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THE BRIDEGROOM DREAM.*

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

I HEARD a voice call,

As voice from the tomb,—
"Make ready the pall!

Weave the chaplet of gloom!
There's a lip breathing gladness,-
A cheek like the rose,

Will wax wan in its sadness,

Ere to-morrow shall close."

The voice died away,

As the breath of the wind,

And the blushes of day

Chased the dream from my mind;

And I heard the sweet breathing

Of love at my side,

And saw a smile wreathing

The lips of my bride.

There were many that day
To feast in the hall,

And the harper sang gay

His blithe welcome to all;
There was jesting, and quaffing
From goblets of gold,

And the young maidens laughing
At tales of the old.

The day waned

apace,

And the lamps 'gan to gleam,
When I look'd on the face

Of my bride; and my dream
Chased the spirit of lightness;
For gone was her bloom,
And unearthly the whiteness
That reign'd in its room.

And I heard the voice call,

As a voice from the tomb,-
"Make ready the pall,

Weave the chaplet of gloom!"
And the lip breathing gladness
Forgot its sweet tone,

And I stood in my sadness
Unloved, and alone.

Yet I felt in my mind,

That the judgment was wise,

For love had untwin'd

My soul from the skies;

And affections more cherished

Than heaven's sweet grace,

Like the flowers that have perished,

But darkness embrace.

These stanzas were suggested by an affecting event, which happened in the

family of Sir Charles Lee, of Billislee, in 1662.

THE FIERY VAULT.

"The story's still extant, and written in very choice Italian."

ᎻᎪᎷ ᏞᎬᎢ .

VENICE! The word frights editorial ringlets from their place, the revising pen flutters with revivified terror, and the ink rolls in troubled waves from its silver stand. The echo of a hundred tales rings in the ear-gondolas, red masks, daggers, cowls, tortures, and poison, float in an undistinguished mass before the eye. The sea Cybele fresh from ocean-would she had left her historians at the bottom! But let us see.

"Truly, my son, thou sayest rightly; there will be feasting, and music, and mirth, in the proud palazzo to-morrow. But by the wings of the lion- and old Carruchio paused, his eye fixed on the white towers of the Morentali mansion, but not in listlessness.

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"The duke, my master, is a gallant gentleman, father, and liberal; and I warrant me, has done wild deeds. I have often, when steering his gondola, seen him glance among female faces as though

"Silence, my son, would better become a faithful servant. Nay, were the duke to hear thee judging his looks, there are warmer places for tattling spies than even these stones at noon. Forget not thy friend, Miollano, who for merely recognizing a trinket in a maiden's hair, had the pleasure, as every body believes, of shrieking out his life in one of yon fiery prisons."

"True, father; but his master was not the Duke Antonio di Regola, nor, after all, is it quite certain that it was Miollano's scorched body that we fished up."

"Santi! if thou thinkest the doubt worth solving, the burning chamber is still there. For me, I love a cooler abode. Farewell, I see a fare yonder;" and the old gondolier stepped upon the prow of his dark and elegant boat, a vigorous effort brought her round, and in a few moments he was far from the marble stair. His companion, a muscular young man, with features strikingly handsome, yet on a second look bearing a sinister expression, removed his broad slouched cap from a brow of bronze, and fanning himself therewith, soliloquized.

"Dungeons, and death-mayhap it may be so, yet I am free to think. That same proud Count of Morentali, too, whose daughter is to wed Lorenzo the duellist, might thank me for keeping his secret. By St. Mark, I am inclined to let him know his obligation. He would, perhaps, repay me with a lodging under the care of the Three, as he favoured poor Miollano. Truly the prospect is pleasant, but how am I to blame? A grandee visits a woman who lives near me, doubtless on an errand of charity; nay, I am sure of it, for he gave her money, and on leaving her house the mask falls from his face, and I discover Count Morentali. What of it? If, indeed” "If what, friend?" said a third person, advancing.

"If I could get a fare this morning before my hour of attending my employer, it would lighten my heart, and load my pocket."

"What noble of Venice is happy in the service of so prudent and veracious a gondolier?"

"He must be a stranger here who knows not the badge of the Duke di Regola."

"I am one," said the masked speaker; "I would see somewhat of your city; give me a cast of your office along the most notable streets, if you call them so, and enlighten me as to some of the owners of these gorgeous piles."

They are floating on the deep blue waters; the stranger reclines under the half-drawn awning.

"Who inhabits that beautiful building?" said he, as the bark glided near one of the palaces of Venice. The stone front, interspersed with marble-edged openings, long and narrow; the first and second stories centered each by a large window, richly ornamented with arabesque tracery; the terrace projecting a few feet from two doors appropriated to visitants, ascended by short stairs, the two other entrances at opposite sides, level with the water which flowed into them to dark platforms beyond, one for the domestics and humble citizens, the other for the more secret movements of the master of the mansion; the lofty turret-looking chimney, and the shaded verandas, bespoke the haughty abode of a wealthy noble.

"That is the palace of Count Morentali."

"I have heard the name, I think. What character does he bear?" "It is not for such as myself, signore, to talk of those so far above me."

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Nay, thy words need not flow so niggardly to me. What care I for the count or his affairs? I ask but for curiosity, and methinks thou mightest oblige me."

"You can be silent, signore?"

"I shall be forgetful, in a week, of thy whole history, which is the same thing. There is an earnest of my secrecy."

"Thanks, signore," said the gondolier, taking the piece of gold. "All I can tell you of this count is, that he is considered haughty and cruel. We know he is rich; and that he is merciless, was shown in the fate of a fellow-boatman, who, for some trifling indiscretion of the tongue, was put to a horrible death in a dungeon of the Council." "How is that known ?" said the stranger.

"I myself, with my father, dragged up the burned and mangled body from the canal."

"Were there witnesses of your discovery? Such a sight is not often seen, I should think."

"None, signore; for we speedily replaced the corpse, not choosing to meddle with the business of others."

"A prudent course, friend. Pray, is the count married?"

"His lady died many years ago, in giving birth to a son and daughter. The young countess is now in the palace, as beautiful as Venus. Her wedding is to take place to-morrow, to Lorenzo di Castiglia, the duellist, as he is called."

"Ah! and the son?"

"That part of the tale is most surprising, signore; the child disappeared when about three years old, and has never since been heard of. Some say that he must have fallen into the canal, and that seems most probable."

"Do you ever see the count abroad?"

"Not frequently, signore; the last time I saw him was a few days ago, and then by accident."

"How? and where?"

"You seem interested, signore; and as a stranger, I do not fear telling what to a Venetian ear it would be hazardous to disclose. I live in a street to the right of yon church, the Church of St. Mary, and nearly opposite reside an old woman and her daughter. The girl is very beautiful, and the count, I suppose, thinks so; for I saw him enter the house a few evenings since, where he remained nearly an hour."

"How could you know him? I thought the fashion of Venice was to go masked on such adventures."

"So did the count, signore; but as he was leaving the house, in putting up his purse, his mask fell off. He seemed terribly angry at the chance, and instantly restored it."

"No wonder. Men of his age and rank should be careful. Can a stranger have access to the noble ?"

"Not usually, signore; but if you were to introduce yourself as wishing to be present at the wedding of the Lady Giulia, the count's courtesy might be taxed to welcome you."

"I am determined to try, friend. So turn about, and make for the palace. Here is for thy pains."

A second piece of gold chinked in the pouch of the gondolier, as he dexterously swung round his boat, and a succession of vigorous strokes again brought them to the mansion.

"Where will you enter, signore?”

"Oh! the servants' gate. I must begin modestly."

The gondola shot through the dark passage, and reached the landing platform. The stranger sprang from the boat.

"You will ascend those stairs, signore, and turn to your right, where you will find a porter who can bring you to the count." "He thanks you."

The doors above flew open, and a strong light fell upon the stranger's form. He removed the mask, and the terrified gondolier quailed before the sneer of the Count Morentali. The next moment the gates through which they had entered, closed, the noble waved his hand, and the unfortunate boatman found himself a prisoner.

"Remove the gondola, and place the fellow in the dungeon;" and Morentali ascended the stairs without deigning another glance at his victim.

The Lady Giulia sat in her chamber. Before an enormous mirror, in a rich gold and flower-enamelled frame stood an exquisitely inlaid marble table, on which reposed the awful instruments of the toilet of an Italian damsel. The odour of several delicate plants filled the apartment, a young girl rested on a low couch near her mistress, mingling the sound of a guitar with the plaintive notes of an oriental

ballad, while another maiden assisted the bride. Both, seen alone, had been esteemed pretty, but by the side of their lovely lady were forgotten. If the poet's dream of the incarnation of beauty were ever fulfilled, it was in the person of Giulia. Proudly lofty was her snowy brow, which had seemed even haughty, but for the soft large eyes below, which carried their eloquent pleading into the very soul. Her long, glossy, dark hair now hung loosely round her face, heightening the effect of an exquisite complexion. She raised to her ruby lips a cross of pearls, which were far surpassed by those her kiss disclosed. A dark robe which she wore at the toilet left bare her lustrous arm and shoulder, and flowed to the little feet resting uncovered on a velvet cushion. She raised her hand, its tiny form is hidden in her ringlets, she leans upon her arm, and weeps.

And why flow the tears of Giulia Morentali? Are they for her bridal on the morrow? Why should the ceremony, the thought of which, and of the feast and ball to follow, turns the heads of half the maidens of Venice, moisten the eye of the bride? Perchance those tears are the usual tribute of love to modesty-perchance the lady thinks of the horrible screams which sounded on her ear, as, some months before, when, with a party of companions, she visited the Doge's palace, she had missed her way, and wandered alone towards a part of the building unknown to her. Perhaps the agonized supplication she heard, "One drop of water for the love of God!" was not forgotten. Perhaps the bridal dress had not been made to please the wearer. We will not waste time in conjecture.

"Do not weep, signora, it will make your eyes red. Let me sing you a merry song."

"You make so much noise with your guitar," said the other maiden, "that you have given my lady the headache."

"Trust me, Claudine," said the laughing songstress, "it is rather your great hands in the signora's hair."

"Your's are not so small, Maria, but they can hold a love letter," retorted the elder; "which, I thank the saints, mine never did."

"I believe you, Claudine; but father Anselmo says, that a person who has had no temptation, deserves no praise."

Claudine was far too dignified to reply; she tossed up her head, and having completed adorning her lady's head, inquired whether la signora was satisfied.

"It is very well, Claudine; but as I shall not leave the palazzo today, you need not stay to dress me. I will send for you in a short time. Maria, you will remain with me."

"And now, signora," said the latter, as the door closed, "how can you be so melancholy on the eve of your wedding? I'm sure if I were going to be married I should do nothing but laugh, and dance, and sing, for a month. Pray, signora, tell me, are you unhappy?"

"O Maria, if I might tell you!" and the lady burst into a violent flood of tears. Her attendant caught the infection, and clasping her mistress in her arms, they mingled their sorrows.

The Count Morentali entered the apartment.

"What! daughter, weeping, and at such a time as this! For shame, for shame, up and be dressed, or the gondola races will be over,

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