mer seat, and she really observed the change in the appearance of the painting. The holy mother was entirely without colour, and, contrasted with the child, appeared like a shadow ;-the threatening expression in the face, Gertrude now acknowledged to have sprung from her own excited imagination.

"We must next inquire into the cause of the scream," said the Baroness, and summoned the domestics.

"It was nothing of consequence," said the nurse, "the night light went out, and little Emilius shrieked because he was afraid of being in the dark, but he is once more quietly asleep."

The usual new year's wishes, which were now introduced, enlivened the spirits of the party, and banished the remembrance of this unpleasant occurrence from their minds. They sung, laughed, and told stories for some time longer; and, when on the point of separating, the Baron invited the whole company to pass the next New Year's Eve together with him at his Castle of Hartenstein in the country. They all promised to attend, and gaily filled their goblets to the next happy meeting. "Keep your promise,”—exclaimed Gertrude, at parting—" none of us must be absent next New Year's Eve-remember all, that the first promise of the year will not admit of an excuse-it must absolutely be kept."

L. D.

TO A LADY,

With a leaf gathered from the Mulberry-tree planted by Milton, in the Gardens of Christ's College, Cambridge.

BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ.

THIS from the tree, which Milton's gracious hand Planted in morning of his years, receive,

The holiest relique Granta has to give;

No British Queen, no Princess of the land

Could, for her temples, wish a crown more grand Than these green leaves might shape they have

look

As though they had o'erhung Castalia's brook,
And by the airs of Thessaly been fanned.
We might expect, were antique fables true,
To see Apollo from the sky descend,
Tearing the laurel from his brows divine
For this terrestrial plant; ah, then adieu
To songs Pierian!-He must lose, sweet friend,
Memory of Daphne's eyes in chaunting thine!

TO ROSA.

With a Poem.

BY WILLIAM READ, ESQ.

ROSA! 'twas one of those autumnal eves

When Heaven vouchsafes to Earth her loveliest

looks ;

The still wood's sun-touched wilderness of leaves, And cloud, and mountain-scalp, and castle took Their colour from the west-bright gold! the brook Rippled in gold;—the great oak, branching o'er, Was golden barked;-'twas gold the cygnet shook From her white wing;-and Strangford's blue lake

wore

A belt of quivering gold from shore to placid shore.

Yet-yet the broad sun loitered on the gaze
Dilated-slanting, ever as he went,

Intenser glory from his throne of rays,

Till, like some warrior-king, he won his tent,—
A purple cloud that warped the Occident.

Earth faded now, though heaven still was bright With hues that blushed until the young moon bent Her pointed crescent on the brow of night, Which wore a dusky smile beneath that chrysolite.

Such was the scene, sweet girl! we gazed upon, While thou recountedst o'er that tale of woe Which oft, in other lands, a setting sun

Hath summoned like a talisman—although

Gone hope, and griefs that bade the heart o'erflow,
Be since forgot, and tears that fell in vain ;-
And with it rose thine image like the bow
That bathes its colours in the summer-rain,

Thou Iris of my heart, whose smiles wake hope again!
At length, one bright eve in a foreign bower,
I snatched my lute that on a laurel tree
Had idly hung-for, O! I knew the power
Of slighted song was hovering over me,
And felt its pulse in every artery!

I snatched my lute, and to its preluding
Unrolled the pictured scroll of Memory;

And found, 'mid many a far and favourite thing, That unforgotten tale of love and sorrowing.

A spell was on me!-No! I could not choose
But weave that simple story into song!

And if its wild and plaintive beauty lose

Much of the grace it borrowed from thy tongue,And if sometimes a careless hand be flung

Where Passion listened for her holiest tone-
Star of my path! forgive, forgive the wrong!
Whatever is of beauty is thine own:

Thy fair hand culled the flowers-I twined the wreath alone.

TO MARY.

MARY-my friend, when I forswore the lyre,
In sooth I dreamt, not of a soul like thine,
Or from the altars of Apollo's shrine

I should have yet reserved the enkindling fire
Of poesy for thee-but now the wire

Of my wild harp is severed-I resign

The chaplet which I once for thee could twine,
And all the warmer feelings of desire.

But though such morn be passed of visions bright,
And my day may be clouded with deep thought,
Those clouds may yet be parted, and the light
Of sober-tinted evening may be brought

O'er hopes of youth-when I did idly deem
Love was a powerful spell, and Friendship but