permission to be left behind, Father Ignacio consenting to become their pastor.

Dissensions had meanwhile broken out among the Portuguese nobility in India. Some of them deserted to the native princes, and Albuquerque, having made them prisoners, punished them cruelly: he cut off their ears, noses, and right hands, and in this mutilated state they were put on board a ship returning to Europe. Among them was one called Fernandez Lopez, and he, preferring exile to a life of ignominy in his native country, was at his own request landed at St. Helena.

Five years had elapsed since Father Ignacio and his flock settled on the island, they had built a rude chapel of loose stones upon one of the mountains, and, living in the caverns of the rocks, they passed their time in cultivating the land that lay at the foot of the mountain, and had already afforded provision and refreshment to the passing ships belonging to their country; for Portugal alone knew of the solitary rock so far out in the sea. Fernandez joined the band of peaceful brethren, and in their devotions and in useful industry they passed their quiet lives.

Meanwhile, Helena's husband, the rich merchant, died, and then the lover of the vineyard once more proffered his unwelcome suit. She rejected him, and he, in a passion of jealousy and despair, informed her of the faithful attachment

and unhappy fate of poor Gomerez. Helena did not reproach him: she sat like a statue, as though she heard him not; and, when he had departed, she called her faithful attendant, who had never left her since she had nursed her as an infant in the vineyard, and told her she was determined on following her lover to India. His departure thence had not been ascertained by his wicked rival. But," said the nurse, he is bound by vows that will prevent him from ever being yours."

66

No matter," said Helena, "I will see his dwelling-place."

'Years, too, have passed away," said the waiting-woman; "it may be, he hath forgotten you." Helena's look of anger checked further speech.

Helena was wealthy: she had been a kind, and dutiful, and faithful wife, and the merchant had left her vast riches.

She departed for the far East, attended by some trusty servants. On reaching it, she learned that Father Ignacio had long since departed; but, from vessels which had made the voyage homeward and come back again, she gained intelligence of the good father's abode in the lonely isle.

Helena set sail again. Her ancient nurse remonstrated, saying:-" Lady, why wilt thou disturb the peace of this good man ?"

"He shall not know that I am near him," re

G G

plied Helena,

"

but I shall see his dwelling.

place."

Alas! she learned on her arrival that he lived! there no longer! the good father was dead. He died, it was said, with Helena's name upon his lips, and blessing her.

She sought the valley where he had dwelt. It was a peaceful place. Of the followers of Ignacio, some had died, and were buried on the mountaintop. Others had departed, weary of the solitude. To this day you may see the rude stones placed over their humble graves, in memory of the exiled dead. The rude chapel was fast falling down. Helena, with a few trusty attendants, fixed her abode in the beautiful valley, and continued to cultivate what her beloved had first planted. Every evening, as the sun crept behind the rocks at the valley's side, for it lies on the western part of the island, she sat down upon the opposite mountain the vale is very narrow and gazed upon her lover's last dwelling-place.

No monument marked his grave: he had survived most of his followers, and the rest, though they had placed a plain stone over his remains, had not recorded more than his name upon it. Helena would have erected a monument to his memory, but there were no artificers to execute her wishes. Strangely and mysteriously Nature

herself raised a memorial to the good man, who had devoted his best years to science, who had enlightened his nation, and had provided for the wants of its wanderers in sickness and in scarcity. The temple of their worship was fast falling, but Heaven forbade its utter annihilation. As some stones gave way, others remained strangely balanced; and before Helena closed her eyes in death in the calm " Vale of Lemons," the ruined chapel had disappeared, and left in its place a perfect monument of the good friar.

He is now seen by travellers as he stands on that mountain-top, with cowl thrown back, and as if still proceeding on his pilgrimage over hill and valley, through storm and sunshine, unharmed by tempests, and untouched by Time.

THE VILLAGE CHURCH,

Lo! 'mid yon vale's secluded green,
Through clustering chestnuts dimly seen,
The village church! whose walls of snow
Column, nor arch, nor buttress show,
Nor taper spire, nor tuneful bell,
With echoing chime or funeral knell,
To pour upon the balmy air

Sweet warning to the house of prayer.
Yet from their humble homes the train

As duly wind o'er hill and plain,

As faithful heed the hallow'd day,
As gladly press, their vows to pay,
And hear God's word with trust as fair
As though religion's pomp were there.
Bent o'er his staff, with temples gray,
The aged pastor takes his way

Through shady lanes, where dew-drops bright
Exulting shun the blaze of light,

And, pondering calm those glorious themes,
That win the soul from earthly dreams,
Thinks of his flock with shepherd's care,

And bears them on his voiceless prayer.
Here, in this rustic glebe content,
The vigour of his prime he spent ;

Here found the bride who cheer'd his breast,
And here his children's children blest.
And sooth to say, had wealth or power
Broke with their wiles his musing hour,
The richer meed, the wider fame,
The tinkling cymbal of a name,
Perchance had check'd devotion's sway,
Or stolen its heavenborn zeal away.
An upright man he was, and kind,
A model for the virtuous mind;
No envious eye nor gossip's tongue
A shadow o'er his name had flung.
Still to his board, though scantly drest,
He freely led the entering guest,
Nor bade beside his lowly gate

The unrequited suppliant wait;