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—,’ ’ ~ HIIOI,E NO. i2.
& SWT2MH MM TO MTUMTBM, TM MTS MB SEISMS, MB TO EIiSMB ISTfiLLISSMES.
gtTE SECOND PEBE POEM.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
tiie
*SWORD AND PALETTE.
A KOMAUXT,
BY 7. M. LEGARE.
Sir Alvar in the joust no more
Triumphant lifts his lance,
Nor blooming lips, nor bookish lore,
Can win him from his trance.
Lo, through the wood, with heart that grieves,
My seigneur paces lone;
lie hears the sadly sighing leaves,
The wood-dove’s plaintive moan.
Crossed are his arm? upon his breast,
Where nestles night and day
A vision, blue-eyed, golden-tressed,
That steals his peace away.
“And who is she so debonair
Beyond our fairest dames,
That yonder page’s blunted .spear
Our seigneur's prowess shames 1 ”
Your courtly dames, like jewels strung,
May courtly praises win :
The sweetest of our songs are sung
For Lilias of the Lynn.
Once royal Charles at banquet deigned
To hear my simple lays:
- The burthen of my song unfeigned
Was still my Lilias’ praise.
But when I sang how lowly born
Was she. a limner's child,
Methought with mingled pride and scorn
The jewelled circle smiled.
Oh, be the queenly rose his boast
That bears a haughty crest;
I love the lowly blossom most
That suits a russet vest.
IK
It was the gray old painter, Mhand,
That stroked her radiant head;
lie held his mall stick in his hand,
And painted while she read.
The quaint, black-letter, old romance
* She read, propped on her knee,
Os old Sir Hubert’s brazen lance
That did the work of three.
Os how Sir Guy, with cross on sleeve,
In anger crossed the seas ;
And left the faithless Maud to grieve
On penitential knees.
How county Lilsfe, in witless pride,
Misnamed his people “ swine,”
And how by swinish tusks he died
When overcome with wine.
And of the tourneys good king John
Held in the open field;
And of the couplet Giles of Bonn
Bore ever on his shield.
But more than all these gorgeous dreams
Those legends golden were,
Wherein nor strife nor warlike gleams
Disturbed her soul with fear.
Wherein from courts the noble came
To woo the lowly breast:
Her parted lips scarce breathed the name
Her fluttering heart confessed.
in.
Oft-times and grim old Maller-Mhand
Ilis mall-staff shook aloft;
w Who rides a tilt to gain thy hand,
Must be no lisper soft.
Ht Besbrcw thy Baron's coat of mail;
I love one of mine craft! ”
Fair Lilias’ cheek waxed red and pale
The while her sire laughed.
Him seeking, haughty Alvar camo
As one unused to plea:
I wot, from Languedoc to Maine
■ No braver was than he 1
■ Sir Painter,” Alvar courteous spoke,
Beneath the painter's roof;
■ “ In vain a heart of stubborn oak
I guard with armor proof.
■ “ But yestermorn, in open lists,
My lance achieved the prize;
I Their jewelled hands our ladies kissed,
I 1 only sought her eye?.
■ “ It chafed me sore, my queen should bide
Among ignoble dames:
Let shield-of-eight and countship wide
Henceforth assert her claims.”
IV.
Load laughed in scorn old Maller-Mhand,
* 1 Loud laughed and curled his beard t
He comes with mall-stick in his hand
> | Who woos the Golden-haired.
I 4 ‘ Thy breast, steel-clad, is all too cold
■ % To rest such tender head;
Pale were thy boasted heaps of gold
I Beside its lightest shred.
I“ 1 c corn thy braggart deeds of might.
T lie wolf that slays the lamb.
Blood flecks thy knightly mantis white,
And soils thy lordly palm.
“Go,—on thy wrist, in lieu of bird,
A palette perch—then come.”
—Amazed the haughty noblo heard,
With shame and anger dumb.
Then, frowning, spoke: “ Are knightly hancU
To serve for such as thou ?
Know, dotard, noblc9 reap the lands,
Your peasant holds the plough.
“ 111 suits thy cloak of clownish red,
The pearl it would conceal! ”
With scornful insolence he said,
And turned upon his heel.
“Ila! Lilias! what evil chance,
Has led thee to this place 1 ”
His rage went out, so piteously
The tears ran down her faco.
The sorrow that her eyes replied
Pierced his stout cuirass through,
And all his panoply of prido
Triumphant love o’erthrew.
“ Oh Lilias, my only love,
How can I less than yield ?
This morn above a mourning dove
At fault my gos hawk wheeled.
“ The augury I sought to trace
I gather in thy sighs.”
—He held her iu a close embrace,
Then vanished from her eyes.
I know some angel, glad and bright,
Her chamber entered in,
So joyous were the dreams that night
Os Lilias of the Lynn.
But through the wood, with heart that grieves,
Sir Alvar, pacing lone,
Hears overhead the s : ghing leaves,
And night owl’s boding moan.
* V.
Oh, happy spring-time of the heart,
When love is daily food,
Through which are dangers counted naught,
And difficulties woo’d!
Where rose in ancient Roman time
Imperial Caesar’s throne,
As stranger from some northern clime
Was lordly Alvar known
No more his knightly deeds command
The lists, his shield advanced:
Before the easel, staff in hand,
The painter stood entranced.
In lieu of hawk, a palette graced
His wrist, of polished wood:
In lieu of glittering train, pale-faced
Behind the Master stood.
Much mued the Fra Bartolem&
This marvel to construe,
That under cowl of monkish gray
Lurked eyes of tender blue.
And Magdalen within the wood
As northern maids was fair:
And choirs of bright angels stood,
Each orownodwith golden hair.
Lilias, the guiding thought,
Ilis pencil still confessed ;
While, looking inwardly, he wrought
The vision in his breast.
VI.
Swift glide the months to years,
Which patient labors claim :
And once again Sir Alvar wears
The recompense of fame.
Now, while the wreath the painting crowned
The victor paced apart:
His eyes, fond musing, sought the ground
While rambling with his heart:
Saw. at the bending of the road,
The blue Rhine reappear ;
And how, through trelliscd vineyards, showed
The roof lhat held his fair.
“ Ah, Lilias, my only love,
How can I less than yield 1”
Camo sweetly to his car above
The clang of listed field.
“ And live? she for his boom's pride—
To none her charms resigned I ”
“ Peace, dreamer! ” quick his love replied,
And left all doubt behind.
While thus his grateful fancies ran,
Like hillside waters sweet —
To thirsty souls that pause to scan
The valley at their feet;
Nearer, along the corridor
A maid and sire strayed,
Until the pendant wreath before
Their noiseless feet delayed.
High on the wall the chnplet hung,
And Alvar’s toil below ;
The tale an ancient poet sung,
On canvass taught to glow.
In smiling light Arcadia lay
Green sloping in her hills ;
Burst from the mossy rocks and grey,
Innumerable rills.
Yet swifter than the brhok could flee,
With panting bosom fled
Young Daphne; supplicatingly
Her little hands she spread.
Sileniiß hears. With laurel bark
Her tender limbs compressed:
The broad and glossy leaves surround
Her palpitating breast.
But through the interlacing shado
Os slender stems, appear
Blue eyes, and oft a golden braid
Os long and loosened hair.
Amazed and mute the father spied
His Lilias portrayed;
In place of kirtlo, white and wide,
In leafy robes arrayed.
Amazed and fluttered stood his child,
And, with a maiden art.
Concealed with folded hands the wild,
Loud beating of her heart
Then, yielding to the inward strife,
Between her falling tears,
She cried aloud, “ My lord—my life !”
—Oh music to his cars !
She stood in garments wide and white,
Blue-eyed and go!den-tressed ;
She stood and bhs ed liis raptured sight,
Her burning love confessed.
No longer Fatherland had charms
To woo him from the South:
He held her iu his circling arms,
And kissed her, mouth to mouth.
And as the mariners distressed,
In haven safe, display
Their penons all—upon his breast
With smiling face she lay.
—Now out upon that demon owl
That boded in the wood ;
That well nigb drove to monkish cowl
A noble soul and good !
But said I not some angel bright
Iler chamber entered in,
When sweetest visions came that nighs
To Lilias of the Lynn.
If SHE
’ • ‘P. y 7 ‘ ~[f .■ .
OUR FIRST PRIZE TALE.
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
1’ E K C V :
—OR, —
THE BANISHED SON.
BY JIRS. CAROLINE LEE IIEXTZ.
CHAPTER THIRD.
Late the next morning, the surgeon ar
rived. The inflammation, caused by such
protracted suffering, made it a very dan
gerous case, and for many days Mr. Mon
tague lingered on the borders of the grave.
Claude would have written to his friends,
but the speechlesslips of the suflerercould
give no directions; and all that the young
man could do was to watch by his couch,
and await the issues of life and death. At
length the inflammation subsided, and the
patient was pronounced out of immediate
danger. Then Claude, at his request, wrote
to Mr. Vane, his son-in-law, who resided
with him, near one of the large towns of
the Old Dominion, several days’ journey
from the mountain-cabin. A week must
elapse, at the shortest possible calculation,
before any of his family could arrive.- In
the meantime, though helpless and suffering
from his broken limb, hegraduall} r revived,
and seemed to derive much pleasure from
the conversation of his youthful friend.
Claude, with the ingenuousness of youth,
told him all his history.
“Poor boy! poor boy!” cried Mr.Mon
tague, moved even to tears; “so young
and inexperienced! T will he a father to
you; I have no son of my own; and you
shall be the son of my adoption. I owe
my life to your care, and am selfish enough
to rejoice that Providence has opened a
way in which I can show my gratitude,
and pay, though but in a small degree, a
debt so large. Oh, my dear boy, I will
carry you to a happy home, where all is
love, and peace, and joy. You shall have
a sister, too, in my grand-daughter—my
sweet, sweet Mary. How happy she will
be to have a companion, whom she will
love as a brother!”
Claude bent his head on the old mafi's
hand, and a tear moistened the dry and fe
verish skin.
“Think me not ungrateful, sir—but 1
cannot cat the bread of dependence.”
“Fear not; I will only put you in the
way of earning an independent subsistence.
You shall study law with Mr. Vane, if
you like the profession. In the meantime,
you can give my Mary lessons in French
and Drawing, and thus make a compro
mise with pride. Deny me not, my son,
for my heart clings to thee, and refuses to
be separated from thee. I see the hand of
Providence in this. Disowned by him
who gave you birth, God has sent you to
watch, with all a son’s devotion, by my
lonely pillow, and to be cherished in a bo
som that feels for you, already, all a fath
er’s tenderness and love.”
He opened hisarms with a benign smile,
and Claude felt as if he were, indeed,
clasped to the bosom of a father. That
night,,he wrote to Ella that he had found
a home —a father; he had no longer a
dark and aimless existence, but a future il-
lumineil by hope and promise: she must
no longer mourn for the banished Romeo ;
bright days were yet in store, when love,
and faith, and constancy', would meet their
reward.
What a change was made in that log
cabin by the arrival of Mr. Montague’s
family! He was a rich Southern planter,
and had all the appliances of wealth and
the refinements of luxury to grace his
home. Downy beds, soft cushions, and
rich curtains, were all brought for the com
fort of the invalid, as well as every delica
cy that could please the taste and tempt
the appetite. Mr. Vane was a noble spe
cimen of a Virginia gentleman—his wife a
fair, gentle, interesting looking lady; but
Mary—sweet Mary—how lovely she look
ed, clinging like a fair garland round the
neck of her aged grand-father! How an
gelic the expression of her soft, dark eyes!
how delicate the lilies of her cheek ! Not
even the faintest tint of red was visible on
that beauteous cheek : it >eemed too pure,
too holy, for the breath of human passion
to pass over it.
“All, dear grand-father!” she cried,
smoothing away his long, silky hair, and
kissing his pale forehead, “ you should
not have crossed the mountains alone : you
know how hard I pleaded to bear you
company.”
“These young arms could hardly have
checked the fiery horses,” cried he, fondly
returning her affectionate caresses. “ I be
lieve I was wrong; hut when we are very
young, or very old, we are apt to be too
self-relying and independent. Had not my
own driver fallen sick, so that I had to
leave him and trust to the guidance of a
stranger, this accident would not have bc
f„iu„ u—. * .* .....1
prove a blessing to us all. It lias given a
dear young son to my old age, and a friend
and brother to my gentle Mary.”
Mary’s dove-like eyes turned to him
with a look ot unutterable softness. They
seemed to say, “My heart yearns for a
brother; have I found one in thee ?”
Claude was welcomed into this interest
ing family with expressions of the most
cordial affection. His filial cares to the |
beloved father of the household were re
paid with unbounded gratitude. Claude
thought that never was kindness, that cost
so little, so richly remunerated. It was no
sacrifice to him to linger by the way-side,
and, while he administered comfort and as
sistance, drink in words of heavenly wis
dom, that strengthened and renovated his
soul. This he repeated again and again;
hut Mr. Vane would thank him—his gen
tle wife would bless him, and Mary's melt
ing glance would express a thousand grate
ful meanings. The sunny spirit of Claude
began to sparkle once more, for the cloud
which hail gathered so darkly over him had
“turned a silver lining to the night.”
Mr. and Mrs. Vane returned home in a
few days--for she had young children
that required her care; but Mary remained
with her grand-father, and shared with
Claude the office of nurse. It would be
weeks before bis broken limb would be
healed, so as to admit of traveling; and,
during that time, the mountain-cabin seemed
changed to a fairy grotto, and Mary the
presiding sylph, who breathed a spell on
every thing around her. Mr. Montague
was so much better, that he could sit,
propped up in bed, for hours, reading—
and then*Claude and Mary would ramble
about the woods, in search of evergreens
to decorate the walls, or moss from the
grey, old rocks. It was winter, and no
gav, sweet flower, peeped forth from the
green underwood ; but Maiy was such a
lover of Nature, that she would wander
abroad, if there was nothing to look upon
but the clear, blue heavens, *nd “the grand,
old woods.” She had brought her guitar,
for Mr. Montague loved Mary’s singing
better than any nusic in the world, and
Mary did not like to sing without an ac
companiment. But she had an accompa
niment, now, sweeter than any instrument,
and that was the voice of Claude —the
clearest, richest, most melodious voice, that
ever warbled from human lips. It was as
tonishing to hear such music as they made
gushing through the chinks of that old
log-cabin.
When Mr. Montague was tired of sitting
up and reading himself, he would lean
back on his couch, and Mary and Claude
would take turns in reading aloud. Every
night, before he fell asleep, they would
read a chapter in the Bible ; and Claude
thought the poetry’ of Shakspeare less
beautiful than the minstrelsy of David,
breathed from the sweet lipsof Mary Vane.
What would poor Ella have thought,
who was mourning in desolation of soul
for her banished cousin, and whom she de
picted to herself as a forlorn and heart
broken wanderer, could she have seen him
thus closely domesticated with this angelk
young creature, associated in such an en
dearing task, and bound by such tendei
and near-drawing ties I And was he in
danger of forgetting Ella—the companion
of his childhood—the generous, devoted,
fond and faithful Ella 1 No! the presence
of Mary only brought her, by the force ol
contrast, more vividly and constantly to
his remembrance. Her’s was the changing
cheek and lightning glance that spoke of
the quick-flowing blood and the electric
spirit; Mary's the pearl-white skin, and
the soft, heavenly, prayerful eye, that re
minded one of a beauty not of this world.
Ella was the loveliest of the daughters of
earth, and he loved her with youth’s first,
warmest passion ; Mary, an image of the
angels of heaven, whom he could worship
and adore as a guardian saint. No! in
Mary's presence, he loved Ella with a ho
lier, deeper love, for she awoke all lhat
was pure and holy in his nature.—lt was
only the poetiy of nursing that devolved
on Claude and Mary. All the drudgery,
if such it could be called, where all seemed
a labor of love, was performed by a negro
servant, an old and attached slave, who
had come to take care of her old master.
It was affecting to see with what tender
ness, reverence and devotion, she watched
over him—what motherly kindness and
love she manifested for her sweet young
mistress! Mrs. Vane would hardly have
been willing to have left Mary with her
helpless grand-father, and this fascinating
young stranger, had it not been for the
guardianship of this faithful and intelli
gent creature.
The log-cabin was deserted, and the ever
green wreaths hung withering on the walls.
¥4.. ntuf, at itiuriltfl to lilo liKiiic,
still an invalid, but able to walk, support
ed by the arm of a friend. Itwas a beau
tiful scene! The return of the Christian
master—the affectionate father—the be
loved patriarch—to his own dwelling! To
see the rows of negroes, with smiling ivo-
ry gleaming white through their sable lips,
looking so happy, so respectful, standing
each side of the avenue that led to the no
ble mansion, ready to welcome home their
almost worshipped master; to see him
bending his venerable head, with such a
benign smile, and taking these humble, af
fectionate creatures, so kindly by the hand,
asking after their welfare, and blessing
God that he was permitted to return to
them once more ! Whoever had witnessed
this scene, would have been convinced
that the bond that binds the master and the
slave is not always an iron-bond, and that
beautiful flowers of gratitude and affection
may be made to flourish in the dark bosom
of the negro. Warm was the welcome
they gave the “young master,” who was
“slablished at once as an adopted son in
this abode of princely hospitality. He im
mediately'. commenced his studies with Mr.
Vane, and his instructions to Mary. By
day. an indefatigable student; at night, the
teacher of his lovely, adopted sister.
Days, weeks and months, glided away.
Mr. Montague noticed, with anxiety, that
Claude's brow wore a saddened expression,
and his cheek a paler hue. Alas 1 he be
gan to feel the withering fear that he was
forgotten by Ella, as well as disowned by
his father. He had written again and
again to the first, telling her where to di
rect her replies; and once lie had written
to his father—not to ask for restoration to
favor—not to supplicate for his forfeited
place in his heart and home—but to tell
him of the friends he had found—the pro
fession he had chosen, and the solemn
resolution he had formed to make himself
worthy of the name of Percy—so that, in
future years, when his “reformation, glit
tering o'er his fault,” should efface its
shadow from remembrance, he would dare
to claim his esteem as a man, though lie
had alienated his affection as a son. In
this high-toned, manly spirit, wrote the
banished youth; and yet no reply was
vouchsafed by the inflexible father—no
answer came from the once loving and de
voted cousin. Had not the heart of Claude
been shielded by a prior attachment—an
attachment that was entwined with every
fibre of bis being—he could not have been
insensible to the almost celestial loveliness
of Mary. Nor was he insensible. She
was to him the incarnation of all that was
pure and holy—the sister of his soul —the
star of his spiritual heaven. But Ella was
‘ A creature not too bright nor good
For human nature’s daily food—
For transient sorrow, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.’
But Mary, though she had the face of
an angel—had the heart of a woman—and
though it sent no blushing heralds to the
cheek, throbbed wildly and warmiy with
newly awakened emotions. In the soli
tude of that mountain-cabin, the light of a
new existence had begun to dawn upon
her, and that light had grown brighter and
brighter, till it enveloped her spirit as with
a glory.
Thus two years passed away. The let
ters of Claude still remained unanswered,
and, with a freezing sense of her heartless
ness and inconstancy, he tried to forget the
Juliet of his boyish imagination. He was
assisted in this by a solemn scene, in which
he was made an actor.
The aged grand-father lay upon his
death-bed. He had never recovered from
the effects of the accident, which led to
the adoption of the banished Claude.—
Three-score years and ten had left their
*
snows upon his head, without withering
the bloom of his heart. But Death was
now near, and the warmest heart grows j
cold at his touch. Once, when it was be
lieved he slept, and Mary and Claude sat
by his bed-side, as they had often done in
the mountain-cabin, he opened his eyes!
and gazed upon them both so earnestly
and wistfully, that they involuntarily drew
nearer to him, and asked him what he de
sired.
“My children,” said he, in feeble ac-:
cents, taking a hand of each and clasping |
them in his own, “ 1 am going home.
The aged pilgrim is about to return to his j
God. But you, young travelers, your jour
ney is but just begun. It is a weary jour- j
ney; but, if we go hand in hand with one ;
that loves us, the way seems smooth and
pleasant to the feet. Mary, my darling,
you have been the child of my old age— ;
the object of many prayers. 1 die happy; |
for I know there’s one—one, whose hand j
is even now clasped in mine—who will
make life a sweet pilgrimage to you. j
ciiluoc, my near udum;, l Know you aim t
my sweet Mary love each other! Both so
good—so beautiful! Heaven lias made
you for each other! I give her to you,
Claude, as my dying legacy; and may the
Lord be gracious to you, as you are faith
ful to this holy trust.”
Claude, incapable of utterance, knelt by
the side of the kneeling Mary. Her hand
trembled in his—her eyes, swimming in
tears for one moment, turned towards him,
then, lilted to heaven, were filled with a
love so deep, so pure, yet so impassioned—
a love which, for the first time, she had
suffered to rise from the depths of her
heart free and unchecked—sanctioned and
hallowed, as it now was, by the blessing
of a dying saint. Claude would as soon
have disputed the decree of Heaven, as the
wish of his benefactor.
The patriarch was gathered to his fath
ers. The leaves of autumn fell upon bis
grave. With the flowers of May, Mary’s
bridal garlands were to be woven.
Thus solemnly betrothed, without any
volition of his own, Claude was at first op
pressed by the most stiange and bewilder
ing sensations; hut honor, gratitude and
delicacy, all urged him lo endeavor to
transfer to Mary the love he had so long i
cherished forthe faithless Ella, lie would j
think of her no more. She belonged to j
the life that wa° past—the life of vanity,
self-indulgence and pride; Mary to thut j
new and spiritual life, born of suffering and ,
self-humiliation.
Mary's check had always been as color
less as Parian marble. Now a soft, bright
rose-tint, began to tinge its snow, and a
lustrous beam was seen playing in the iris
of her soft, dark eye- Claude watched,
with deepening tenderness, these bright
and shifting hues. They humanized, as it
were, her too spiritual loveliness, and gave
her a resemblance to one, whose image
cbuld never be destroyed. Claude grew
happier in the consciousness of his increa
sing love for Mary, but an unaccountable
sadness seemed to oppress her. Often,
when he attempted to lead her mind to
sweet thoughts of the future, she would
lean her head in silence on his bosom, and
weep; and all the time her cheek wore a
deeper rose, and her eye a more intense
lustre.
One evening—it was a warm, dewy,
moon-lighted April evening—Mary sat
with Claude in the long, pillared piazza.
The vine-leaves, already in full luxuriance,
clustered round the pillars, and cast their
shadows on Mary’s alabaster blow. He
held one of her bands in his, and they both
sat in silence, looking out into the pale,
silvery night. A slight shiver ran through
Mary’s frame
“ The night-air is too damp,” said
Claude; for, though she shuddered, her
hand glowed with feverish heat. “ Let us
go in, Mary, lest a mildew full to wither
the blossoms of my May.”
“It is so lovely, sitting here in the moon
light!” cried Mary, looking upward with
a melancholy smile ; “ and when this moon
has waxed and waned, and another comes
with softer, mellower light, who knows if
my eyes will be permitted to gaze upon its
; beauty?”
“ VVhy speak in so sad a strain, my
; Mary, when every thing around us breathes
of hope, and love, and joy 1 Ah! you
know not the fear your deepening melan
choly awakens, as the hour approaches
that will make you mine forever—the fear
that you love me no more.”
“Notlove you! not love you, Claude!”
repeated she, with impassioned emphasis.
Then suddenly throwing her arms round
his neck, and suffering her head lo droop
upon his shoulder: “Oh, it is this love—
too strong—too deep—binding me too
closely to life—that makes my misery and
despair! Oh! Claude—Claude—l cannot,
cannot give thee up 1”
“Mary, talk not so wildly. Youalartn—
you terrify me ; you know not what you
utter.”
“Yes, Claude,” raising her head, and
! fixing on him a dark, thrilling glance. “ I
know too well what 1 am uttering ; I have
wanted strength to say it; but I could not
| bear; you have made life so dear to me.
| Put your hand on my heart, Claude, and
| feel it flutter like the wings of a dying
j bird. Thus it flutters day and night. I
hear it; I feel it; I know that lam dying,
i It was thus she died—my own sweet sis
! ter! Oil, Claude, I love you too well:
j there is not room in this poor, weak heart,
| for such boundless love. It is breaking—
j dying!”
Her arms relaxed; her head fell heavy
!on his breast; she had fainted. The al
j most frantic Claude bore her into the house,
i The father and mother hung over her with
1 an anguish which only those parents know,
j who have seen sweet household blossoms
1 nv iitier uius instantaneously in tneir arms.
Another lovely daughter of the family, an
elder sister, had been smitten in a similar
manner. Thus insidious had been the ap
proaches of disease—thussudden had been
the prostration. It was strange they had
not perceived, and been alarmed by the
symptoms—the hectic flush, the lustrous
eye, the quick and panting breath. But
they thought the purple bloom of love was
in her cheek, and itsagitation in her heart.
They dreamed not that the destroyer was
near.
The anguish of Claude baffled descrip
tion. Mary, with the doom of death hang
ing over her young life, was loved as she
never had been in the hour of health and
joy. lie would willingly have purchased
her life with the sacrifice of his own. Her
loveliness, purity and truth, and, above all,
the intensity of her love, were worthy of
such a price. That one so young, so fair,
so angel-like and loving, should die in the
brilliancy of her bloom, and lie down be
neath the clods of the valley—it could not
be. God, the Almighty, would stretch out
His omnipotent arm, and save her: God,
the All-merciful, would not inflict so fear
ful a chastisement.
It was not till near the dawn of morning,
that Claude sunk into a feverish slumber.
Then the shrouded form of his adopted
father seemed to stand by his bed-side,_
and, in a voice deep and solemn as the dis
tant murmurs of the ocean, exclaimed, “Be
still, and know that 1 am God; thus saith
the Lord.” Claude trembled in every
limb. Again the voice from the grave
spoke: “Return,'my son—return to the
home of thy fathers. We, that love you
here, are leaving you, one by one. You
have a mission yet to fulfil, before we meet
again.” The vision fade*!, but it left a
deep and solemn impression on the mind
of Claude.
When he stood by the couch of Mary,
hope rekindled in his heart. Surely Death
never came in a guise like that. The rose
is glowing in her cheek with even brighter
radiance. Alas! the blood that dyes that
glowing rose is taken, drop by drop, from
the fountain of life. Mary had been strug
gling with her destiny, silently, darkly—
struggling in the strength of her love—
that human love which had interposed a
shadow between her and her Heavenly
Father's luce. But now the strife was
over. She met bin* with a smile of heav
enly serenity.
“ I am calm, now, my beloved,” she
cried : “ God has given me strength lo re
sign thee. Oh, Claude, 1 have been an
idolator, and my soul must be torn from
the idol I have adored. Hiave sinned,
and deserve the chastisement. Had l beer,
permitted to live for thee, the world would
have been too dear to me. I would have
asked no other heaven.”
Thus she continued to speak to him,
who knelt in speechless agony at her side,
till her fluttering breath coyl-i nofonger
utter any but broken senleitcfcs. ami then
her eyes, bent upon bis face, beamed with
unutterable love.
Mary died—the sweet, holy-minded
