interpreted my dream.

EMILY.

Your dream that good, old, silly crone ! she knows Nothing of dreams.

DISBROWE.

But she knows much of hearts, of young hearts, Emily,

More than do you or I.

Oh! do not turn away

May I not clasp a cousin's waist? are we

Of kin no longer? and in our glad youth
Did I not call you-" wife!"

EMILY.

Oh! cousin Disbrowe, whither shall I turn?

You do not love me, nay, you hate me now,

I feel you do. I dare not look on you.

DISBROWE.

And why not look on me, my Emily?

EMILY.

Because my foolish, prating eyes would tell The long hid, treasured secret of my heart.

DISBROWE.

My timid Bride! what? did'st thou think that I,
Though reckless, thoughtless, wayward, thus could live
Within the magic of thine artless grace

Yet 'scape its power? Nay, I have loved thee long,
And though I cannot tell a lover's tale,

Nor whisper words that crowd about my tongue,
Fain would I crave thy love, my blushing Queen!

EMILY.

'Tis thine, dear Disbrowe; ever, ever thine! Oh! truly bath the Poet said of Love, "First love is still the strongest :" first and last

Is mine for you; for, even, when a child

I gambolled merrily among the fields,

You were far dearer to my simple heart

Than nurse, or handmaid, fawn, or bird, or flower:
And, as to womanhood I drew, I found

My heart still wandering to the past, to glean
From that old path sweet thoughts of you; for still
Your image lodged within my memory,

As in the bosom of some gentle stream
Lie the soft shadows of embowering trees!
Secundrabad, June 1830.

SONG.

All creatures that joy in the feelings of love,
Sleep now in the brake, or the branches above,
And the dull bat and owl, by the old ruin'd tower,
Share with me this heavy disconsolate hour.
The bell of the fountain strikes sad on my ear,
And the sounds of the forest like wailings appear;
The moon sends me tidings of grief from above,
She crowns my despair, for she shows not my love.
When my Lucy is absent nought in nature I prize,
The light of my life is the glance of her eyes;
Midst the bloom and the grandeur of seasons I bear
In my bosom a winter of wasting despair.

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WHO IS IT THAT GOVERNS ?

(A free Translation from the German.)

THE BOOK-KEEPER.

"I am a ruined man!" exclaimed Mr. Dégoutin when he returned, from the Board of Admiralty at Paris where he held the office of Book-keeper. "I am a ruined man Henry! We must part. I can no longer provide for you. I cannot keep my promise to your mother to be a father to you. I am a lost man!"

Henry Launay, without Mr. Dégoutin's assistance with whom he had been for two years, would have been the most helpless and solitary creature in the world. For in the small country town in which his mother by adverse circumstances was reduced to get a wretched livelihood by spinning and working at her needle, he acquired nothing but a fine hand writing, which enabled him by his skill in copying to defray a portion of the absolutely necessary house expences. Mr. Dégoutin an old friend of his mother, was so good as to take Henry into his own house where he treated him as his own son; and on account of his beautiful hand writing, he occasionally employed him in copying. Henry was a good soul, with a charming face and a tail noble figure. Mr. Dégoutin a bachelor of sixty-two, without a family, loved him as his own son, and intended to leave him the whole of his very moderate fortune. "You a lost man Mr.

Dégoutin? for heaven's sake, what can you have done?" "Alas, I have done nothing but I am to do," said the Book-keeper throwing his pocket book on the table-" what we will speak afterwards. I will hand you all my cash, my last bequeathment. Should you not see me again to-morrow know that I am arrested: then fly from here, look out for a situation, and whatever report may say, regard me as an honest man!"

Henry was beside himself from terror and pity. He begged of his friend with tears in his eyes to confide to him what had happened. He swore rather to die than to abandon him.

The old man was silent for a long time. A weight seemed to lie on his heart. At last with a deep sigh, he said, "To thee Henry, but to thee only I will tell it. Woe be to thee if thou shouldst dishonour my confidence. It might be at the expence of your liberty, or even of your life. But it is well perhaps that I should trust to thee, that thou shouldst know that I am innocent as it is likely no one else will believe me so. But be as silent as the grave, and should you want to ruin yourself, speak only after my grey head has been severed from my withered body."

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