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eficial, but it would shed a light over all her colonies and dependencies which would breathe new life into nations now oppressed and trodden in the dust. Then would Ireland be what she ought to be,

"Great, glorious, and free,

Fairest flower of the earth,

And brightest gem of the sea."

Then would the whole world, incited by her example, cherish the spirit of liberty in its true dignity and power, and many nations guided by her experience, would hereafter rise up and call her blessed.

Such are some of the probable results of that mighty system of reform now projected in Great Britain. Its motto and its destiny are onward. Cherished in the hearts of the good and noble of all nations, its successful issue cannot be doubted, while its power will ever be exercised where there is occasion for its action.

S.

THE LAMENT.

ADIEU, my harp, thy plaintive strain is o'er!
I wake thy wild and trembling chords no more;
Thy youthful hopes have vanished, one by one,
As fade the glories of the setting sun;
His golden beams at morn may brighter burn,
But oh! the minstrel's hopes can ne'er return.

Full fair yon starry canopy of night,
And fair yon silvery planet's beaming light;
But eyes are dim in death and hearts are riven,
That gazed with me on yon unclouded heaven!
From silver moon and starry sky I turn;
The minstrel drops a tear on memory's urn.

My weary life has been one fevered dream,
A wild and transient glow, a passing gleam,
More fitful than the rush of tameless waves,
That onward roll to ocean's secret graves;
Yet fiercest waves may slumber in the deep,
But when-when shall the minstrel calmly sleep?

For me the festive hall no more is bright,
And beauty's cheek has lost its magic light;

The brightest cheek may blanch with grief untold,
The heart may palsy ere the pulse grows cold:
The laurel wreath lies faded, wither'd, dead,
And ah! the minstrel's smile for e'er has fled.

C. C. K.

361

THE LIBERATORS,

A TALE OF PERU.

THE storm of war had passed. That name, which for a moment blazed like a meteor athwart the night of tyranny, filling with dismay the hosts of oppression, had gone out in darkness, and tenfold deeper gloom hung over the unhappy Peruvians. But those scenes of blood which had filled with horror the surrounding nations, were only the germs of a mightier revolution.

The royal governor Canterac still ruled, with a rod of iron, a people whom tyranny had rendered almost desperate. In the year 1810, Don Eugenio Canterac, the only son of the viceroy, arrived in Lima. On the departure of his father from Spain, he, when very young, had been left behind to receive an education suitable for the station which he was designed to occupy. While at the university he became strongly attached to Don Simon Bolivar, a young American, from whom he received many glowing descriptions of the country in which he was destined to spend his life. After leaving the university and traveling in France, England and other European countries, the two friends arrived in South America, where they were for the first time separated, not however without an engagement to meet again, and pursue their professional studies at the same institution. The appearance of Eugenio at Lima was hailed with joy by the inhabitants, they scarcely knew why, for though his noble and commanding air inspired feelings of admiration and respect, still they had strong fears that he would prove their future oppressor. For several succeeding years after his arrival, he remained in Lima quietly pursuing his studies, the war at the north having prevented his meeting his early friend as had been anticipated. Much of his time was also spent in giving instruction to his only sister, who was several years younger than himself, and who, in the rapidity of her progress, both in science and literature, evinced a strength and brilliancy of intellect that equally surprised and delighted him. In the artless modesty of her manner, also, there was a charm which surpassed all the beauty and accomplishments that he had witnessed amid the chivalric splendor of the court of Spain, and her beauty, wit and amiable cheerfulness, rendered her the life and delight of every circle in which she moved. But her countenance was not always bright. The watchful eye of her affectionate brother saw at times the light of her smiles fading away, a shade of deepest gloom stealing over her brow, and mingled in that expression of sadness, a mysterious dignity, that filled him with strange feelings of awe and admiration. Regarding his sister thus almost as a superior being,

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Eugenio noticed with pleasure her carelessness of the homage paid by her many admirers, and often cherished the secret hope that he might at some future period introduce to her acquaintance his early friend, whom alone he considered worthy to possess the hand of one like her. Neither did he abandon this hope, even when he knew that Bolivar was a leader in the rebellion against the power of Spain. At length, weary of his quiet mode of life, when all around was in agitation, he resolved to visit Venezuela, which was now the seat of war. On the evening previous to the day appointed for his departure, he sought the bower of his sister to bid her farewell. He was beginning to make an apology for his intrusion, but suddenly ceased in alarm, for as she looked up with a faint smile, he saw that her cheek was deadly pale and her eyes were swollen with weeping.

"I am ever happy in your presence," she said, quickly, “but leave me now, for a few moments, dear Eugenio, I would be alone." He retired immediately, but concealed himself where he could observe all that passed. No sooner was she alone, than falling on the seat with convulsive emotions, she gave vent to her anguish in a paroxysm of tears. Eugenio rushed back, and raising her in his arms, said with tenderness, "Ah! my sister, my only beloved sister, why will you not make known to me the cause of your grief? Dare you not confide in your brother? Do I not love you better than all else?"

"Yes," said the trembling maiden, with emotion, "I know you love me. I would tell you all, but I may not. Thy father has threatened death to me if I disclose it."

"My father? what mean you Isabel! tell me, I beseech you tell me; for I swear by all that's sacred in heaven, I will defend you with my last breath, even against my father."

"I will tell thee then, Eugenio, I am not thy sister. No, my father's name was Amaru, a name feared and hated by his enemies. Whilst fighting bravely for freedom he was taken by the armies of your father, who was determined, at one blow, to extirpate the race of the Incas, and with it the spirit of freedom. The soldiers seized my mother, my little brother, and myself." Here sobs choked her

utterance.

As she continued in broken accents to relate how her father, after his tongue had been cut out, was drawn in quarters by horses, his mutilated body burnt to ashes and strewed to the winds; of the shocking murder of her mother, and her little brother torn from her, wildly screaming, and slain, Eugenio at first sat motionless and pale with horror, but as she proceeded, his face became red with indignation. He sprang upon his feet, clenched his hands in rage and agony, and cried aloud, "O Bolivar! thou wast right! Tyrants, wolves, fiends, would ye not spare even helpless infancy!"

"Thy father! O heavens! he will hear you! we shall be discovered," exclaimed Isabel, clinging to his arm, and bringing him to a sense of their danger.

She was not mistaken.

Canterac was seen at a distance advancing towards his house. He entered, but not finding his son, came into the garden. When he saw the paleness of Isabel, and confusion in the looks of both, a dark suspicion came over his mind. Suppressing it, however, he addressed them with a smile, informing Eugenio that the official dispatches were finished, and at an early hour conveyance would be in readiness for his journey.

"Let it be delayed," said Eugenio; "through accident, my preparations are not yet completed."

Canterac looked at both with unwonted sternness, and turning abruptly, walked away.

"I am lost," exclaimed Isabel, as soon as he was gone.

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Never, no, never shalt thou be injured, my own dearest Isabel, my more than sister. I will protect you. I love you better than my own life, which I will risk in your defense; only say that I am loved in return."

In that crimson blush and downcast look he saw her answer, and stretching forth his arms, for one short moment, in that thrilling embrace all their dangers were forgotten. But their time of transport was brief, for Isabel was soon summoned to meet Canterac alone. Entering his apartment, she read her doom in the dark frown upon his brow.

"Daughter of the rebel chief," he said, "dost thou remember my threat?"

"I do," she replied, while her whole frame shook with fear.

"Then if thou art obedient thou art still secure. Gen. Valdez has this day sought your hand in marriage. It is my will to grant his request. Dost thou consent to be his?"

Thy will has ever been my own, it is so still."

"Let preparations then be hastened for the marriage, and Eugenio, who wishes to delay his journey for a few days, can witness the ceremony."

Being dismissed with these words, she hastened to Eugenio and told him all. Then for the first time his confidence forsook him, and he knew not what to do. "We cannot fly," he said; "the gates of the city are well guarded. I cannot, will not leave you unprotected, and yet I only remain to see you wed another. But I must leave you," said he, suddenly starting up. "Valdez I know loves you tenderly. Persuade him to delay the ceremony as long as possible, and I will bring relief or perish in the attempt.'

They parted, and Eugenio, giving notice of his readiness for his journey, was away at the time appointed. Week after week passed, but he did not return. Valdez at length becoming impatient and suspicious at the long delay, insisted that the marriage should take place within three days. The evening of the last day came, but brought no relief. That night the protracted and increasing alarm of Isabel arose almost to delirium. She believed her lover had sac

rificed his life for her. A hated marriage and a life of misery were before her, with no alternative but the awful death by which both her parents perished. "Merciful heavens!" she cried, "must I submit? O, my adored parents! is there none of your spirit within me, to save me from a life of slavery! Yes, I can, I will die like you. Holy Virgin, strengthen me!" and she sunk on her knees in prayer, while tears coursed freely down her cheeks.

At length she arose, with a countenance pale, but calm and determined, and passing to the window murmured, "Now tyrants do your worst, I am prepared to meet you." She sat down and gazed wistfully out upon the mountains. The bright and delicious hues of the dawn were just appearing above their distant summits; the cool air of morning played softly around her temples, and she felt revived and strengthened for the trial. Presently the heavy tones of the bell of the great cathedral, echoing in the deep stillness, fell like a death-knell on her ear. But she listened not long to the sound, ere the roll of the drum was heard, quickly followed by the neigh of the war-steed, the rattling of cannon and the roar of the multitude in the streets. She hastened to the room of Canterac to learn the cause, but not finding him there, went out through the multitude in the street, and passing unmolested through the gate, hope, fear and terror winging her flight, soon reached by a well known path the summit of a mountain that overlooked the city, the plain, and the ocean. Far off on the bosom of the blue Pacific, a fleet appeared, moving under full sail towards Callao. As she stood gazing on the beautiful sight, the shrill blast of a bugle echoed among the mountains behind her. Turning, she could see at intervals, between the cliffs, the wave of banners, and the glitter of burnished arms. A gallant army soon came forth upon the plain, and drew up in order of battle; at the same time the Spanish forces, led on by Valdez, were issuing from the gates of Lima to meet them. The left wing of the strange army, on which the cavalry were posted, was so near the foot of the mountain on which Isabel stood, that she could distinctly see the countenances of the nearest soldiers. The chief of the horsemen was mounted on a powerful charger, and distinguished by a white plume that nodded gracefully as he rode. Raising his cap as he wheeled to harangue his troops, Isabel beheld with transports the face of Eugenio, but her joy was quickly followed by deep apprehension for his safety, as the deadly fight was near. Still she gazed intently on the scene, witnessing the effect of his thrilling eloquence upon the soldiers. As they bent forward eager to catch every word, the fire of battle was kindled in every eye, and when he ceased, the impatient cry of "Lead us on, Lead us on," was heard from the whole line; while faintly from a distance arose the shout of the advancing enemy. At that instant the cannonading began, pouring death through the ranks of both armies; and a dense cloud of smoke arising shut the bloody field from view. Nothing

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