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, 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 Intenser glory from his throne of rays, Till, like some warrior-king, he won his tent,— 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, Thou Iris of my heart, whose smiles wake hope again! I snatched my lute, and to its preluding 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 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- Thy fair hand culled the flowers-I twined the wreath alone. TO MARY. MARY-my friend, when I forswore the lyre, I should have yet reserved the enkindling fire Of my wild harp is severed-I resign The chaplet which I once for thee could twine, But though such morn be passed of visions bright, O'er hopes of youth-when I did idly deem |