This made them wonder, for at the same time she did not appear offended. However, she paused for a while, and then touched the strings of her instrument, and, as it were, attuned her voice, but which, on her attempting to sing, seemed to fail her. The boy, who had before noticed her illness, now came forward, and, putting his hand on her's, as if to restrain her, said, "don't sing, Miss, you are unwell;" but she seemed not to understand him; evidently, she could not reply. The other children pressed anxiously around her, as if expecting her to begin. Suddenly, as if some happy thought came across her mind, her beautiful eyes seemed lighted up with brilliancy, and her countenance assumed an expression of soft regret. A half melancholy smile played round her lips, and, making, as it were, a bold effort, she began. Infanto-Erminia infrs l'ombrose piante Ne puié governo il fren la man tremante, 66 There was in her voice a tone of exquisite silverness, and she seemed to have as much command over it, as if it were a musical instrument. The boys, although no connoisseurs, looked at each other both surprised and delighted; one of them burst into tears. The girl left off playing, and gazed on him with an expression of pity and tenderness, and seemed pained that she could not enquire the cause. I have heard my cousin Montague sing those very lines," said the boy, as he drew his arm across his eye. "Montague!" said the stranger, very plainly, and turned paler and fainter. She took one of the boy's hands affectionately, and pointed to the spire of the church above some trees opposite to the place she was sitting. "Yes, yes," said the boy, still sobbing, "she must have known my cousin in France. She shall go with me to my aunt's; lean on my arm, Miss:" and brushing his tears away, he put forth his little arm, which the stranger without hesitation accepted, the boys following in mute astonishment. When they had reached a small cottage, that stood apart from the village, their little train left them, and the fair stranger and her guide entered. She was received kindly by an elderly lady; and, upon a motion made by the boy to a picture hanging over the fire-place, of a youth, she exclaimed, "La Signora Madre," and fell heavily at her feet. poor She was taken to bed, and attended with the utmost care by her lostess, who would not suffer her to talk, till she had had a sleep. She merely heard enough to find out that the stranger had known her son in Italy; and she was thrown into a painful state of guessing by the girl's eyes, which followed her about the room, till the lady fairly came up and closed them. "Obedient! Obedient!" said the patient: "obedient in every thing: only the Signora will not let me kiss her hand;" and taking it with her own trembling one, she laid her cheek upon it, and it stayed there till she dropped asleep for weariness. -Silken rest Tie all thy cares up! thought her kind watcher, who was doubly thrown upon her recollection of that beautiful passage in Beaumont and Fletcher, by the suspicion she had of the cause of the girl's visit. "And yet," thought she, turning her eyes with a thin tear in them towards the church spire, "he was an excellent boy, the boy of my heart." 66 66 When the stranger awoke, the secret was explained: and if the mind of her hostess was relieved, it was only the more touched with pity, and indeed, moved with respect and admiration. The dying girl (for she was evidently dying, and happy at the thought of it) was the niece of an humble tradesman in Venice, at whose house young Montague, who was a gentleman of small fortune, had lodged, and fallen sick in his travels. She was a lively, good-natured girl, whom he used to hear coquetting and playing with her guitar with her neighbours; and it was greatly on this account, that her considerate and hushing gravity struck him, whenever she entered his room. One day he heard no more coquetting, nor even the guitar. He asked the reason, when she came to give him some drink; and she said that she had heard him mention some noise that disturbed him. But you do not call your voice and your muisc a noise," said he, “do you, Rosalie ? I hope not, for I had expected it would give me double strength to get rid of this fever, and let me return to my native country." Rosalie turned pale, and let the patient into a secret; but what surprised and delighted him was, that she played her guitar nearly as often as before, and sung too, only less sprightly airs. You get better and better, Signor," said she, "every day; and your mother will see you and be happy. I hope you will tell her what a good doctor you had?" "The best in the world," cried he, and as he sat up in bed, he put his arm round her waist, and kissed her. Pardon me, Signora," said the poor girl to her hostess; "but I felt that arm round my waist for a week after :— aye, almost as much as if it had been there." "And Charles felt that you did," said his mother; "for he never told me the story.". "He begged my pardon," continued she, as I was hastening out of the room, and hoped I should not construe his warmth into impertinence: and to hear him talk so to me, who used to fear what he might think of myself,—it made me stand in the passage, and lean my head against the wall, and weep such bitter, and yet such sweet tears! But he did not hear them:-no, Madam, he did not know indeed how much I— how much I-" "Loved him, child," interrupted Mrs. Montague; "you have a right to say so; and I wish he had been alive to say as much to you himself." "Oh, good God!" said the dying girl, her tears flowing away, "this is too great happiness for me,-to hear his own mother talking so." And again she laid her weak head upon the lady's hand. The latter would have persuaded her to go to sleep again, but she said she could not for joy: " for I'll tell you, Madam," continued she; "I do not believe you will think it foolish, for something very grave at my heart tells me it is not so; but I have had a long thought," (and her voice and look grew somewhat more exalted as she spoke,) "which has supported me through much toil, and many disagreeable things to this country, and to this place; and I will tell you what it is, and how it came 66 66 into my mind. I received this letter from your son." Here she drew out a paper, which, though carefully wrapped up in several others, was much worn at the sides. It was dated from the village, and ran thus:"This comes from the Englishman whom Rosalie nursed so kindly at Venice. She will be sorry to hear that her kindness was in vain, for he is dying: and he sometimes fears, that her sorrow will be still greater than he could wish it to be. But marry one of your kind countrymen, my good girl; for all must love Rosalie who know her. If it shall be my lot ever to meet her in heaven, I will thank her as a blessed tongue only can." As soon as I read this letter, Madam, and what he had said about heaven, it flashed into my head that though I did not deserve him on earth, I might, perhaps, by trying and patience, deserve to be joined with him in heaven, where there is no distinction of persons. My uncle was pleased to see me become a religious pilgrim: but he knew as little of the contract as myself; and I found that I could earn my way to England better, and quite as religiously, by playing my guitar, which was also more independent; and I had often heard your son talk of independence and freedom, and commend me for doing what he was pleased to call so much kindness to others. So I played my guitar from Venice all the way to England, and all that I earned by it I gave away to the poor, keeping enough to procure me lodging. I lived on bread and water, and used to weep happy tears over it, because I looked up to heaven, and thought he might see me. I have sometimes, though not often, met with small insults; but if ever they threatened to grow greater, I begged the people to desist, in the kindest way I could, even smiling, and saying, I would please them if I had the heart; which might be wrong, but it seemed as if deep thoughts told me to say so; and they used to look astonished, and left off; which made me the more hope that St. Mark and the Holy Virgin did not think ill of my endeavours. So playing and giving alms in this manner, I arrived in the neighbourhood of your beloved village, where I fell sick for a while, and was very kindly treated in an out-house; though the people, I thought, seemed to look strange and afraid of this crucifix,-though your son never did,-though he taught me to think kindly of every body, and hope for the best, and leave every thing, except our own endeavours, to heaven. I fell sick, Madam, because I found for certain that the Signor Montague was dead, albeit I had no hope that he was alive." She stopped awhile for breath, for she was growing weaker and weaker, and her hostess would fain have had her keep silence; but she pressed her hand so fervidly, and prayed with such a patient panting of voice to be allowed to go on, as she was. She smiled beautifully, and resumed:-" So when. so when I got my strength a little again, I walked on and came to the beloved village; and I saw the beautiful white church spire in the trees; and then I knew where his body slept ; and I thought some kind person would help me to die with my face looking towards the church, as it now does-and death is upon me, even now: but lift me a little higher on the pillows, dear lady, that I may see the green ground of the hill." She was raised up as she wished, and after looking awhile with a placid feebleness at the hill, said in a very low voice-" Say one prayer for me, dear lady, and if it be not too proud of me, call me in it your daughter." The mother of her beloved summoned up a grave and earnest voice, as well as she might, and knelt, and said, "O heavenly Father of us all, who in the midst of thy manifold and merciful bounties bringest us into strong passes of anguish, which nevertheless thou enablest us to go through, look down, we beseech thee, upon this thy young and innocent servant, the daughter, that might have been, of my heart,and enable her spirit to pass through the struggling bonds of mortality, and be gathered into thy rest with those we love :- -do, dear and great God, of thy infinite mercy; for we are poor weak creatures, both young and old,"-here her voice melted away into a breathing_tearfulness; and after remaining on her knees a moment longer, she rose, and looked on the bed, and saw that the weary smiling one was no more. THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE. ALAS! thou poor exile !-now gone to the grave, Though thy life was not active in liberty's cause, Poor son of Iberia !-forlorn as thy land, Cold and low as the spirit that once warm'd her hand; Had thy name been enrolled in the list of the slain, Guadiana's sweet banks, and the pastoral vale, Each fond heart that cherish'd-each bosom that kept T. H. W. FICTION IN POETRY. To give a free vent to the sallies of the imagination, a certain degree of fiction will necessarily be blended with poetry; yet the poet must still be careful of giving the creations of his fancy the appearance of truth: for however beautiful they may be, if they are repugnant to nature, they will invariably fail in that point which is the end of all poetry-to delight and elevate the heart. "Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris." The essence of poetry, therefore, should not be exaggeration, though if a certain degree of fiction be incorporated with it, the effect will be more enchanting. Fiction is not absolutely necessary: for even the common-place affairs-the harsh realities of life would, were they touched by the pen of a master, afford the most ample scope for his talents. That the poet should not be confined to a strict regard to truth, is attended with a beneficial effect; for were the energies of the poet like those of the historian, to be chained down to a mere bundle of facts, he would feel a weight on his imagination he would be unable to resist. His fancy could not soar towards the heavens, from that sense of veracity, acting like a cord, which would not suffer him to soar from the earth he is doomed to inhabit. What would appear ridiculous and exaggerated in prose, might, with great propriety, be admitted in verse, The ideas of a poet arise from a higher source than that of the mere matter-of-fact historian or essayist: the energies of the latter proceed from the head only; the former from a copartnership of the head and heart. The prosaic composer puts too often a padlock on imagination ; or at least, makes use of a bridle, which, should his Pegasus be inclined to rise, immediately brings the adventurer back: while a true poet, free as the "chartered libertine," does not invoke his muse, but waits till his imagination is kindled. Truth then becomes a subordinate creature to fancy; his descriptions may be fictitious, and his images too highly coloured, but what he writes would be no exaggeration of his feelings. A poet's heart, and a poet's imagination, should be of more "penetrable stuff" than the rest of his fellow-creatures; did he once condescend to be common-place, the charm that throws so wild a grace over his thoughts would be lost, and his sentiments and feelings, instead of striking at once upon the corresponding chords of our bosoms, would only "Play round the head, and come not near the heart;" the very reverse of the effect, that ought to be produced by genuine poetry. But the poet who roves so freely through the witcheries of feeling, and the world of the heart, should still keep a steady command over his fancy, for if he once lets his reader see through his art, that he writes what he does not feel, the zest will be gone, and he descends to a mere rhymster. We know well, that there are some who describe those exquisite senfiments with such a vividness of perception, that we believe them to pos |