monument,* an old man and a female seated themselves on a bank to rest; a fig-tree then grew there, and its broad leaves protected them from the scorching rays of the sun. The features of the stranger were Roman, and cast in the noblest mould; but years and travel had wrinkled his brow, and his flowing beard was white; his form was bowed and emaciated, and his whole appearance indicated painful exhaustion. Yet Pilate's face had the same expression of intense melancholy which distinguished it in former days, and the cloud of remorse still seemed to overshadow his soul.

Hebe, from the light, buoyant, fairy-like girl, had passed to womanhood; her beauty was of statue-like perfection ; but the majesty of her mien was tempered by an air of most primitive innocence, and a tenderness accompanied every action and look, betokening how gentle and sensitive was the spirit enshrined in that lovely form.

“ Child, my wanderings are over,” said Pilate ; “ my hour is come. Yonder sun with his beams of glory shines on me for the last time. I go to the place of shades. Thou hast been to me what never was daughter to her father before; he who in the Roman prison drank the stream of life from the breast of his own child, t owed less to her than I owe to thee, for thou hast been the life of my soul. In weary pilgrimage over the world, in privation and sorrow, thou hast been

* The most interesting, as well as the best preserved of the Roman remains at Vienne, is the structure called the Tomb of Pontius Pilate, and which is situated at a short distance from the south gate of the town. It has a singular appearance; an open square arcade stands on a solid basement of stone; above are some half-defaced mouldings, but no inscription is seen ; a slender pyramid succeeds, and the height of the whole is about sixty feet. The ancient tradition attached to this monument is, that it covers the dust of Pontius Pilate, who, after having been for some years banished from Rome, died at Vienne. It has been said that he committed suicide ; but this is by no means an established fact.

of Cimon and Xantippe.

my ministering angel, the bright star illumining, if aught may illumine, the midnight of my wretchedness.”

Hebe bent over him, and strove to speak, but her gushing tears and sobs rendered her endeavour unavailing.

“Draw nearer, my child, for I can with difficulty see you now; I cannot reward you for the sacrifices you have made on my behalf, but I can tell you how much I love you. What has earth ?—what have all the dreams of power and glory to offer like that feeling of affection which knits my soul to yours ?But why this increase of agony now?- it is not because I depart — it is not on account of the few years which must elapse before your bright soul will also quit this fair and smiling world — it is because you will ascend to a region I may not enter; you are not to share with me my eternity of gloom; your place will be among the happy angels, and never, never more shall I bebold my child.”

Those features, usually so still, rarely betraying what passed within his soul, yielded now, beneath the anguish of that intolerable thought, to a momentary convulsion. Eternal separation from the gentle being he loved — there was the pang which pierced to his heart's in most core.

“ Father,” said Hebe, “we shall not be separated; my prayer to the Omnipotent is, that, whether we be consigned to happiness or misery, our lots may be the same. I shall be near you; I shall soothe your sorrows, and all those sweet feelings of affection which warm our hearts now will exist beyond the grave, Hope then, father, hope !”

The old man turned his face towards the East — there lay the land whence light had arisen over the moral world, but where his own woe dated its existence. His lips moved; he whispered the name of Him whom he had condemned to die. In his look were repentance and remorse, and, mercy would add, gleams of hope. And now he turned to his child - his last lingering gaze was bent on her — he sighed her name — he smiled — and so he died.

Several of the citizens of Vienna had passed near Pilate, but all had studiously avoided him; arrayed in an Oriental garb, his countenance expressive at once of wildness and dignity, they had believed him to be an Egyptian seer or a Chaldean sorcerer : but now that he lay without motion beneath the fig-tree, and his beautiful attendant was seen weeping over him, humanity attracted them to the spot. They raised the aged man, but in supporting his daughter, who, they supposed, had fainted, they perceived a coldness on her brow, and beheld a marble whiteness on her still, classic features, that the living rarely present. Yes, in that hour of unutterable distress, Hebe's heart had broken — she slept the sleep of death.

The identity of the illustrious, but unfortunate pair, was subsequently discovered, and they were buried on the spot where they died. The fig-tree has long since perished; the aged yews are disappearing one by one; and even the singular monument erected to their memory, attracting the eyes of the modern traveller, stands, in its grotesque and mouldering proportions, like some relic of an elder world.



THERE sat a gentle Lady,

A Lady fair and young,
Upon a cliff, whence ship and skiff

Were seen to sail along
On the bosom of the deep :-
She sat alone, a watcher

For one who comes not yet; -
Why laggeth he on land or sea ?-

What maketh him forget
Such vows as love should keep,
Though spirits walk the mountains

And valleys of the world ?

A year hath gone since, kneeling

Beside that Lady's knee, “I swear," quoth he, “that thou shalt see

My true head bow to thee
On this high and rocky steep,
When one full year departing,

Lets in another's race,
Alive or dead, I swear (he said)

To meet thee face to face
When thy kindred are asleep,
Though spirits walk the mountains

And valleys of the world !”

A year hath passed; and midnight,

With its full crystalline moon,
Hath lighted up the mountain-top

On that lovely night of June,
Where the Lady sitteth lone :-
She sitteth sad, for wedded,

Another's now is she;
And her first true-love hath she cast off

For a Knight of high degree !
Oh faith, hath woman none,
Though spirits walk the mountains

And valleys of the world!

She weepeth and she prayeth,

That he who was so dear
May have forgot, in happier lot,

The vows of a by-gone year,-
For she loveth another now!-
And up the Lady starteth,

For a step is sounding near:“I come to chide my new-made bride

For tarrying so long here, When the dew falls on her brow; And spirits walk the mountains

And valleys of the world !”

It was her loving Husband,

Who, as the midnight bell
Tolled loud and long the hills among,

Stood by fair Florimel,
Her cheek death-wan with fear :-
But lo! as stooping tow'rds him

Her white band stretched she,

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