His image !-oh, and it is sinful now!
He dare not love! I dare not love him more!
“And all the happiness I felt to see him,
“ To speak to him, to wander by his side,
“I thought was but our friendship, as of old,
· Long years since. And 'tis all for me he mourns
· Hopeless !-oh, wherefore have I heard his secret,
" And wherefore have I found my own ?”

66

MAL. Your grandsire bids me see you, Madeleine;
MADE. Malcolm !

MAL. I never wished to see you more. If we had parted—when we parted lastIn kindness, I would never more have sought Your presence; never heard your voice again. But when you asked my hand, I-1-believe me, 'Twas from no change, no want of true affection"Twas from—twas—will you take my hand now, Made

leine ?
MADE. Are you about to leave us ?

MAL. Yes, I go
Where I shall see you never-never more :
I go to hide my sorrows.
MADE. Malcolm !

MAL. Pray you,
Let me but say farewell-but do not speak
Once I could dwell on every word you said,
And treasure it like a sweet cherished tune,
To be comned over in my solitude;
But now, I would not hear your voice, nor see
Your smile-

MADE. You will not see me smile again!

MAL. I cannot bear to look upon your face,
Where I have fed my eyes, dear Madeleine;
Do you remember two long years ago,
When I was leaving Laichmont, how we walked
To the Green Den, and how you stooped and gathered
Beside the burn, a sprig of blooming heath?

MADE. Yes!

MAL. Here it is! I've had it near my heart Since then : and both are withered. Madeleine, 1 asked you not to speak, but I am changeful; I'd hear your voice again, for the last time!

Say but a word!

MADE. Oh, Malcolm !

MAL. “Shall I say “ How constantly my thoughts shall rest on you?

Ah, Madeleine! when we used-long, long ago, 6 To look up to the moon, as we do now, “ It was with happier eyes. I little knew 66 What memories of grief I gathered then, “ To feed on in my heart for evermore;" And now !-God's blessing be around you ever! The blessing of a heart that-fare-you-well! (crosses L.)

MADE. Malcolm ! you leave me, it is come at last;
See! I can bear our parting : thus is broke
The chain that linked us from our infancy.
And here it is the last time we shall meet
On this cold earth—though we shall meet again
There, where the stars are shining calm and clear!
And we are dead to one another, Malcolm !
Take with you to your solitude, the thought
That I-oh, pardon, Heav'n! if it is sin-
Have never loved but you-love only you!
MAL. What! heard I right? You loved me? love me?

Heavens !
This is too much to bear. My fondest hopes
Reached not so high. I was an orphan, poor,
Unfriended ; I but dared to think of you
As of some higher nature, till the veil
Fell from my heart, and—when the vow was spoken,
And I was-what I am-I knew I loved !
“Oh, but to dare to love! though without hope!
“ To dare to love, and feel it is no crime!"
Dearest !-I know not what I say-once more
Tell me you love me--no; no! tell me not!
It turns to poison on your lip, and kills.

MADE. Malcolm ! now let us part—as suits us bo
Calmy-as best beseems our misery.
Go: be you happy !—you cannot be happy-
I feel it in my heart—but, be at peace.
I bear ny sorrow meekly. On your hand
I place my lips--1 bless you—and farewell !

[Exeunt, MADELEINE, R.; MALCOLM, L.

THE BELLE OF THE BALL.

PRAED.

(For one who has a taste and talent for genteel comedy, this piece furnishes a most excellent opportuity for the display of such tasto and talent. It is one of the most elegaut specimens of playful satire in the language. It should be spoken in a fine, freo, off-land style. Though some feeling should be manifested where reference is made to the tender passion.]

YEARS, years ago, ere yet my dreams

Had been of being wise or witty,
Ere I had done with writing themes,

Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty,
Years, years ago, while all my joys

Where in my towling-piece and filly,
In short, while I was yet a boy,

I tell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at the county ball,

There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall,

Of hands across and down the midule,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far

Of all that sets young hearts romanoing
She was our queen, our rose, our star,

And then she danced-oh, heaven, her dancing.

Dark was her hair, her hand was white,

Her voice was exquisitely tender,
Her eyes were full of liquid light;

I never saw a waist so slender;
Her every look, her every smile,

Shot right and left a score of arrows.
I thought 'twas Venus, from her isle,

And wondered where she'd left her sparrows.
She talked of politics and prayers,

Of Southey's prose and Wordsworth's sonnets,
Of danglers or of dancing bears,

Of battles or the last new bonnets;
By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,-

To me it mattered not a little,
If those red lips had quoted Locke,
I might have thought they murmured Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June,

I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon,

I wrote them to the Sunday Journal.
My mother laughed: I soon found out

That ancient ladies have no feeling ;
My father frowned: but how should gout

See any happiness in kneeling!
She was the daughter of a dean,

Rich, fat, and rather appoplectic; She had one brother just thirteen,

Whose color was extremely hectic. Her grandmother for many a year,

Had fed the parish with her bounty ; Her second cousin was a peer,

And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three per-cents

And mortgages, and great relations, And India, bonds, and titles, and rents,

0, what are they, to love's sensations ? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,

Such wealth, snch honors, Cupid chooses He cares as little for the stocks

As Baron Rothschild for the Muses.

She sketched : the vale, the wood, the beach,

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : She botanized : I envied each

Young blossom in her boudoir fading:
She warbled Handel : it was grand,-

She made the Catalina jealous ;
She touched the organ: I could stand

For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an Album, too, at home,

Well filled with all an Album's gloriesPaintings of butterflies and Rome,

Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories, Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,

Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter,
And autographs of Prince Leeboo,

And recipes for elder water.
And she was worshipped, flattered, bored ;

Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; Her poodle-dog was quite adored ;

Her sayings were extremely quoted.
She laughed,--and every heart was glad,

As if the taxes were abolished:
She frowned ;-and every look was sad,

As if the opera were demolished.

She smiled on many just for fun,

I knew that there was nothing in it;
I was the first, the only one,

Her heart had thoughts of for a minute.
I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase which was divinely moulded;
She wrote a charming hand-and O!
How sweetly all her notes were folded.

Our love was like most other loves,

A little glow, a little shiver,
A rosebud and a pair of gloves,

And “Fly Not Yet” upon the river.
Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted;
A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows,-and then we parted.
We parted :—months and years rolled by;

We met again four summers after,
Our parting was all sob and sigh,

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter!
For in my heart's most secret cell

There had been many other lodgers;
For she was not the ball-room's belle,

But only Mrs.Something-Rogers.

WILD HORSES,

FLINT.

[This animated and very forcible description of one of the most poculiar and sublime spectacles to be seen on our great South-Western prairies, can be made very telling by bold, rapid declamatiou. Mean. time the piece is as instructive as it is vivid.]

The day before we came in view of the Rocky Mountains, I saw in the greatest perfection that impressive, and,