the moment had subsided, Gomez was more formally introduced; the ladies welcomed, with artless sincerity, their brother's friend; and such was their unaffected manners and gaiety of heart, that he quickly found himself almost in love with them both. Margaret he thought justified the praise Henry had been so constantly bestowing upon her, but to his mind Maria was the more perfect beauty.

The first three weeks of Gomez Sullivan's visit were occupied in those amuseinents which are most grateful to young people; he was invited successively to the houses of the principal merchants; he attended the civic shows and festivals; and he ventured into the country. On all occasions he was attended by Henry and the young ladies, and he found himself every day more indisposed for encountering the business of the counting-house. The gentle influence of woman's presence had operated on his heart, and without knowing why, or interrogating his own breast on the subject, he was-deeply in love. He felt all that indistinct and confused happiness of being near the object most dear to him, but his emotions were too fierce and abrupt to allow his breast that calm repose, which a man, satisfied with himself and others, is disposed to feel. There is in love no tranquillity; whilst a single doubt can gain admission, the timid lover-and who loves sincerely that is not timid ?-dares not seek the truth-he lives in all the uncertainty of hope, rather than provoke his fate by a single interrogatory to the object of his love. The more his affections and imagination-for fancy has much to do in the business-exalt his mistress, the more humbly he thinks of himself, the comparison which forces itself upon him is disadvantageous to his self-love, and persuaded of his unworthiness, he lives in all the torments which alternate hope and fear can inflict, and would die with the unspoken word upon his lips, unless some kind friend, or some unlooked-for accident, revealed his meaning.

Such at least was the feeling of Gomez Sullivan; he was miserable when absent from the society of the fair inmates of the mayor's house, but he had no sooner found himself in their company than he was unaccountably silent, unless when the subject of conversation was foreign to the business of his heart. When rallied he blushed; and when alone with Margaret, he could discourse with his wonted fluency.

This Henry Lynch had long observed; he watched the movements of his friend with a tremulous anxiety; and at length persuaded himself that the young Spaniard wanted to sup plant him in the affections of his mistress. With the impatience of incipient jealousy he taxed Margaret with her inconstancy, and her reply only served to increase the flame that consumed him. He, in his turn, became thoughtful and silent he chose to be much alone, and avoided as much as possible the company of Gomez:--Maria and her playful friend laughed at both.

(To be continued.)

METRICAL SKETCHES.

BY M. L. B.

THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.

"Away! away! nor with ruthless hand
Seek to withdraw the bolt and the band
From sentryship they've faithfully kept
O'er that lonely room, which for years hath slept,
Not totally, though all but, forgot
Away,-away, and awake it not!

Away,-away!-nor with reckless tread
Dream to pass o'er the haunts of the dead;
That room, whose flooring hath ne'er been press'd
By mortal foot, nor whose dank air bless'd
By breathings vital, and warm, through Time,
Which only hath note, in tale or rhyme.

Away! away! from that fatal door,
Intruder hasten;-nor ask the lore
Of chamber clos'd by a massy band
Of iron-bound planks,-till thy daring hand
Quit latch and lock, of the ghostly lair
Whose tale may never be whisper'd there!
Away,-away! for no human speech,

The consciousness of the curs'd should reach ;
Who only may hear the rain's dead fall,
The tap'stry's flap on the dewy wall;

The casement's challenge when the winds wail by,
And the ominous night-bird's eerie cry!

Away,-away! 'twere unmeet to see
That room of myst'ry, horror, and dree;
Where once with innocent blood were wet
The dark oak boards-and they're gory yet;
For never may mortal toil efface

The Heaven-appealing murder trace!

Away,-away! 'twere a very sin

That chamber's latch to lift, and within
Pore o'er its poisoned mysteries

With mocking bearts, and with sceptic eyes:
A bold, wild scorner, therein once slept-
But he rose ere dawn, and prayed, and wept!

Away,-away! from that spect'ral cell
Of visions and voices horrible;

From that desolate vault of sin-that tomb
For guilty souls. till the Day of Doom;
From that phantom haunt-that charnel, flee-
Unmeet, unhallowed-the scene for thee!

Away,-away! there, violet gleams

Of sulph'rous flame, with ruddier gleams
Of wild-fire blent, by night and by day,
Through shutter'd darkness, vividly play,
Casting strange, flick'ring light, 'tis said,
And a torturing halo round the dead!

Away,-away! pale, shadowy bands
Forbade to rest in the Grave's far lands,
Chain'd to that spot, (where their fleshly crime
By stealth was wrought)to the end of Time,
Like mists of the mountains, come and go,
Which are not unreal, though almost so!

Away, away!-if thou wouldst not hear
Unearthly sounds of trouble and fear;
Yet, lov'st thou tales of marvel and dree,
Of terror and sin ?-then ask of me
The Legend of that old, haunted lair ;
But-haste from its threshold-I speak not there.

HER YOUNG HEART'S LOVE WAS MINE.

BY CHARLES MAY.

In childhood's hour, while oft we roved,
Hand locked in hand, alone,
O'er scenes expanding fancy loved,
Our joys, our griefs, were one.
Then, when life's spring to beauty's flower
Gave charms most like divine,
Even in that early, happy hour,

Her young heart's love was mine!

The flower of beauty bloomed awhile
For youth not yet was gone;
And many a flatterer wo'd her smile,
Yet was it mine alone!

Yes, though its wiles light pleasure strove
Around her path to twine,

In vain the specious snare she wove;
Her young heart's love was mine!

Her cheek, before so softly fair,
A deeper hue assumed;

Yet though the rose seemed living there
Too deeply warm it bloomed.
What-need I more-the drooping flower
Death-struck, was seen to pine;

Yet, e'en in life's last fitful hour,
Her young heart's love was mine!

THE DEAD OF A DISTANT LAND.

BY G. R. CARTER.

Ye far amid the southern flowers lie sleeping,
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear.

Hemans.

My dead-my dead, ye are not here! and from the deep blue

skies

The stars look not upon your bed with soft and silver eyes : The minstrelsies of hill and dell have wakened with the

springs,

And children chase the butterflies that roam on crimson wings.

Ye are not here! but memory yet with holy spell imparts The glory of departed years unto our widowed hearts; Amid the silence of our home, the twilight of our trees, Her visions chain our being down with beauteous images.

We see ye in the summer glow of loveliness and bliss: Your hair as radiant as the clouds when sunset lakes they kiss,

Your eyes with all the burning depth that in a saint's might be, Your lips instinct with magic song or rife with poetry.

Your sleep is in a distant land--it consecrates our dreams, With birds whose even' song unites in music with the streams, With flowers that breathe their rich perfume around the skylark's bed;

Your sleep is far away from us--ye still and silent dead.

But our eyes have not wept for ye-oh, more than tears can give,

Is that divine immortal hope by which your spirits live! The vernal plains and summer woods, regret them not, ye dead;

For light more beautiful than theirs within your heart is shed.

The last fond looks bequeathed serene with your departing breath,

The hue which on your cheeks foretold the violet-touch of death,

The mild deep languish of your eyes to us were calmly given;

But who shall mourn for sinless souls emparadised in Heaven!

Ye dead-your graves are far from us-away-beyond the

seas;

Where skies are blue as those that glimpse between our joy. ful trees;

And we shall roam with you no more until we meet above; Oh, glorious will that morning be of holiness and love!

Deal.