signed her hand and name to a substantial and Godfearing dealer in small wares, in the neighbouring town of Crowdundle.

That night, the landlord and parish-clerk determined to watch in the chamber of the former, which commanded a prospect of the church-yard. The stranger had not, yet, made his appearance; the black steed, much to the host's annoyance, remained in his stable, unclaimed. They sat patiently: at last, they started, for both heard a noise, seemingly proceeding from the stable. They were, yet, undetermined whether to descend the stairs or not, when the hollow tramp of the horse was heard, under the window; and, looking forth, they beheld the stranger, leading his steed in the direction of the church-yard! It was a bright, beamy, moonlight night; and the figures of the horse and his leader seemed doubly dark and black, as they intercepted the beams. Arrived at the church-yard, the stranger abandoned his horse, and entered the place where the grave-stones were shining in the light.

The gazers were cold with terror.

"There, there!" said the landlord, "he's at the grave! listen, hear him calling the dead!" And they listened, and fancied they heard the summons that was to break the bonds of death.

"See, see!" said the clerk," the ground is moving, like the burrow of a mouldy warp! He's there !— he's there! Gripe Gibbons himself! Fire, man!fire the blunderbuss!"

N

Absurd as this suggestion was, the landlord instantly complied. The echo was followed by the deep, high, unnatural laughter of the stranger; but the recoil of the weapon prostrated both the host and his companion, with a violence that left them, for a moment, senseless. The thunder-beat of the strong black horse aroused them-they rushed to the casement:-far away, the horse sprung over hill and hollow, under a double burthen!

"Gripe Gibbons has paid his reckoning this night!" said the clerk, at length.

"I wish," said the landlord, after a pause, "the other had done so, too."-For, the horseman had forgotten to discharge his shot.

TO THE PICTURE OF A DEAD GIRL,

ON FIRST SEEING IT.

BY T. K. HERVEY.

THE same-and oh, how beautiful!--the same
As memory meets thee through the mist of years!—
Love's roses on thy cheek, and feeling's flame
Lighting an eye unchanged in all-but tears!
Upon thy severed lips the very smile

Remembered well, the sunlight of my youth;

But gone the shadow that would steal, the while,
To mar its brightness, and to mock its truth!-
Once more I see thee, as I saw thee last,
The lost restored,-the vision of the past!

How like to what thou wert-and art hot now!
Yet oh, how more resembling what thou art !
There dwells no cloud upon that pictured brow,
As sorrow sits no longer in thy heart;
Gone where its very wishes are at rest,

And all its throbbings hushed, and achings healed;
I gaze, till half I deem thee to my breast,
In thine immortal loveliness, revealed,

And see thee, as in some permitted dream,

There where thou art what here thou dost but seem!

I loved thee passing well;-thou wert a beam
Of pleasant beauty on this stormy sea,

With just so much of mirth as might redeem
Man from the musings of his misery;
Yet ever pensive,-like a thing from home!
Lovely and lonely as a single star!

But kind and true to me, as thou hadst come
From thine own element-so very far,

Only to be a cynosure to eyes

Now sickening at the sunshine of the skies!

It were a crime to weep!-'tis none to kneel,
As now I kneel, before this type of thee,
And worship her, who taught my soul to feel
Such worship is no vain idolatry :-
Thou wert my spirit's spirit—and thou art,
Though this be all of thee time hath not reft,
Save the old thoughts that hang about the heart,
Like withered leaves that many storms have left;
I turn from living looks-the cold, the dull,
To any trace of thee-the lost, the beautiful!

Broken, and bowed, and wasted with regret,
I gaze, and weep-why do I weep alone!
I would not-would not, if I could-forget,
But I am all remembrance-it hath grown
My very being !-Will she never speak?
The lips are parted, and the braided hair

Seems as it waved upon her brightening cheek,
And smile, and every thing-but breath-are there!
Oh, for the voice that I have stayed to hear,
-Only in dreams, so many a lonely year!

It will not be ;-away, bright cheat, away!
Cold, far too cold to love!-thy look grows strange;
I want the thousand thoughts that used to play,
Like lights and shadowings, in chequered change :
That smile!-I know thou art not like her, now,--
Within her land-where'er it be of light,
She smiles not while a cloud is on my brow :-
When will it pass away-this heavy night!
Oh! will the cool, clear morning never come,
And light me to her, in her spirit's home!