verted, as she avowed, into a living likeness of the demon-visage she had once beheld (so singularly was the fated resemblance fulfilled), and then exclaiming, "You won me by the devil's aid, but you shall not keep me long," left her to meet no more in this world. Her husband's secret was not unknown to the lady, though the means by which she became possessed of it were wholly unwarrantable. Her curiosity had been strongly excited by her husband's aversion to his countrymen, and it was so stimulated by the arrival of a Scottish gentleman in the neighbourhood some time before, who professed himself formerly acquainted with Sir Richard, and spoke mysteriously of the causes that drove him from his country-that she contrived to procure an interview with him under a feigned name, and obtained from him the knowledge of circumstances which embittered her after-life to its latest hour. His story was this:

Sir Richard Maxwell was at deadly feud with a younger brother; a family feast was proposed to reconcile them, and as the use of knives and forks was then unknown in the Highlands, the company met armed with their dirks for the purpose of carving. They drank deeply; the feast, instead of harmonizing, began to inflame their spirits; the topics of old strife were renewed; hands, that at first touched their weapons in defiance, drew them at last in fury,

and, in the fray, Sir Richard mortally wounded his brother. His life was with difficulty saved from the vengeance of the clan, and he was hurried towards the sea coast, near which the house stood, and concealed there till a vessel could be procured to convey him to Ireland. He embarked on the night of the 30th of October, and while he was traversing the deck in unutterable agony of spirit, his hand accidentally touched the dirk which he had unconsciously worn ever since the fatal night. He drew it, and, praying "that the guilt of his brother's blood might be as far from his soul, as he could fling that weapon from his body,"-sent it with all his strength into the air. This instrument he found secreted in the lady's cabinet, and whether he really believed her to have become possessed of it by supernatural means, or whether he feared his wife was a secret witness of his crime, has not been ascertained, but the result was what I have stated.

The separation took place on the discovery :-for the rest,

I know not how the truth may be,
I tell the Tale as 'twas told to me,

GREECE.

L'aria, e l'acqua, e la terra, è d'amor piena;
Ma, per me lasso!.....

Sono un deserto.

Petrarca.

MORN dances on the waters, day

Springs like a giant on its way;
The God of Poesy and light
Shoots up to heaven's cerulean height,
As eager still to view the clime

Where once he dwelt in pomp sublime,
And breathed his oracles, whose sound
Electrified the nations 'round;
Here rose Dodona's sacred wood;
Here Delphi's central temple stood;
And here in his light hours of mirth,
The God forsook his sacred cell
Beneath a lowlier roof to dwell,

And woo the fair ones of the earth.
Here Pindus stood-here still he stands-

The guardian of his native lands;
He lifts to heaven his hoary peaks,
And of past glories proudly speaks.

Each lovely spot of this sweet coast
Some holy presence once could boast,—
Some God of tutelary power

Came down in his consenting hour,—
Some Goddess, weary of the blaze
Of skies, made this her dwelling-place :
The cypress-bower, the myrtle-cave,
The leafy wood, the crystal wave,
They haunted,-and on every hand
Their incensed temples filled the land.
Now we may see where'er we tread,

That these have sunk and those have fled.
Of their sublime, resplendent fanes
A few gray columns strew the plains;
Vainly the learned brain would pore
Their worn, time-eaten legends o'er,
And cull their fame to fill its own
Poor little record of renown.
Of them a brilliant name is left
By sweeping ages unbereft-
Such as the mind of man can give
To make the unimmortals live ;
Such as high inspiration brings
When the rapt soul divinely sings;
In praises such as flourish long
From sons of everlasting song,
Who bent to them the adoring knee,

And so sublimely harped, that we,

Who live in these severer times,

On distant coasts in harsher climes,
Beguiled, almost, receive as true

Their brilliant tales and worship too.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

BY J. H. WIFFEN, ESQ.

ALTHOUGH, dear maid, so soon we part,
Sometimes recall the hour we met;

This hectic of a hoping heart

Forget not-ah, forget not yet!

When others praise thine angel mien

Loud in the flattering canzonet,

Who breathes thy name in songs unseen

Remember yet, remember yet!

The rose, stolen from thine own blest bower

To sweeten parting's vain regret,

The tear which thus proclaims thy power,

Forget not, oh, forget not yet!

When others of their fondness boast,

And claim presumed affection's debt,

Whose heart says least whilst feeling most Remember yet, remember yet!

B.