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 42 THE VICTIM, & c.

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proudly; and the tale is easily told. Angilbert came to my chamber this evening to bid farewell to hope and me. It was I who detained him; I who kept him a prisoner with my woman's weakness and my childish tears! Must I say more? I have loved him from my childhood; I love him now; and I will love him ever! I too am of the blood of France! “And she raised her haughty head, like a swan in the waters, and looked with his own proud bright eyes in her father's face.

“Noble lady! “exclaimed the Greek, with a burst of enthusiasm, “there spoke the soul of― ““An empress? “said the king, sheathing his sword.

“ Ay, of a greater of a high minded and a true hearted woman! For me, my task is accomplished; my mission is ended. I have seen the gem too precious for an imperial crown; and although he who sent me may never hope to wear it, it will yet be to him, from my description, as the star of his thoughts, to light his steps to fame

and honour. Farewell, renowned king! Farewell, brave Angilbert! Farewell Bertha! “The stranger's voice sank suddenly as he pronounced the last farewell, and bending on one knee, he kissed the hand of the Princess and withdrew.

The

Charles, after musing some time, the expression of his face lost in the shade of the piazzas, strode abruptly to his daughter and Angilbert, and joined their hands; then, kissing them both on the forehead, he turned around as abruptly, and left the court without uttering a word. next morning it was discovered that the Greek stranger, attended by two cavaliers of the embassy, had quitted the palace before any body was stirring; having left for Angilbert a magnificent sword, with the following superscription, which astonished, it was said, every body but the king: -

TO THE MOST ILLUSTRIOUS THE PRINCE ANGILBERT,

FROM HIS FRIEND, CONSTANTINE OF GREECE.

THE VICTIM.

“Oh! not a villain on the guilty earth With him can vic in damned hypocrisy, Who plays deception with a woman's heart, And blights the bosom that was wholly his! "

-

WHEN late I saw thy wasted form, Thy pallid cheek and altered mien,

I sighed to think the restless storm Had blighted all thou once had'st been.

For thou wert lovely as the star

That heralds in the opening morn; Till passion's withering blight did mar The beauties of that matchless form.

In vain I seek to find one trace

Of all that thou so late hast been; I gaze with sorrow on thy face,

Till memory whispers “' tis a dream! ' '

Thou shedd'st a tear Ah! joyful sign Of penitence most dear to heaven; Oh! may it wash away thy crime, And angels tell thee thou'rt forgiven!

Not e'en in all the bloom of youth, When beauty sat upon thy brow; When innocence and spotless truth Adorned thee wert thou fair as now.

For when on woman's pallid cheek The tear of sorrow trembling strays,

In penitence so calm and meek,

As promise hope of better days;

Then man's contempt and woman's scorn, Shall cease to point th ' envenom'd dart; And virtue, like the dawn of morn, Shed peace and joy around the heart.

Oh! may each hour that peace improve, May every tear that's shed by thee, Plead for thy pardon from above, And from all error set thee free.

Then as thy soul shall take her flight To realma above with joyful strain, Angels shall hail the welcome sight, The pardoned sinner to proclaim.

TEMPUS FUGIT, ET NON FUGIT.

TEMPUS FUGIT.

THE School boy counts each weary chime, And chides the lagging wings of Time, Nor thinks that hour will ever come, He bends his willing footsteps home.

TEMPUS NON FUGIT.

It comes at last ah, happy day! He hails the long expected morn; Satchel and books are flung away, And rod and rule are laugh'd to scorn. His brow, unfurrowed yet by care,

By sorrow yet unscathed his cheek, His sports his young companions shareNo moody solitude they seek.

If winter rears his hoary head,

And trees abroad their branches spread Yclad in livery pale;

If cutting winds, frost laden, sweep, Around the blazing hearth they creep To hear the cheerful tale; Or gambol round the spacious hall, Or deftly ply the snowy ball.

If genial Summer warms the plain, They ramble forth, a blithesome train: With them he panting climbs the hill, With them he wanders by the rill: They gather from the streamlet's bank The chaste blue bell, the osier dank; They bask upon the sunny mead,

Or revel in the cooler shade;

O'er the brown heath their footsteps bound, They shout, and answering all around

The merry echo rings.

He deems such happiness before Was never felt, nor will be more. While day and night in pleasure pass, He heeds not Time, his scythe, nor glass; Yet when the withered eld returns, His heart in bitter anguish burns, And joy within him dies;

He weeps to think that Time has wings, So rapidly he flies.