Which is fed by a clear and sparkling well,
That springs in the midst of the leafy cell;
And hither at night the elves would come,

When the skies were bright and the winds were dumb,
To sport in the mazy dome, and lave
Their moony limbs in the crystal wave.

In the days of yore, a wandering knight
Reposed on the marge of that fountain bright,
And he dreamt a dream that a lady fair,
By a wicked enchanter, was spell-bound there;
And that he alone could dissolve the spell,
And free the nymph from the magic well.
The sprite of his vision then portray'd
The shadowy form of the captive maid,-
The waters heaved on their glassy breast
A fair young lily's veined crest,

Which, obeying the wave of the mystic wand,
Disclosed a being so bright-so fond-
As fill'd the breast of the sleeping knight
With a tumult of wonder and wild delight.
Oh, never, I ween, had he gazed before

On charms so bright as that fair maid wore :
The dewy plumes of the winged air
Waved back her hyacinthine hair

From her young white brow and her azure eyes,
That were full of the light of the starry skies,
And turn'd the hues of the violet dim-
And their orbs were weepingly fix'd on him.

He sprang from the earth with an eager bound,
And he threw out his arms-but, alas! he found
He had been but the sport of an idle dream:
The moon and the starlight softly fell
Through the emerald gloom of the leafy dome
On the clear blue breast of the fairy well.

Aloud he call'd upon 'squire and thrall,
They were chain'd in slumber, each and all-
So deep, that but for the heaving breath,

He had deem'd them lock'd in the sleep of death!
And their steeds reposed on the shady ground,
In the same deep magic of slumber bound.
With a frown of anger he grasp'd his lance,
To rouse them up from their mystic trance,
When a murmur of melody, sweet and low,
Arose on his ear, with a lute-like flow,
And sank to his soul like the bloomy balm
Of a spring-tide eve, when the skies are calm.

The notes grew louder, and seem'd to swell

From the still blue depths of the waveless well,

And a circle of tiny, elf-like things,

Arose from its bosom, intensely bright,

Which they fann'd, with the leaves of their beamy wings,

Into eddies of rainbow light.

Softly they wing'd their airy way,

Like butterflies buoy'd in the beams of May

Now dipt in the wave, now dyed in the sheen

Of the tremulous rays that reposed on the green;

And thus, as they wove their mystic ring,
The marvelling warrior heard them sing:-

Softly and sweetly the echoes died
In the voiceless space of the welkin wide,
Till nought was heard but the sleepy trill
Of the eager waves of that infant rill,
As they leap'd along, with a lulling song,
The moss and the flowers and leaves among;
And the fays dissolved in the ether blue,
As fades in the beams of morn the dew.
But quick as their mysterious flight,
A queen-like lily, fair and bright,
Display'd her lithe and sylphite bell
On the placid breast of the azure well.

There stood she, like a fair young bride,
In her dream of joy and her hour of pride,
Ascending out of her liquid cave,

And viewing her limbs in the limpid wave;
The pausing moon on her forehead shone,
And the eye of the knight was fix'd thereon.
When lo! from the clasp of her veined arms,
So modestly folding her virgin charms,
A creature bright, of dazzling light,
Look'd out with a smile on his raptured sight.

The spell was burst-the nymph was free
From the dark magician's glamourie→
But ah! too eager he to grasp
His treasure in a lover's clasp-
No sooner did his mortal hold

In rapturous clasp her form enfold,
Than one long, low, mysterious wail
Was borne to silence by the gale,
And in a shower of sighing rain
She sank amid the waves again!

The morning broke, but nowhere found
His serfs their lord;-they sought around
Each gloomy thicket, dell, and cleft,
In vain-in vain-no trace was left!
And 'squire and thrall, with troubled look,
At length their anxious search forsook,
And each, in mystic wonder bound,
Stole, awed, from that enchanted ground.

A RAILROAD ADVENTURE.

BY CAMILLA TOULMIN.

I.

ON a cold, dark, winter's morning, just as the train was starting from station, an individual, unencumbered with any other luggage than a very small carpet-bag, bustled up, rather than was conducted, to the carriage, in which he found a seat. What with unmuffling his chin from the coat collar which shrouded it, and depositing the above-mentioned carpet-bag, to his own satisfaction, under the seat, the train had fairly started before he could look round at his travelling companions. They were, for the most part, of a very ordinary description; and apparently, rather cross and fidgety than otherwise, probably from the dispiriting effect of having risen in the middle of the night-i. e., by candle light. Opposite to our hero was seated a female figure. As she rode in a "first-class" carriage, it was according to rule to infer that she was a lady; and the expression of her countenance, as well as every gesture, sanctioned the inference, though, must the point have been decided by her dress, it would have 'admitted of some dispute. Her cloak was of common materials, and shabby; and her bonnet was unbecoming, which was worse than shabby. Nothing happened particularly to mark the journey. The most important occurrences which might have been noticed, were the avidity with which two gentlemen discussed politics, being happily of the same way of thinking; the temporary popularity gained by an old lady who about midday drew forth, and offered for general consumption, certain delicate edibles and ladylike cordials; and the childish distress of her little granddaughter at the long, dark tunnels. This, under different circumstances, might have annoyed the politicians; but, in the height of their present good humour, they vied with each other in assuaging the child's tears by caresses and droll stories; and the only taciturn travellers were our hero and his vis-à-vis. Once, the former made a movement as if to take out his watch, but started, surprised and annoyed at something, and certainly no watch was forthcoming. Alas! the young lady did not possess a watch, or, I am sure, she would have told him the time; and she was the only one who noticed the movement.

Arrived at the Grand Junction, where " many lines met," the passengers quickly alighted; and the greater part disposed of themselves, in one way or another, in an incredibly short space of time. The young lady, however, was evidently disappointed and perplexedhaving expected that a servant would be there to receive her; and the gentleman without a watch, who followed her into the office in which he had asked permission to wait, became suddenly in a state of painful perturbation. The truth was, that in haste or excitement of mind, he had not only left his watch behind him, but had lost his purse! After a moment's hesitation, he advanced towards the person who received the fares for the line of road, on which our traveller had about thirty miles still to proceed, and, evidently with some repugnance, mentioned the predicament in which he was placed.

"My mission is most urgent!" he exclaimed-" having been called to attend most probably the death-bed of a relative whom I have not seen for the last dozen years. I had my purse when I paid my fare

hither in London; and in my haste-for the train started earlier than I expected-I must have dropped it instead of slipping it into my pocket. If you will allow me to give you my name and address, and will suffer me to go as far as -, you may rely on my sending the money to you immediately I arrive. It is of the first importance that I should not be detained here, which otherwise must be the case till I can hear from my friends."

"Should be happy to oblige a gentleman, I am sure," said the man -"but it is quite against our rules,-perhaps, however, you have something of value you could leave as a sort of deposit-otherwise, I assure you, I dursn't- -Be so good as to step on one side, here are two or three gentlemen waiting for their tickets."

The stranger paused till the office was again free; and then, with a flush that might have been taken for that of guilt, he continued"My good man, I grieve to say that I inadvertently left my watch in London-nor can I much wonder, in the agitation of mind, my hasty summons

"Oh! he, he," cried the man, with a laugh which he intended to be very expressive-" it wont do in our part of the country-very sorry, but the sooner you make yourself scarce, the pleasanter it will be for yourself I'm thinking."

There was an insolence implied in the man's tone far beyond the expression of his words; but the short pause was broken by a sweet voice, which trembled as if almost frightened at its own boldness, and the words

"I will lend you a sovereign, sir," fell upon the stranger's ear as the sweetest music he had ever heard.

"God bless your young unsuspecting heart!" he exclaimed, with emotion, as, taking off his hat, his eyes met those of his fellow-traveller; and certainly at that moment he wondered that he had not before observed their marvellously sweet expression. Meanwhile, the ungloved and delicate, but ringless fingers of the young girl, dived into a purse which looked strangely long because it was so nearly empty, and drew from it one of the two sovereigns it contained.

"To whom am I indebted for this timely and generous loan, and where can I have the pleasure of returning it?"

"I am going to reside, I believe, within a few miles of this place, at my aunt Mrs. Lawford's; if you direct it to Mary-to Miss," she added, as if doubtful if she dared really assume the lady-spinsterial appellation" to Miss Marston, it will reach me."

"But your aunt's address," said the stranger, "I am so ignorant as not to know it; oblige me by writing it, that there may be no possibility of a mistake;" and, drawing a card from his pocket, he asked the money-taker, in the frigid accents of contempt, "if he would furnish the lady with a pen and ink.”

"Oh, certainly, my dear, if you wish it," said the insolent fellow, addressing himself to Mary. She, however, had found a pencil, and the pen and ink were unnecessary; but the red spot of suppressed anger burnt on the stranger's cheek, although he had sufficient mastery of himself to conceal the verbal expression of it. And he gave the wisest reproof to the menial's impertinent familiarity, by offering his arm to Mary Marston, and conducting her to a seat, at some distance, saying, as he did so-" You must allow me the honour of remaining at your side till your servant arrives."

Mary would not have been a true woman, had she not been touched by the delicacy of the stranger's attention; but though gentle and refined, and well born as many of her sex's paragons on whose fair brows gleam the jewelled coronets of rank, she was a portionless orphan, over whose opening youth hung the dark and threatening cloud of poverty; or, in more expressive phrase, she was a poor relation, accustomed to slights and neglect, too trifling to be made matter of complaint, and yet sufficiently palpable to have marvellously depressed a naturally sensitive heart. No wonder, then, that she sensibly felt his deferential manner, when she reminded him that the train by which he desired to reach was on the point of starting.

"I can wait an hour for the next!" he exclaimed-" such a delay would be very unimportant, compared to that from which your confiding goodness has saved me.'

But his politeness-or that something better, of which politeness is only intended to be the outward sign-was spared the test; for at that moment a servant bustled into the office in which they were waiting, and after making some short apology to Miss Marston for his negligence, led the way to a carriage, into which the stranger handed her, remaining himself uncovered until it turned a corner and was hid from his view.

The eyes of eighteen, however bright, are apt to see matters through a lens peculiar to youth; and if the truth must be owned, to them the shady side of thirty appears the very sere of life; but though the stranger had evidently passed that bright barrier which divides a glittering from a golden decade, the outline of his noble figure, and finely-moulded features, was more firmly impressed in Mary's memory than that of any other living person.

II.

Midwinter had passed away; for though snow lay on the ground, the days had lengthened, and a bright sun gleamed upon the icicles which hung from the verandah of Mrs. Lawford's drawing-room, retained probably in their fantastic pendules by the keen easterly wind, which seemed to penetrate through every crevice. In an easy chair, drawn close to the blazing fire, the old lady sat knitting, while her two daughters were busily occupied with the many-tinted Berlin wools. At a table near the bay-window stood Mary Marston, in the midst of her morning duties. She had conferred with the cook touching the state of the larder, she had combed the poodle, and dusted the china, and now she was tending some rare hyacinths, much prized by Mrs. Lawford, who had a passion for floriculture. But a sad accident had happened-one of them had slipped from her cold fingers (she had not been near a fire that morning), and the flower had snapped from the stem. A bright drop stood in each of her soft dark eyes,-for she had been chidden somewhat harshly for her carelessness. Her heart was too full of regret to make excuses, and she only murmured, “I am most unlucky."

"Now I do not think you are," said Matilda Lawford, who was a good-natured girl, and wished to bring round the mind of her mother, a most irritable tempered woman, to a pleasant subject. "I know we all thought you very lucky to have a present of the splendid bouquet. the very night of our ball. Was not it a piece of sheer luck to come so apropos? And you were a dear girl to divide it between us. Everybody thought the flowers were from our own conservatory."