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Wrapt with a turf of fresher green-and marked
Each with a myrtle bush-eight lonely graves!
'Twas such a place as broken hearts would seek
The open space

To moulder in at last.

Was walled by lime and mango trees, that hung
Their drooping blooms, like banners o'er the dead.
A narrow tract, arched overhead with leaves,
Led downward to a little shaded cove;

And through its arcade the broad sunny stream
Shone like a vigil lamp. But all was still

And peaceful. He that looked upon those graves
Might feel his frame thrill with the quick warm tide,
That rushes to the heart with thoughts of home.
There Death had masked his gorgon face with flowers.
I sate me down under a lime's broad shadow;
And my young Indian guide, in broken words,
Told me the story of those lonely graves.

One was a sailor's bed,-a blythe light heart
Forever singing. He had travelled far,-
And had been wont to set for hours at night
On the river's bank, filling his listener's cars
With wonders of the deep:-How he had heard
Voices upon the gale, as of doomed souls
Dragged onward to their prison house; and how
Green glassy eyes shone through the midnight waves,
Mocking his terror, as he sadly leant

Over the ship's side, dreaming of his home:

How he had seen the phantom lights that gleam

O'er the wrecked seaman's lair, and the "doomed ship"
That sweeps the seas of Afric. Many a tale
Had he beside at which the maiden's wept ;
And then he laughed and broke away in mirth
To some old song with a blythe burthen round.
But best he loved to tell them of the strains
That stole out with the land wind from the groves
And lattices of Greece; and of glad girls,
With dark eyes and wild curls, who used to fling
Flowers down upon them from their balconies;
And of the merry nights at vintage time,

When shaded lamps were hung on the young trees,
And lute and castanet kept up the dance,

And the brown girls made them forget their homes.

One day some happy hearts had wandered down
The sea-shore to attend an Indian fete.

The sailor was amongst them. They returned
At eve: the sun had sunk behind the hills,
But pink clouds clustered round their opal heads
Like coronals of roses; and the stream
Swept onward like a flood of molten gold.
The revellers had trimmed their little bark
With garlands ;—and a throng of sugar canes
Raised upwards for a screen-made the canoe
Seem like some fairy isle floating to land.
They sent glad singing for their harbinger;
And groupes had gathered to the river-side,
To welcome them. The sailor sate abaft,
Singing to an infant: it was his own dirge!
The child leapt up to seize a butterfly,
That wandered overhead; and, as he sprung
Madly to save the babe, the boat upset!

The child was saved, but the bright river waves
Rushed o'er the sinking sailor. At the morn
The stream gave up its dead: his corpse was seen
Floating upon the suface, where the boughs
Of orange trees drooped sadly o'er the water,
And seemed to mourn the dead. They buried him
Beneath this lime, and planted at his head
The sprig of myrtle. One romantic youth
Played a sad air on his flute, his farewell
To the light hearted sailor.

The "

By his side

A broken heart's at rest. A simple girl
Had followed her betrayer from her home.
For her the flowers of that foreign land
Blossomed in vain.
worm that never dies"
Had coiled around her heart: and, when she saw
The last blue headland of her native isle
Sinking in distance-tears she could not shed
Congealed around her heart, like winter brooks;
And Hope and Joy grew chill, and died, and lay,
Like twin babes in a charnel-grasping still,
With rotting fingers, knots of withered flowers.
The sun's eye seemed to look into her soul;
And every innocent flower and singing bird
Was her accuser. Oh what dreams were her's
Of home and childhood, that came o'er her brain,

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Like dews o'er thirsty sands! Oh then methought
Hope was awake again, and sung so well,
That she laughed madly in her sleep,-and woke
Appalled at her own mirth! The syren sung
Of the "long night of rest ;" and marvel not
That bruised heart burst at last. Who ever heard
That song and wished to live? not one! she died!
With her, to die was to be happy.

See!

The myrtle bush is fading on her grave:
E'en be it so; she wished to be forgotten.

That is a mother's grave, weep not for her;
She has a rich reward in heaven. She sank
Honored and full of years. Five gallant sons
Stood round her grave and 'twas their pious hands
That trimmed the daisied turf, and cropt the boughs,
That the kind sunbeam might stream freely down
Upon their mother's bed. Weep not for her!

These are four graves, marked out by Pestilence
Wherein to lay her victims.-They died young.
The fever smote them as the desert blast
Smites the young palm trees.

Beneath this mango
Slumbers a suicide-see the spot is curst!
The pallid grass scarce peeping from the sand
Seems as an infant strangled in its birth-
The myrtle tree lifts up its thin bare arms,
Like one in pain: there is not now a leaf
For mocking winds to tear away. It is
The monument of crime !-Thus let it stand!

East Cambridge.

A. L. P.

THE LATE EMPRESS MARIA LOUISA.

EXTRACT FROM A JOURNAL.

PARMA, SUNDAY, NOV. 11, 1827.

PARMA is interesting as the residence of Maria Louisa, late Empress Queen of France and Italy. The city contains

30,000 inhabitants, and together with Placentia, Guastalla, and some eight or ten villages and hamlets, forms the Grand Dutchy, of which the late wife of Napoleon is the Sovereign. She still retains the title of MAJESTY, and it is the only instance, that I know, of a Dutchess wearing the appellation To Dukes, belongs the title of "Highness" with different degrees of augmentations, from the humble "Serene" to that of "Royal and Imperial Highness." SHE, still claims "Majesty." And her style is, And her style is, "Her Majesty Maria Louisa Arch-Dutchess of Austria, and Dutchess of Parma, Placentia and Guastalla, &c. &c. &c." But hers, no more,

is the emphatic Majesty, of "Empress of the French and Queen of Italy,"-hers, no more, is the privilege to share dominion with a spirit, which swayed more kingdoms and nations, than she can now boast cities and villages,-hers, no longer, is the proud preeminence, of being looked up to, as the most exalted crowned female in the world.

She is still a Sovereign on a small scale, and has her Palaces and public Gardens: but if she partakes of the soul of Napoleon, when she looks around among her Palaces, how must she be disappointed, when she thinks of the Thuilleries, of Versailles and Fontainbleau! As she enters her Gardens, what must be her sensations when she remembers the Imperial Gardens of France! She has also her military establishment, and as she issues from her narrow abode in her carriage, the trumpets flourish, the drums beat in salutation, and some eight or ten score of soldiers present their arms: but what are these compared to as many hundred thousand, that moved like a vast machine, at the nod of the Emperor? What are the shouts of the scanty population of Parma, to the deafening cries of "vive l' Emperatrice,"—once heard in Paris? Her bust adorns the Gallery of Paintings in her present Palace it is of marble, and by Canova, and indeed an exquisite specimen of the skill of that artist he has given the image, the features and the expression of the princess: but fortunately, the art of Canova extended no farther could he have endowed it with animation, and sensation and reflection, it must have led a life of unhappiness, in gazing about this little Gallery, and reflecting upon the unrivalled Gallery of the Louvre at Paris. These reflections might be extended almost infinitely, and the result would be the same in contrasting every part of

this Dukedom, with the French Empire. But after all, she may be as happy as she was in her proudest days: Empire does not always bring contentment: if she finds it here, surely every one is ready to say, may she long live to enjoy it. It is a treasure that her husband never found in his most prosperous days. "I am tired of this old Europe," said Napoleon once, in the plenitude of his power: he was restless and discontented, in the possession of the homage of nearly all Europe. How vain then in reality, proved the most magnificent fabric of Ambition, that the world ever witnessed! It rose rapidly like a brilliant meteor, but satisfied not its possessor, and vanished still more suddenly, leaving mankind to wonder, equally at its rise and its fall. The Dutchess is probably as truly happy, in the sincere affections of her present subjects, as was the Empress in possession of the pompous homage of all the Imperial conti

nent.

J. T. A.

MORALIZING.

"We take no note of Time

But by its loss."

No class of people complain more of the shortness of time than the idle. They are never ready for exertion: believing that tomorrow will be more abundant than today they procrastinate, and thus lose the moments, that, judiciously employed, might insure them success, in vain expectations of that propitious season when they shall have full leisure to perform some mighty enterprise, or greater facilities to execute some favorite project. But such golden opportu nities are awarded only to the minions of fortune-the working-day world must not expect to enjoy them. The majority of those, who have emerged from the crowd, owe their elevation almost solely to the improvement of short intervals, and the employment of apparently trivial means. severance will accomplish what energy alone fails to perform.

Per

It is peculiarly necessary that those who would cultivate

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