THE ASTROLOGER.

BY THE HON. LORD PORCHESTER.

'Twas the still midnight hour!—from his cavern of

dread,

The Astrologer watched o'er the vaults of the dead!
-That cavern so peopled with horrors, that time
So dear to the children of wonder and crime!
Before the dark stranger, unbending, he stood,
And his gaze chilled the youthful adventurer's
blood!

Deep sunk were his eyes, yet shone piercing and bright,

With a lurid, and wild, and unnatural light!

His black, shaggy locks floated down to the floor!His years, they were numbered a hundred or more! His garment was traced, both without and within, With strange figures of anguish, contortion, and

sin!

-It sure was a gift from the rulers who dwell In perdition, and worked by the demons in hell !— A branch of the deadly yew-tree in his hand He held, as a badge of unearthly command;

And slowly he lifted it thrice to the sky,

And enchanted the planets, revolving on high! Then, that mystical sign o'er the pavement he drew, That were impious to name, and was dreadful to view!

"Speak! why hast thou sought the astrologer's cave ?"

And his hollow voice rang like a call from the grave ! "I know, dreadful spirit of darkness! to thee

The future is clear-as the past is to me ;

Am I doomed the stern cares of ambition to prove?— Shall I drink-as I drank-from the fountain of love ?"

"Can the fountain of love be renewed ?-Where is

she

Who roamed, at thy side, by the bright southern

sea,

Whose eye was as sparkling-whose spirit as freeWhose step was most blithe 'mid the light-hearted throng,

And who charmed the mute group with her innocent song P

And where is that loved one,-who, once, to thy breast,

With the transport of wildest affection, was prest? How many long months on her lone couch she lay, In tears and in solitude wasting the day!

How oft did she stand on the desolate shore,

And await thy return!-she shall wait thee no

more!

Never more! never more!-she reclines by the

wave,

Calm and reckless, she sleeps in her cold narrow grave!

Fallen fallen!-as the leaf, that falls blighted and

sear,

When the gale shakes the grove, at the close of the year!

To love and be loved, but to cherish in vain,
And in vain to be cherished, is writ in thy brain!”

"I sought not thy precincts, Enchanter! to know That my youth has been sullied with passion and woe!

Call forth the slow-coming events, from the night Where, pregnant, they slumber,-and drag them to light!

Tear away yon dark veil,—and, inflexibly true,
Be my shame or my glory displayed to my view!"

"More yet wouldst thou learn?-haughty stranger, forbear!

Nor rend from my bosom a tale of despair!

-When the meed of thy daring ambition seems nigh, And the wreath that has lured thee most bright to

thine eye,

And the voice of the tempter most sweet to thine

ear,

Then, the bolt that shall quell thee, for ever, is

near !

Then the fire and the vigour of youth shall depart, The cold langour of death shall creep over thy heart, And the son of a long and illustrious line

Shall be borne to the vault where his fathers re

cline;

While the vassal-and child of the vassal-shall go To gaze on their lord, like a holiday show!"

"Be my doom then fulfilled!-come it early or late,

I yield not to mortal,-I bend not to fate!

-And ye who, afar, in your glory recline,

Shine forth !-ye bright rulers of destiny, shine! Who have shadowed my spring-tide with sorrow, and still,

Shall darken my manhood,-work out your dread

will!

Pour your sinister beams on my closing career!
The doom ye decree-though untimely and near—
I quail not to learn-and shall meet without fear!"

REICHTER AND HIS STAGHOUNDS.

A TALE.

"There was, an' please your honour, a certain king of Bohemia-Leave out the date, entirely, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby."

ERNEST, or Albert,-I forget which, a king of Bohemia, was a prodigious lover of hunting,-a very Nimrod, in his way. From Prague, the seat of his Court, he used to make great excursions into all parts of the kingdom; diving into those thick, dark woods that lie scattered over the face of the country, like the grim and exaggerated cobwebs patching the ceiling of a disused apartment, in an antiquated mansion.

One day, when he had returned from the chace, and had sat down to dinner with his nobles, in even a better eating cue than usual,—and he had a royal appetite in ordinary,-and had commenced the attack upon a boar which he had killed with his own hand, and which had been, that day, roasted,-whole, of course, -his chief huntsman, suddenly, entered the dining hall.