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THE MODERN CYMON.-BRYAN WALLER PROCTOR.

"THE LUNATIC, THE LOVER, AND THE POET."

You bid me tell you why I rise

At midnight from my lonely bed;
And search among the coming clouds

And talk as though I saw the dead:
You speak of madness--of the moon-

I've heard such idle jeers before:
Give me your patience, for my tale,

And you shall deem me mad no more.

I was not born of noble race:

I know a peasant was my sire;.
But from my mother's breast I sucked

The milk that filled my blood with fire.
I ran as wild as doth the wolf,

About the fields, for many years;
But in my twentieth summer thought

Sprang upward in a rain of tears.

A sudden chance (if chance it were)

Flung me across a marriage train;
And there I saw a wretched girl

Forced onward, while she wept in vain.
I never saw so fair a thing:

My eyes were hot within my head :
I heard her scream-I saw her forced

(By a brother) towards a brute--and wed.

I sought the hills-I sought the woods;

My heart was bursting in my breast:
At last, tears rushed in rivers forth,

And for a time I felt at rest.
Those tears! they washed from off my eyee

The cloudy film that on them lay;
And I awoke, and saw the light,

And knew I did behold the day.

Till then, I had but been a beast,

Had let mere savage will prevail ;
Was ignorant-sullen-fierce; till love-

(You have some fable, like my tale,)
Till love flew forth and touched my heart;

Then all at once my spirit strong
Swelled upward, like a torrent damm'd

And forced its furious way along.

I read-I learned-I thought-I loved !

(For love was all the motive then ;) And one who was a friend, gave help,

And I went forth and mixed with men: I talked with him they called her lord;

I talked with her--who was a bride Through fraud and force and rapine; God!

She spoke :-I think I could have died!

I heard her words; I saw her eyes,

Where patient mingled with the sad : I felt her breath upon my cheek;

Its perfume did not drive me mad. I listened dumbly to her wrongs

Imprisoned, struck, despised, deceived; And, in my heart, I heard a voice

Cry out “ Revenge!”-and I believed!

Still time wore on; and efforts vain

Were made to bend the demon's will;
To wean him from the wrong to right :

But he was base and cruel still.
Such deeds he did! Romance hath bared

The truth of many a hellish crime;
But never yet did fiction dream

Of half that I could tell in rhyme.

Suffice it; all things have an end.

There is an end where mortal pain
Must stop, and can endure no more:

This limit did we now attain;
For hope-sweet patience--virtue fled!

I did what she could never dare:
I cut the canker from her side ;

And bore her off-to healthier air!

Far-far away! She never knew

That I had blood upon my breast : And yet (although she loved me much,)

I know not why she could not rest. I strove to cheer her love,--to stir

Her pride-but, ah, she had no pride! We loved each other;-yet she pined:

We loved each other;-yet she died!

She died, as fading roses die,

Although the warm and healing air Comes breathing forth, and wraps them round,

She died, despite my love and care.

I placed her gently in the lead ;

I soothed her hair, as it should be ; And drew a promise --what she vowed

Is secret, 'tween my soul and me! She died; and yet I have her still,

Carved, softly, in Carrara stone;
And in my chamber she abides,

Sitting in silence,-all alone;
Alone, save when the midnight moon

Her calm and spotless bosom seeks;
Then, she unclasps her marble hands,

And moves her marble lips-and speaks! And this is why I restless seem;

And this is why I always rise
At midnight still throughout the year,

And look for comfort in the skies,
For then the angel of my heart

Awakens from her sleep of stone; And we exchange sweet hopes and thoughts,

In words unto the earth unknown.

Now,-tell me, am I mad ?-Who's he

That stares, and gibbers at me there? I know him : there's his crooked claw;

His glittering eye; his snaky hair; Begone!-he's gone! Excuse me, sir;

These fellows often pinch my brain; (I know full well who spurs them on ;)

But-as you see--they tease in vain.

LITTLE GRETCHEN.

Through a window, old and broken,
Came the moonlight like a token,-
Like a token pure and holy,
From the happy world above ;--
Just within the shadow lying,
There a little child lay dying,
All alone lay moaning, crying,
With no one to help or love.

True, the streets were full of people,
And the shadow of a steeple,
Of a steeple, grand and stately,
Almost fell upon the floor.

Yet within was want and sorrow,
No glad thoughts for hope's to-morrow,
Only fearing lest a footfall,
Should come through the open door;

Lest a footstep, drunken, reeling,
Should come through the darkness stealing,
And with brutal hand uplifted,
Drive her out into the town;
Where all day with voice that trembled,
She had sung, where crowds assembled,
Asking only for a penny,
As she wandered up and down.

But when night came, weak and weary,
To the attic, dark and dreary,
To a cruel master's chiding,
Came the little faltering feet;
And the tired child lay sobbing,
Mingled with her heart's wild throbbing,
As she listened to the coming,
For his coming from the street;

Till the moonlight growing brighter,
Made the dark room clearer, lighter,
And a gentle voice seemed calling,
Till she followed where it led.

Through the window, old and broken,
Came the moonlight, like a token,
Like a peaceful benediction,
On the pale face of the dead.

THE LITTLE EVANGELIST.-HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

It was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched on a bamboo lounge in the verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. Marie lay reclining on a sofa, opposite the window opening on the verandah, closely secluded, under an awning of transparent gauze, from the outrages of mosquitoes, and languidly holding in her hand an elegantly bound prayerbook. She was holding it because it was Sunday, and she

imagined she had been reading it,--though, in fact, she had been only taking a succession of short naps, with it open in her hand.

Miss Ophelia, who, after some rummaging, had hunted up a small Methodist meeting within riding distance, had gone out, with Tom as driver, to attend it; and Eva had accompanied them.

"I say, Augustine," said Marie after dozing a while, “I must send to the city after my old Doctor Posey; I'm sure I've got the complaint of the heart."

“Well; why need you send for him? This doctor that attends Eva seems skillful.”

“I would not trust him in a critical case," said Marie; "and I think I may say mine is becoming so! I've been thinking of it, these two or three nights past: I have such distressing pains, and such strange feelings”

“Oh, Marie, you are blue; I don't believe it's heart complaint.

“I dare say you don't,” said Marie; “I was prepared to expect that. You can be alarmed enough if Eva coughs, or has the least thing the matter with her; but you never think of me."

"If it's particularly agreeable to you to have heart disease, why, I'll try and maintain you have it," said St. Clare; “I didn't know it was.”

“Well, I only hope you won't be sorry for this, when it's too late,” said Marie; “but, believe it or not, my distress about Eva, and the exertions I have made with that dear child, have developed what I have long suspected.”

What the exertions were which Marie referred to, it would have been difficult to state. St. Clare quietly made this commentary to himself, and went on smoking, like a hard-hearted wretch of a man that he was, till a carriage drove up before the verandah, and Eva and Miss Ophelia alighted.

Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber, to put away her bonnet and shawl, as was always her manner, before she spoke a word on any subject; while Eva came, at St. Claro's call, and was sitting on his knee, and giving him an account of the services they had heard.

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