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Mock me not, spirit. I have deeply erred,
And though the early and all-happy dream
Of pure and youthful love may not be mine,
Yet if thy power can grant me but the means
Still to defy a world that I have wronged,
And which pursues me with its hated scorn,
Still I will call on thee; and whatsoever
Thou may'st exact of mortal for this boon
Willingly offer.

SPIRIT.

Raise thy hopes, and cease thy woe,
What thou ask'st I can bestow,
I hold no power to cheer the heart,
Remorse has struck with venomed dart.
I cannot bring back to thy breast,
The joyous hopes it once possessed,
Nor soothe thy sorrow and distress,
And bless thee with forgetfulness.
I cannot change the dreary night
Of suffering to the day-beam's light,
But meteor ray I may impart

To chase the darkness of thy heart;
Power and wealth be henceforth thine-

Thy immortality is mine.

SCENE. A magnificent saloon. Time, evening. Francesco alone.

The moon is up, shedding its silvery light
Upon the waters, whose soft rippling wave
Reflects its glittering likeness; and that stream
Is like the heart of man, as now it glistens
With borrowed lustre from a million stars,
While all beneath is blackness-such is mine,
And such must it exist, without one ray,
However distant, that may bless its course.
These gloomy thoughts press heavy on my brain;
Like the dim shadows round a sick man's couch

They haunt my soul, and indistinctly tell
Of suffering yet to be. I have obtained
Years which, if measured by the hours of pain
They number in their course, might seem eternal;
But yet, compared with that eternity

Which I have bartered, would but seem as one
Of those small stars that now I gaze upon
Doth in the sky it brightens: 'tis too late
To look back on the past; and yet the future
Must be embittered by its memory.

And thus I live, while pomp and state surround,
Loathing the very being I must bear ;
Envied by those who wait my every wish,
Yet envying even the dog that fawns on them;
For it can one day die, and sink to rest,
While I must live-live on in misery.
Worlds may decay, and all things on the earth
Cease to have being, while I still exist
In ceaseless torment, and am not more near
The end of such unvarying misery,

Than the first moment when my hopeless doom
Began to torture, but could not destroy.

Spirit of Evil! I have given to thee

My soul eternally, and in exchange

Thou gav'st me wealth, and power, and many days; But now I call on thee, and do but ask,

While they pass o'er me, that I may forget

The dreadful terms on which I purchased them.

Mysterious being! I feel thy hand

Press on my heartstrings, and thy withering touch Thrills through my every vein-speak-bring me peace.

SPIRIT.

The promise made thee hath been given,
Power on earth, for hopes of heaven.
Thou hast loved and hast deceived
Those who on thy tongue believed-
The rose that slept upon thy breast
Sleeps now in calmer, holier rest.
Her whose lot it was to love thee
Thou forsook for one above thee,

And in thy breast wild passion reigned,
For one thy falsehood had not gained;
But when at length thy humbled pride
Knelt to a God, thou once denied,
Wild passion's prayer that being spurned,
And blackness to thy heart returned.
Then thou sought'st, through many a day,
Unholy power and earthly sway:
Such now thou hast, and her thou sought
Now waits upon thy every thought;
Such the hopes thy heart believed,
Deceiving once-be thou deceived.

M. B. S.

STANZAS.

Too long a time mine eyes have been
By trembling tear-drops filled,
Too long the feelings of my heart
By sorrow have been chilled;
My heart-my heart is like yon lake,
Which sparkled yesterday

Full brightly, when the morning dawned
Beneath the solar ray;

But when its sun had ceased to shine,
A darker shade it wore,

And the freezing blasts of evening came,
And iced its waters o'er.

But then its sun arose again,

And shed his warmth once more, And its waters sported in his beams As they had done before;

So may my sun revive again,

Then why should I despair?

Why yield myself, as now I do,

To sorrow and to care?

I will be joyful, I will live

In hopes of days more bright,

And smile, though overwhelmed in gloom,
In sorrow's darkest night.

K.

A VISIT TO WATERLOO.

EVERY one visits Waterloo, and I shall never forget the day when it was my fortune to make a pilgrimage to its plains. It was a sunny morning, and stepping into a 'petit voiture avec deux chevaux,' we left fair Brussels-busy and stirring, as though it had never been the theatre of war and conquest. As we drove through the Place Royale and the Porte de Namur, I could not avoid contrasting my feelings with what those of the brave men must have been, who, thirteen years before, hurried over the same road and towards the same destination. We were going, on a party of pleasure, to tread upon soil, consecrated by British heroism, with all the enthusiasm and rapture which such a visit is supposed to enkindle; and they had passed along, unknowing what fate was marked for them, and feeling that the destiny of the world hung upon the issue of the fight. The road from Brussels to Waterloo, which is distant twelve miles, is exceedingly interesting. The immediate neighbourhood of the city combines that romantic character of scenery, with that wealthy and tasteful elegance, which distinguish the environs of this handsome capital. For the first mile and a half the way is bordered by a number of splendid villas, hanging above the road and breaking upon the view, in constant and beautifu variety: after which appears the magnificent forest of Soignée, which accompanies the traveller for eight successive miles. It is not possible to conceive a more imposing effect than the venerable trees which compose this extensive wood, shading off the intensity of the sun, and giving additional freshness to the air of the morning, are calculated to produce.

As we deployed from the forest, the church of Waterloo greeted our view, and the little village gradually opened upon us. As a village, it has nothing to recommend it: a few houses strung together, without order or much attraction of situation. As we had not breakfasted before our departure from Brussels, we

were glad to partake of the hospitality of the hostess of the Hotel d'Angleterre, a small country inn, which is placed opposite the house where the Marquis of Anglesea underwent the amputation of his leg; and nearly opposite the parish church, where twelve simple monumental slabs record the names and rank of the British officers who fell at Waterloo. Our hostess was bustling with animation and spirits, profuse in her civilities, and most distressing in her anxiety to furnish us with plates and charts of the field. She was, without exception, the drollest compound of character that I ever met in such a situation. Of low and rather stunted stature, her eye and whole countenance sparkled with life; and the rapidity with which she modulated her tones from gay to grave was exceedingly humorous. It was necessary to specify that we should dine with her, but no fish was to be had, no vegetables she should send to Brussels for every thing indeed she was afraid that it would be impossible to procure any thing for dinner; but still she hoped, that, when we returned, we should have something before us. While standing at the door of the inn we were accosted by an able, stout-looking man, wearing a blue smock frock, and speaking English indifferently well. He had been guide to the Duke of Wellington and the Brunswick officers on the day of the 18th; and as it was probable that he was acquainted with the localities, we engaged him as our cicerone, for the sum of five francs.

:

He mounted the dickey of our carriage, we drove through the village, and he commenced his detail. We were now on the ground which had trembled beneath the tread of Britain's chivalry, which had echoed to their shouts and their groans, and had been witness to the greatest and most important victory of modern times the conviction was enthusiasm itself! The field of battle is almost two English miles from the village, which confers upon it its name; and as we passed through the latter, we were shown the tavern where the Duke of Wellington had his head quarters,

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