And ev'ry tale, as truth was term'd,
Till hints and falsehoods all confirm'd,
The pale ink, scarcely seen when shed,
Shone out in blackness, easy read;
And none presuming to inquire
How great the smoke, how small the fire,
The timid tongues that harbour'd doubt,
The sly imposter twined it out;
His very kindred shrunk in grief,
From facts that lied, yet wrought belief:
And startled Henry, when at last
His eye was on the current cast,
Saw ev'ry act, or gay, or grave,
Distorted by the ruffled wave.

At length so loud the rumour spoke,
The law its silence sternly broke;
And, doom'd to hear his noble air,
Miscall'd the courage of despair,
Beneath the gloating with'ring glare
Of eyes that would have seen unmov'd,
The worst indictment doubly proved,
Far rather than behold him freed,
To shame the falsehood of their creed.
Before a crowded court he stood,
And blanched not, though arraign'd for
blood.

Of yore his form and brow had been
Unmatch'd and matchless on the green;
But here the energies of life
Were summon'd for one desp'rate strife,
And, like an oak tree that had cast
Its useless foliage on the blast,
To be at once improv'd by both,
The loss in leaf, and gain in growth.
In bare, bold majesty of form,
He met the elemental storm;
Whose wintriness had chill'd the glow,
And clad his cheek with early snow
Albeit, his heart, despite the bloom
Of innocence, foreboded gloom,
(And rarely heart forbodes an ill
That fate contrives not to fulfil;)
Albeit, his soul was like the mast,
Which trembles tho' the anchor's cast;
He spurn'd the charge, convinc'd that
shame

Should never settle on his name,
Since, spite of pleader's perverse skill,
All legal proof was absent still.

Alas, that justice, in her hand,
Has not the true enchanter's wand;
She ne'er a charmed circle drew,
Corruption could not steal into;
In Bernard's sire, with doubt unmix'd,
Belief in Harry's guilt was fix'd;
And he was cruel to a foe,
As hungry wolf in Alpine snow;
To ev'n a friend he show'd, in ire,
The mercy water shows to fire;
The blackest baseness would not tinge
His spirit, if it brought revenge;
For that, the steepest cliff of crime,
His cloven foot would dare to climb;
And wonderful should be its lack
Of footing, if it forc'd him back.

His practis'd eye perceiv'd, from first, That Harry might defy his worst, Unless!

What then-he look'd aroundFor hire approvers soon were found; The hour-the spot—the flash of flame— The death-shriek of the murd❜rer's

name

The weapon curs'd, and dash'd to ground,
For failure of a fatal wound;
Then left behind in hasty flight,
When footsteps echoed thro' the night-
The closing strife-the mortal groan-
Were told with truth's convincing tone;
And Harry, while he still contemn'd
The torrent that he vainly stemm'd,
Saw ev'ry face with pleasure beam'd,
To find him villain, as he seem'd.
Here woman's love, which blooms the
same,

In joy or sorrow, flood or flame,
Shone out in its eternal pow'r,
To soothe, or share, the suff'ring hour.
Oh! if an erring heart may claim
A boon from heav'n, be love the name,
In its bright world, for ev'ry bliss,
That springs from woman's heart in
this

For bliss itself would lose above,
With any name, save woman's love.
What tho' she be but form'd to glide
A light boat o'er life's summer tide,
When billows sweep the sinking deck,
That light boat ventures to the wreck;
Glories in snatching from the waves,
Ev'n one survivor, sinks or saves.
When banks and bow'rs are dress'd in
green,

The song-bird's nest remains unseen;
But when the leaves that round it clos'd,
Are seared and scatter'd, 'tis expos'd,
And village truants wonder how
It had escap'd their search till now,
And, like that song-bird's ruin'd nest,
Stood forth Maria's love confess'd;
When fronting the excited crowd,
She motion'd to be heard aloud;
How could they deem such maid had
built

Her nest of love, to share with guilt ! !
Her slender form might rival well
The young ash of the forest dell,
When warm, impassion'd summer vows
Eternal sunshine to its boughs;
And from its heart the blackbird's lay
Returns the promise to the ray;
Her hair was like an ostrich braid,
On cygnet's snowy bosom laid;
Her eye, as when the morning glow
Strikes light into the dewy sloe;
But more than these the spirit charm'd,
Whose sympathies seem'd all endued
With wing for heav'n-while, o'er-in-
form'd,

They were compell'd to earth for food,

The pressure of a friendly hand
Is something in a stranger land;
There's something in the hour of woe,
To cling to in the voice we know ;
In shame, 'tis comfort still more sure
To turn to one who knows us pure ;
And this was all her earnest soul
Could mingle with his poison'd bowl—
For vainly did her bursting brow
Flash forth its burning knowledge now
The flashes, smother'd by the gloom,
But show'd the hopelessness of doom,
They could not alter or illume.
And when she said, yon fatal hour,
His home was in her happy bow'r;
Her very breast his resting spot;
When broke the shriek-when rang the
shot-

A scornful-an impatient spurning,

At once in court, and crowd, was seen, With pity blent for love-whose burning, At least, had proved it young and

Scarce more forgetful than forgot-
Each undistinguish'd from the number,
Save only, as the earth betray'd,
Where it a late repast had made;
And indigestion of the prey,
Was seen on the still bloated clay-
An ancient temple o'er their bed,
The quiet of the altar shed;
And, like a watcher, took as deep
A silence from their guarded sleep.
There oft the radiant noon was sprink.
ling

The sward with sun-drops, ere the dew
Had ceas'd its pure and pearly twinkling;
So deep the shadow, elm and yew,
On coverlid and curtain threw.
Oh! when their full, expanded bloom
Pour'd down the luxuries of gloom,
Alike o'er temple and o'er tomb,
It was a spot where none should tread,
That lov'd not language from the dead;
For living voice would be a rude
Disturber of its solitude.

There where the sunbeam never glow'd, The murd'rer's grave was shunned and show'd

No sister thither turn'd aside,

To talk, or think, of him who died-
No mother kneeling at his breast,
There rock'd her throbbing heart to rest-

No father, with his forehead bare,
Leant o'er it on his way to pray'r-
His sullied kin had sought a clime,
That could not taunt them with his
crime.

Yet on the day when garden bowr's Were stripp'd, to strew the graves with flow'rs:

And maid and matron hop'd the best
Would be the grave herself had drest;
The sweetest flowers in that fond fray
Upon the murderer's bosom lay.
But whose the hand that darkly spread
Their bloom o'er his dishonour'd bed?
For none by day would dare to trace
The heart's affection on disgrace.
Oh! ask not-let the dead have rest-
The living it were best to spare-
And nettles planted on his breast,

Can only sting the mourner there.

What tidings creep from ear to ear,
'Tis pain to tell, and shame to hear?
Out with the worst-it must be told-
Poor Harry's blood was bought and sold;
The true assassin's dying claim
Has borne the blackness from his name;
Old Bernard mingled with the dead-
The base, suborn'd approvers fied;
Ev'n sympathy of no avail-
What boots a loit'ring with our tale?
Maria, like the lark at morn,
When first she felt her young love born,
Soar'd to affection's proudest height,
With song as sweet, and wing as light;
And when the orb that won her praise,
At once was clouded from her gaze,
Altho' the pow'r to soar was spent,
The love-song lasted her descent;
She shrunk into herself-but pin'd
Less visibly in form than mind;
And yet, so deep her sorrow flow'd,
No ripple on the surface show'd
The rocks it covered in its road.
She sigh'd not, smil'd not, wept not-
wrong

Had steep'd her suff'ring heart so long;
Ev'n when the bright reversal came,
And late remorse wash'd off the shame,
She could not triumph in that hour-

The marvel was confirm'd and shown, That some peculiar lakes have pow'r

To turn some soft, young hearts to

stone.

But when again the garden bow'rs
Were stripp'd to strew the graves with
flow'rs,

And maids and matrons brought at last,
Their worthless payment for the past;
Too soon to see-too late to save,
They found her breathless on his grave;
His name arisen-her last fond trust-

Coherence with the world was quell'd—
The faithful urn fell into dust,
And mingled with the dust it held.
The sweetest flow'r already lay,
Wither'd upon his breast away.

WHOSOEVER had seen the daughter of the farmer at Ebersteinburg, before the Falconer of the Margrave of Baden sought her hand, must surely have allowed that she was a fair and lovely child; but whosoever had beheld her on her bridal morn, must no less have said, "Rosina is fairest amid the daughters of the Margraviate." In her father's farm-house, at a short distance from the village of Ebersteinburg, did this fair flower bloom in peaceful seclusion, until being observed by the Margravine, and attracting the favor of that illustrious personage, she had gladly consented to devote a few years to her education in the convent at Baden; and now, well versed in all female accomplishments, and no stranger to the French and Italian languages, had returned as a jewel to her father's house. The Margravine rejoicing in her work, resolved to complete the happiness of the maiden, and by a favourable marriage bind her to her household. The man deemed worthy to lead home the farmer's daughter was soon found. Christian Dreyer, the Court Falconer, a tried and faithful servant, who had once saved his master's life, was alike recommended by youth, appearance, and the favour of the princess, and Rosina and her parents joyfully assented. The Margravine, with all a woman's impatience, hastened the ceremonies of affiancing dispensation-her generosity arrayed Rosina in costly bridal dress; and surrounded by admiring friends, there stood the farmer's daughter on the morning of the solemnity, charmed, smiling, happy, awaiting the arrival of the bridegroom, to escort her to church to Baden. Suddenly all was bustle and alarm-the Falconer in his state livery, but pale and covered with perspiration, dashed into the court-yard -flung himself from his reeking steed, and rushed into the chamber of the bride, who drew back suddering from his presence. With an agitated voice he informed her that the solemnity could not proceed that day, as the Margravine had learned by express that the French had burst into the country, having passed the Rhine, and were already on their way to Rastadt and Baden, pillaging and burning all before them that the household had been

armed in the defence of the Margravine-and that he with difficulty had obtained leave for two hours only, to bear his unwelcome tidings, and advise his bride and her parents to retire to the mountains, where they should be safe from the assaults of the foe.

Rosina, dissolved in tears, hung upon Christian's neck, who, however grieved, was obliged to disengage himself, and after pressing the hands of the farmer and his wife, sprang upon his charger, and dashed rapidly towards the forest road.

Scarce crediting what they heard, the wealthier inhabitants of the valley, and amongst them Rosina's parents, set about packing up their most valuable possessions, burying their secret treasures, and driving off their herds; yet great was the confusion that evening had set in ere half the effects of the farmer were ready for flight. From the Rhine villages too poured in the scattered peasantry, dilating on the ferocity of the French soldiers, who must have sworn to lay waste all Germany with fire and sword; they affirmed that the strange troopers knew to a hair's-breadth where to find the buried treasures; and in their wrath wherever houses were deserted, levelled them with the ground; whilst others whose inhabitants had remained, escaped the devastation. Such rumours made much impression on the farmer, who, being wealthy, and fond of his wealth, trembled more for his possessions than the lives of his family or his own. Accordingly he determined to await the infringers of the peace-his wife and daughter were withheld from flying through affection for him-they trusted too somewhat to their proximity to Baden, and to Christian's assistance.

The following day the French appeared in Baden before the castle of the Margravine. Terror was their best herald; no one thought of resistance; the guests soon made themselves at home; whilst the citizens following the example of their princess, suffered and were silent. Meanwhile the general's staff of the foe did not neglect precautions for their security; and the flying corps of Captain Milhand received orders to advance into the valley of

Gernsbach, as far as Eberstein, in order to secure their repose in that quarter. The corps assembled before the Hostelry and Badhaus at Baldreit, and were portioned off, whilst the officers in the coffee-room drank a farewell to their comrades. One of them, distinguished by his immense length and giant stature, walked backwards and forwards in evident displeasure, and at last asked the drawer of the house whether Ebersteinburg, to which he was ordered, were a town or a village. When the person interrogated, with a shrug of his shoulders, replied that it was a mere hamlet, and a very wretched one moreover, the ill-humour of the Frenchman burst forth, Trente mille moustaches," exclaimed he, striking his sabre with violence against the ground. "Have you heard, my masters, what a pitiful nest it is where we are to roost; hear you that, Lieutenant Letellier? hear you, Master le Grenade? not such a thing as a town to be found in this cursed Germany!"

"It is ever so in the North," observed the handsome, haughty lieutenant, with a supercilious smile; "and for that reason my uncle wishes to have all these crow's-nests and tasteless castles on the Rhine burned downlovely France endures not such a smirchy neighbourhood."

"De feu, Monseigneur le Marquis," said La Grenade, a fierce looking volunteer. "Had many of us known that what you now term war was to be converted into wanton marauding, we should have remained at home."

Devoted yourself to the Sorbonne, and done right therein," added Letellier, scornfully; 'whosoever is not a soldier in his heart, should lay aside even the dress of one-a fierce beard and swaggering name is not sufficient to constitute such-honour, courage, and blind obedience, are the duties of our station."

"I will prove that I am at least acquainted with the first two," answered La Grenade, touching his sword, "if the cousin of the Marquis de Louvois will have a moment to spare me."

"With pleasure," said Letellier, and grasped his weapon. Involuntarily all the officers and volunteers present drew together, forming a wide circle round the combatants. A single old colonel in a warning voice exclaimed, My masters, recollect the mandate of his majesty;" the rest, however, laughed, and Captain Milhaud himself replied, "A stupid blockhead to call this affair

a duel without cartel and without seconds-it is merely a rencontre—nothing more."

All clapped their hands in approbation; and Letellier seemed inclined to make it a rencontre in reality, for his blade flashed like lightning on the challenger, who had but time to spring back and draw his sword, when a desperate combat commenced. Not a word disturbed the combatants; but when La Grenade's blade had marked with a considerable gash the forehead of his opponent, every sword was interposed between the pair, and further conflict prevented. Letellier had quite enough, and the volunteer was satisfied-the hostile scene was over, and La Grenade, with a generous pressure of the hand, bound his own kerchief on the head of his discomfited adver

sary.

Master Chaquifonnes," said Milhaud, looking at his watch, "have the goodness to order for your wounded lieutenant the detachment which is to march to Ebersteinburg-it already grows dark, and the way leads through the forest."

Thereupon the trumpets sounded, and Chaquifonnes, the long ensign, ordered the men to charge their pieces. Letellier and La Grenade were the last to take their departure, receiving instructions from Captain Milhaud to shoot or hang up every one who opposed them, and when they moved, to set fire to their late quarters.

The lieutenant laughed and promised obedience, whilst the volunteer shook his head, muttering a low imprecation between his teeth, and under a brisk "Vive le Roi," the troops moved forward- before them their reluctant guides-behind them the secret curses of the harassed burgers.

Meantime Rosina, who had not the slightest anticipation of the visit that was to be paid her late in the evening, sat in her chamber, entertaining a gloomy guest-the pangs of jealousy, and the vexation of wounded vanity. She had not yet been two days separated from her affianced husband, and already she had heard that he had proved disloyal to her charms, and unworthy of her love.

It happened that ere the Falconer had seen Rosina, he had formed an attachment for Johanna, the wood-miller's daughter, who was at service in the counsellor's house in Baden; and had with fair speeches turned the poor

creatures head, protesting with a thousand oaths, that he would never marry another; but Rosina being proposed to him, he had preferred the handsomer and wealthier bride, and abandoned the miller's daughter to her fate. Poor Johanna, who had confided in his honour, and loved him with genuine affection, unable to sustain this heavy affliction, had left her service, and retired to her father's cabin, to weep in solitude. The old miller, alarmed for the life of his child, repaired to the village doctress, (an old beldame, who tried her nostrums on such unfortunates as were afflicted with chronic diseases, and were given over by the physicians) and revealing Johanna's secret as earnestly besought her assistance. Old Anna, who was no less famous for matchmaking than for her medicinal skill, had already been engaged, for a considerable bribe, by Woolpert, a substantial farmer's son, to endeavour to procure Rosina for him in marriage. Hitherto, however, all her efforts had been ineffectual-all her arts and powers of persuasion had been idly spent on the repugnance wherewith Woolpert's exterior and conduct inspired Rosina. But scarcely had she heard from the old wood-miller the history of Dreyer's faithless conduct, when she seized this opportunity of working for her client. In a quarter of an hour Rosina already knew the entire story, with all the embellishments that interested malice can alone invent. The maiden, pale and trembling, heard of an improper connection between her lover and Johanna, and of the degrading consequences of such a match, as every objection was silenced by the volubility of the hag, who blackened without mercy Christian's character, and Johanna's unblemished reputation. Oppressed, enraged, and bathed in tears of shame, Rosina had remained alone, and was only awakened from brooding in her dusky chamber by a short summons of a trumpet before the house, and her parents calling, "Rosina! Rosina! for God's sake! the French are here!"

seconded him, and Rosina did not long deliberate; taking a lamp and the man servant and the maid along with her, to have at least the shadow of protection, she went and opened the door, which was already giving way under their impatient blows.

With tolerable fluency she informed them that the village lay still a good way farther off, and begged they would pass on, as there was an invalid in the house.

The lieutenant laughed archly, and replied, "So far as concerns my people, they may with their sergeants march to the village; I, however, and my officers, have chosen this for our quarters, and you, my child, are far too pretty for me to change my resolution quickly."

So saying he gave the leaders the signal to march-a watch was set round the farm-and then gallantly offering his arm to Rosina, Letellier and his companions entered the house.

The wandering son of war is soon accommodated; a fire warm enough to dry the wet, or dispel the cold; half a quiet couch, and a well-covered board are his highest demands on comfort. Letellier's companions were contented; before them steamed a tempting mess; behind their chairs stood their respectful hosts, silent through fear, whilst a charming maiden quickly and gracefully laid the choicest morsels before them. Letellier was more than contentedenraptured, he could not turn his gaze from Rosina's graceful figure - the wounds inflicted by the sword of La Grenade no longer smarted, but the arrows of the urchin-god had smitten deeper. His mouth was silent whilst his dark eyes spoke to the maiden, and he scarcely heard the sensible conversation of La Grenade or the pomposity of Chaquifonnes.

66

When supper was over the farmer seized the lamp to light them to their sleeping apartments, and Letellier secretly pressing Rosina's hand whispered, good night, my sweet friend;" and with a melancholy sigh withdrew. Rosina, with half sorrowful feelings, gazed after him, and to the urgent questions of her mother, who had once more let loose her tongue, answered confusedly or not at all. Silent and embarrassed, she sought her couch, whilst the image of the tender Frenchman, whom the wound on the forehead only rendered more engaging, stood before her until she sunk into repose, in order again to walk hand in hand