Yes, she is there, unseen, alone,
Gazing on the cold gray stone,

With steadfast glance, all motionless,
A living image of distress;

While slow and calm, the moon-beam falls,
And gilds the frowning castle's walls.

The whisper-that is half represt, .Can make the worst forebodings guess'd. The silent sneer of bitter hate

The heart that seems compassionate—

E'en that can still within conceal

The thoughts that fiends would scarce reveal That proud, unmov'd by pity's call,

Would triumph in a brother's fall.

'Tis her's to hear, the hapless maid,

To Raymond's charge what sins are laid :
The creature of a despot's sway,
'Tis her's to hear-and to obey.

Suffice it, that she wedded one,

That never lov'd like him, who yet,

In desperation, has begun

The vain endeavour-to forget.

But he is gone to his far home,

O'er the blue waters of the sea,
Where she who lov'd him may not come,
Where Peace, and Ada, may not be.

A wand'rer on the face of earth,

A wand'rer on the swelling sea, Despising fear, and hating mirth,

With soul as air or ocean free, He rush'd to glory, or despair,

He look'd not, knew not, reck'd not where;

Upon his dark and sullen brow,

No smile of pleasure lingers now;

He lives on earth a guilty thing,

E'en in his own imagining.

He long'd for nothing, save the rest

Which dwells not in th' unhallow'd breast.

Poor Ada! in thine earlier hour,
When like the dew upon the flow'r,
Thy tears but soften'd beauty's pow'r.
Then thou wert happy-art thou now,
With broken heart and broken vow?
But, trust that in a brighter scene,
Thou wilt be blest as thou hast been;
Blest in the realms of light above,
Of Peace-of Innocence-of Love!

FAMILY PORTRAITS.

Animam pictura pascit inani.-VIRGIL.

There is nothing which gives me greater pleasure at certain times, than a stroll through a gallery of family portraits. I love to trace the gradual refinement of manners, from the successive changes in the costume of the portraits in their descent; from the armed knight, to trace the stream of civilization as it flows downward, through the judge, the great man of the family, the courtier, and the improving country gentleman, down to the modern general. But these considerations, though interesting in themselves, do not constitute the chief attractions of the gallery. The successive generations of beauties, whose figures adorn the venerable walls, are to me a more pleasing speculation; though a certain feeling of disappointment is always awakened, as, in turning from the contemplation of any beautiful features, you are called upon by a sudden inward warning, to recollect that those eyes are now closed for ever, and that those lineaments have long mouldered in the grave, forgotten in the halls which were once brightened with

their beauty. These reflections gradually create in you a kind of indefinable and unacknowledged interest in the fate of the fair original. You conceive yourself able to understand, nay more, to enter into, all her feelings as, in all the pride of youthful beauty, she gazed upon the newly-finished portrait-feelings, alas, how different from those with which you now contemplate the features, which, though yielding slightly to the hand of time, are still smiling on in all the mockery of youth and loveliness, when the bones of the fair original have been laid for centuries in the unbroken slumber of the grave. It is under the influence of this melancholy train of thought that I love to watch until I almost fancy the expression of those eyes, as the young lady, with a slight tinge of natural vanity, not only pardonable, but even pleasing, from its exquisite gracefulness and good humour, prepared for conquest at her first tournament. I can see now, as plainly as if she stood before me, the slight flutter of her spirits, accompanied with a halfbashful peep into the large Venetian mirror, as she ventured to encounter the ordeal of so many critical eyes; and the recovering smile of conscious beauty, as she took her place in the galleries, which were crowded with all that was noble and beautiful in the land, who assembled to overlook the mimic strife. I can see as plainly as if I were the Genius, who, according to the Roman superstition, was associated to the existence of man, her mind gradually acquiring the fashionable indifference to the overthrow or wounds of the preux chevaliers, who broke their lances in behalf of her charms, and mingling in all the pleasures of early life with the zeal of youth and beauty. So far the vision is pleasing. But it is too

regular and connected to continue, so the dark side of the picture remains to be examined. I can still trace her course in life; but that fair and open brow is more and more frequently overclouded, and those bright eyes at length begin to overflow with tears. The picture is painful, but I still must proceed, till I can fancy those eyes closed in death, and her very name slowly, but surely, vanishing from the hall of her fathers. It is but too natural to follow up the same train of thought, and to draw a fanciful parallel between the lady of the portrait, and one of the many fair forms who are now dancing into life, "Heart on their lips, and soul within their eyes," with the same feelings, the same disposition, the same ignorance of evil, and natural eagerness after all that bears the appearance of pleasure; you have but to substitute a ball for a tournament, and the graceful lightness of modern dress, for the cumbrous magnificence of the thirteenth century, and the parallel is complete. I see the one standing before me, in the living beauty of nature, and the other represented with all the advantages of art. There is the same smile playing upon the cold features of the portrait, and glancing over the animated countenance of its living representative. They appear to be of the same age, but the contrasted effect of the same expression, when proceeding from two such different sources, is frightful; and the many years which have passed over the head of the picture, have bestowed an expression upon the faded features, which did not originally belong to them, and blends a look of selfish and malignant exultation, with the smile which plays over the wasted lineaments, as if she rejoiced in knowing that another spirit, cast in the same mould as her's, was

soon to experience the same disappointment in her imaginations of unsullied felicity, and like her, was, at no very distant period, to pass away and be forgotten. F. JERMYN.

THE DYING CRUSADER'S SONG.

This is no time for selfish fears,

No time to think on man;

Away-away-the Island spears
Are in the battle's van;
Although on her all swords are set,
Our Island banner lords it yet.

Oh! who would change, for all that life,
That love itself e'er gave,

The rapture of the holy strife,

The martyr's holy grave?

When kings to twine as proud a wreath,
Would rush into the arms of death.

Yet there are ties which bind to earth,
Ties which will claim a tear;

For though I left my father's hearth
To die in glory here,

I could not tear the links apart,
Which bound my country to my heart.

I could have wish'd a brother near,
To watch the soul's decline,
To tell thee, love, my latest tear,.

My latest sigh, was thine;
Oh! is there none to bear from me
A token of my truth to thee?

Must I then close this glazing eye,

My last sad thoughts unknown?
E'en in this cause, 'tis hard to die
Unaided and alone,

No eye to see, no ear to heed

The wishes of the brave who bleed.