• Never!'-then Hope is gone and time departed;
And Happiness that flies and then returns,
Making its presence precious-all are gone.
-Is there no armour of the soul wherein

I may array my thoughts and vanquish Death?
It may not be my hour is come-is come:
And I must tread upon that shadowy strand
A shadow, a pale solitary thing,

For ages and for ages, and there be

A Spirit, filled with human thoughts and pains,
Languishing for some remote Elysium.
Great Mars, look down upon me: Am I not
Thy son adopted? oh! my patron Mars,
My father, and my god, I perish here
For want of succour. Fate and Death, at hand,
Wait smiling for the dust of Julian;
And the grave opens, with a sickly smile,
Its hollow home, inviting me to rest.
Away-this must not be. Imperial Rome
Leans on my sword.-Who goes ?

The second scene commences with a very fine piece of poetical philosophy.

Julian (on his couch, wounded;) Priscus, Maximus.
Max. You 're easier now?

Julian. Much easier: many thanks.
-And so you think, good Priscus, that the Soul
Doth of necessity quit this feeble clay,
When the poor breath departs-that 'tis not hung
On muscle or nerve, or buried in the blood,
As some will teach. For my part I believe
That there is good and evil, and for each
Due punishment and reward. Shall we not meet
Our friends hereafter, think you, Maximus ?
Max. I hope so, my dear Lord,
Julian. What think you, Sir?

Priscus. I must believe it. There is in the world
Nothing to fill up the wide heart of man ;
He languishes for something past the grave;
He hopes-and Hope was never vainly given.

Max. Hope treads but shadowy ground, at best.
Priscus. It is-

Max. A guess.

Julian. And yet, Priscus is right, I think :
And Hope has in the soul obscure allies-
Remorse, for evil acts; the dread of death;
Anticipative joy, (tho' that, indeed,

Is Hope, more certain ;) and, as Priscus says,
That inward languishment of mind, which dreams
Of some remote and high accomplishment,
And pictures to our fancies perfect sights,
Sounds and delights celestial ;—and, above all,
That feeling of a limitary power,

Which strikes and circumscribes the soul, and speaks
Dimly, but with a voice potential, of
Wonders beyond the world, etherial,

Starry, and pure, and sweet, and never ending.
I cannot think that the great Mind of man,
With its accumulated wisdoms too,

Must perish; why, the words he utters live ;
And is the Spirit which gives birth to things
Below its own creations?

We merely quote the few last lines: the death of Julian, who speaks

Farewell; I faint: My tongue is withered up.
It clings against my mouth. Some air-air. Ah!

The next scene, Amelia Wentworth, we like less upon the whole than any thing the author has published. It has, however, some brilliant passages. A death-bed reflection is the only one we shall transcribe.

Amel. How slowly and how silently doth Time
`Float on his starry journey. Still he goes,
And goes, and goes, and doth not pass away.
He rises with the golden morning, calmly,
And with the moon at night Methinks, I see
Him stretching wide abroad his mighty wings,
Floating for ever o'er the crowds of men,
Like a huge vulture with its prey beneath.
Lo! I am here, and time seems passing on :
To-morrow I shall be a breathless thing-
Yet he will still be here; and the blue Hours
Will laugh as gaily on the busy world,
As tho' I were alive to welcome them.

THE SPELL UNRAVELLED.
"By each one

Of the dear streams through which I have travelled
The cup of enjoyment from none
Can I take, till the spells, one by one,
Which have withered ye all, be unravelled."
1.

MY God! with what words can I dare,
Without a presumptuous seeming,

To say that, from thee, who hear'st prayer,
Life's prospects with blessings are teeming?
2.

I talked of a "spell" that had bound

Each sense, and benumbed every feeling;
Though my joys in their forms might be found,
Which had all their fine essence been stealing.

Amongst the recent poetical publications, which are entitled to our notice, we must again mention POEMS BY BARNARD BARTON, the author of several fugitive pieces, which have been much and deservedly admired. The beautiful stanzas to Madame Lavalette, the lines attributed to Lord Byron, and published as his in America, with numerous poems, which have appeared in our periodical prints, are sufficient testimony of his very pleasing powers as a poet. With much sweetness and harmony of versifica tion, there is united a strain of feeling and poetical expression in the volume before. us which we too seldom meet with. proof too, that Mr. B. is not destitute of the higher qualifications which distinguish a superior poet,we extract the following spirited address.

TO THE GALLIC EAGLE.

Fame's favourite minion!

The theme of her story; How quailed is thy pinion,

How sullied its glory:

Where blood flowed like water, Exulting it bore thee ! Destruction and slaughter

Behind and before thee.

Where glory was blushing

Thy flight was the fleetest; When death's sleep was hushing, Thy slumber was sweetest.

When broadswords were clashing
Thy cry was the loudest ;
When deep they were gashing
Thy plume was the proudest.

But triumph is over;

No longer victorious,
No more shalt thou hover,
Destructively glorious!

Far from the battle's shock
Fate hath fast bound thee;
Chained to the rugged rock,
Waves warring round thee.
Instead of the trumpet's sound,

Sea-bird's are shrieking ;
Hoarse on thy ramparts' bound,
Billows are breaking.

The standards which led thee
Are trampled and torn now;
The flatteries which fed thee,
Are turned into scorn now.

For ensigns unfurling,

Like sun beams in brightness,
Are crested waves curling
Like snow wreaths in whiteness.
No sycophants mock thee

With dreams of dominion;
But rude tempests rock thee
And ruffle thy pinion.
Thy last flight is taken,

Hope leaves thee for ever;
And victory shall waken
Thy proud spirit never.

As a

THE BRONZE STATUE.

COUN YOUNT LIEUWEN, a favourite officer in the service of the deceased King of Prussia, had under his special patronage and tuition a young engineer of high talent, whose advancement to his notice had been solely due to his merits. His battalion, led by the Austrian General Clairfait, then on his march through the Low Countries towards France, was ordered to surprise a small village on the frontiers in the enemy's possession. In the middle of the night young Ewald entered his commander's tent, and informed him that a negociation had been begun by the chief magistrate of this district to admit the Prussian soldiers into an ambuscade, by which they might surround the French stationed in the village of Altheim, and put them to the sword. "Sir," he added, "I am acquainted with a path through the thicket that skirts the church-yard; and by leading fifty chosen men through it, we may enclose the farm and outhouses in which these Frenchmen lodge, and force them to surrender, without the baseness of entering their host's gates in groupes disguised as travellers, and massacreing them in their sleep. This vile provost has made the offer in hopes 3D ATHENEUM VOL. 7.

I

Count Lieuwen's brow grew smooth. "Well, Lichtenstein," he said, with a tone of familiarity he seldom used, except when his heart was touched"well; there will be no surer way, see, to secure both our military credit, and this poor village from plunder, than to give you the command of the affair, Chuse your comrades, and conduct them, But how is it that you know the avenues of this obscure place se well?"

Ewald was silent a few moments only because he was conscious of feelings likely to make his voice less firm.

When he had stiffed them, he replied, "To you who know my humble birth, and have remedied it so kindly by your patronage, I need not be afraid to confess this village was my birth-place, and that farm which the provost intends to deliver up to-night for the purpose of massacre and riot, is—or was-"He could not add his meaning, but Count Lieuwen felt it. Brushing a tear hastily from his eyes, the old soldier bade him take his detachment, and obtain possession of the place in the manner he deemed fittest. Ewald departed instantly, and returned in the morning to announce his complete success without loss to the inhabitants, and without the escape of a single Frenchman. He brought besides a valuable despatch, which his advanced guard had intercepted, and the Count, delighted with the important result of the affair, and with the generous spirit it had exhibited, offered his young lieutenant a thousand crowns, the sum for which the treacherous provost had negociated, gallantly saying, his sovereign would more willingly pay it as the recompense of a hazardous and well-performed duty, than as the premium of a traitor." If," said the lieutenant, modestly, "your lordship thinks this poor village worth a thousand crowns to his majesty, I pray you to consider them due to my senior officer Dorffen:Your personal kindness induced you to waive his right, and to give me the command of last night's affair: yet it is just that he should have the price of what he deserved to win."-" He shall have it," answered Lieuwen, compressing his lips sternly; "but I now know who would have bought what you have won honestly."

The first care of this brave veteran on his return to Berlin, was to lay the circumstances of this fact before the king. The consequence was Ewald's promotion; and before the war ceased, he rose to rank even higher than Count Lieuwen; and the last favour his old commander asked at court was, that his adopted son might be appointed his successor in the fortress of Plauen, which his age rendered him averse to

govern longer. This high distinction was granted; and the king, to suit the new governor's title to his important of fice, added the rank of Baron to the Cross of the Black Eagle already worn by Ewald de Lichtenstein. These unexpected honours did not alter the temper of the young hero :-still preserving the bland urbanity of Marshal Turenne, whose elevation he had imitated so successfully; he was proud to hear his comrades hint that he too was a miller's son, and always strove to remind them how much he resembled his noble predecessor in benevolence and grace. But when he had offered his grateful obeisance, he solicited permission to absent himself one month before he assumed his new duties. Count Lieuwen's friendship, and the peaceable state of the country, made the royal assent easy, and Ewald de Lichtenstein left Berlin to dedicate this short interval to his private happiness.

But Ewald, with all the splendor of his professional success, had not altered the humility of that private happiness. He had no hope so dear as to return to the little village of Altheim, which ten years before he had preserved from destruction; and to reclaim the farmer's daughter with whom the first affections of his boyhood had been exchanged. During the various and busy vicissitudes of a soldier's life, no correspondence had been possible, and he had time to snatch only a short interview when he entered the village with a hostile detachment. He took with him one attendant, a soldier of his own regiment, but unacquainted with his birth-place, though sufficiently attached to his person to ensure the secresy he required; not from mean fear of exposing his humble origin, but from a generous wish to avoid displaying his new and self-acquired greatness. The journey was tedious to his fancy, though he travelled rapidly; for the pleasantest dreams of his youth were ready to be realized. His servant had orders to make no men tion of his name or rank when he arri ved at his place of destination, and the little village of Altheim came in sight in all the beauty of a summer evening,

As

and a happy man's imagination. he entered it, however, he perceived that several cottages were in ruins, and the farm where Josephine had lived was half-unroofed, and its garden full of grass. Ewald's heart misgave him, and his servant went on before to inquire who occupied it. Schwartz brought his master intelligence that the niece of the former occupier had married a farmer, whose speculations had ended in innkeeping with but little success. There was no other inn; and if there had been one, Ewald, notwithstanding his heart-burnings, would have chosen this. He renewed his cautions to his servant, and entered the miserable house, where the master sat surlily smoking his pipe in a kitchen with broken windows, and a hearth almost cold. To his courteous request for accommodation, this man, whose suitable name was Wolfenbach, hardly returned an answer, except throwing him the remnant of a chair, and call ing loudly at the door for his wife. A woman in wretched apparel, bending under a load of sticks, crept from a ruined outhouse, and came fearfully to wards him. "Bring a faggot, drone, and cook some fish," said her ruffian husband-"where is the bread I bought this morning, and the pitcher of milk?" "There was but little milk," she answered, trembling, "and I gave it to our child."-" Brute-ideot !" he muttered with a hideous oath, and pushed her forwards by a blow which Ewald's heart felt. That moment would have discovered him if the innkeeper had not left the house to attend his servant; and Ewald, as he looked again on Josephine's face, had courage enough to restrain a confession which would have aggravated her misery. Perhaps she had been left desolate-perhaps her husband had been made brutal by misfortune--at all events he had no right to blame a marriage which circumstances had not permitted him to prevent. She might have had no alternative between it and disgrace, or Wolfenbach might have possessed and seemed to deserve her choice better than himself. This last thought held him silent, as he

sat with his face shaded near the fire. Josephine took but one glance at him, and another at the cradle where a halfstarved infant lay, before she began her humble labours to prepare a supper. Ewald attempted to say something, but his voice, hoarse with emotion, appeared unknown to her, and she turned away with a look of repressed pride and shame. Yet as she could not but observe the earnest gaze of the stranger, her cheek flushing with conscious recollection, recovered some part of its former beauty, and Ewald had taken the infant on his knee when Wolfenbach returned. His guest overcame the horror which almost impelled him to throw from him the offspring of a ruffian so debased, intending to convey into its cradle some aid for the unhappy mother, which might suffice to comfort her wants without betraying the giver. He hid a purse of gold within its wrapper, and gave it back to Josephine; while the father, murmuring at such pests, rebuked her slow cookery. But Ewald could not eat; and tasting the flask to propitiate the brutal landlord, withdrew to the bed meant for him, and was seen no more.

Late on the following morning, two men, as they passed' near the remains of a spoiled bay-rack, perceived motion in it, and heard a feeble noise. They took courage to remove some part, and, led on by traces of blood, examined till they found a body yet warm with life, but wounded in a ghastly manner. They conveyed it to the village surgeon, and collected help to surround the house of Wolfenbach, whom they remembered to have seen on the road mounted on a horse which had been observed the day before entering Altheim with the wounded man and another stranger. Skill and care restored this unfortunate stranger sufficiently to make his deposition. He named his master, and stated that the gloomy looks and eager questions of the innkeeper had alarmed him on the night of Ewald's arrival, especially when he was desired to sleep in a ruined out-house. He had left it, and applying his ear to a crevice in the house-door, heard Wolfenbach menac