Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope:

I thought of tales that by the winter hearth

Old gossips tell-how maidens, sprung from kings,

Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how Love, like Death,
Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook

Beside the scepter. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy Future!

My father died; and I, the peasant-born,
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate;

grew

And, with such jewels as the exploring Mind
Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom
From those twin jailers of the daring heart—
Low Birth and iron Fortune. Thy bright image,
Glass'd in my soul, took all the hues of glory,
And lured me on to those inspiring toils
By which man masters men! For thee I
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages:
For thee I sought to borrow from each Grace,
And every Muse, such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee,
And Passion taught me poësy-of thee,
And on the painter's canvas grew the life
Of beauty!-Art became the shadow
Of the dear star-light of thy haunting eyes!
Men call'd me vain-some mad: I heeded not,
But still toil'd on-hoped on-for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee!

Pauline. Has he a magic to exorcise hate?
Melnotte. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts that burst their channels into song,
And sent them to thee,-such a tribute, lady,
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
The name-appended by the burning heart
That long'd to show its idol what bright things
It had created-yea, the enthusiast's name
That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn
That very hour,--when passion, turn'd to wrath,

Resembled hatred most-when thy disdain
Made my whole soul a chaos,—in that hour
The tempters found me a revengeful tool

For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm-
It turn'd and stung thee!

Pauline.

Love, Sir, hath no sting.
What was the slight of a poor powerless girl,

To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge?
Oh, how I loved this man!-a serf!—a slave!
Melnotte. Hold, lady!-No, not slave! Despair is free.
I will not tell thee of the throes-the struggles-

The anguish the remorse. No-let it pass!

And let me come to such most poor atonement

Yet in my power. Pauline!— [Approaching her with great

Pauline.

emotion, and about to take her hand.

No, touch me not!

I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant;
And I-O Heaven!-a peasant's wife! I'll work,
Toil, drudge; do what thou wilt; but touch me not:
Let my wrongs make me sacred!

Melnotte.
Do not fear me.
Thou dost not know me, Madame: at the altar
My vengeance ceased-my guilty oath expired!
Henceforth, no image of some marbled saint,
Niched in cathedral's aisles, is hallow'd mōre
From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong.

I am thy husband-nay, thou need'st not shudder;-
Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights.

A marriage thus unholy-unfulfill'd

A bond of fraud-is, by the laws of France,
Made void and null. To-night, then, sleep-in peace.
To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn

I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the altar,
Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home.
The law shall do thee justice, and restōre
Thy right to bless another with thy love.
And when thou art happy, and hast half forgot
Him who so loved-so wrong'd thee, think at least
Heaven left some remnant of the angel still

In that poor peasant's nature!-Ho! my

Enter WIDOW.

Conduct this lady (she is not my wife

mother!

She is our guest, our honor'd guest, my mother!)
To the poor chamber where the sleep of virtue
Never beneath my father's honest roof

E'en villains dared to mar! Now, lady, now,
I think thou wilt believe me.--Go, my mother!
Widow. She is not thy wife!
Melnotte.

Speak not, but go.

Melnotte [sinking down].

Hush! hush! for mercy sake: [WIDOW ascends the stairs; PAULINE follows weeping-turns to look back All angels bless and guard her!

LYTTON.

Sir EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, youngest son of the late Gen. Bulwer, of Heydon Hall, Norwalk, England, who has assumed the surname of his mother's family, was born in 1805. He exhibited proots of superior talents at a very early period, having written verses when only five or six years old. His preliminary studies were conducted under the eye of his mother, a woman of cultivated taste and rare accomplishments. He graduated with honor at Trinity College, Oxford, having won the chancellor's medal for the best English poem. In 1826, at the age of twenty-one, he published "Weeds and Wild Flowers," a small volume of poems; and the following year his first novel, "Falkland," appeared Since that time he has been constantly before the public as an author, both in prose and verse. Of his numerous novels, perhaps, “Rienzi" is the most complete, high-toned, and energetic. Soon after publishing "Eugene Aram," about 1832, he became editor of the "New Monthly Magazine;" and to that journal he contributed essays and criticisms, subsequently published under the title of "The Student." Of his dramas, "The Lady of Lyons ""Richelieu," and "Money," are, perhaps, three of the most popular plays now upon the stage. The first of these, from which the preceding extract is taken, seldom fails of drawing tears when well represented. Few authors have displayed more versatility. His language and imagery are often exquisite, and his power of delineating certain classes of character and manners superior to that of any of his contemporaries. He commenced his political life in 1831, when he entered parliament, where he became conspicuous for his advocacy of the rights of dramatic authors, and for his liberal opinions on other questions. In the general election of 1842, he lost his seat, and was not again returned until 1852. His speeches in parliament, and his addresses, have served to raise his reputation His inaugural address as rector of the University of Glasgow, in particular, has been greatly admired.

1.

FAIR

143. THE Musqurro.

AIR insect! that, with thread-like legs spread out,
And blood-extracting bill, and filmy wing,

Dost murmur,' as thou slowly sail'st about,

In pitiless cars full many a plaintive thing,
And tell how little our large veins should bleed,
Would we but yield them to thy bitter need.
2. Unwillingly, I own-and, what is worse,?

2

Full angrily-men hearken to thy plaint;
Thou gettest many a brush and many a curse,

3

For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint:
Even the old beggar, while he asks for food,
Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could.
3. I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween,
Has not the honor of so proud a birth :5
Thou comest from Jersey meadows, fresh and green,
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth;"
For Titans was thy sire, and fair was she,
The ocean-nymph that nursed" thy infancy.

4. Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung,

And when, at length, thy gauzy wings grew strong,
Abroad to gentle airs" their folds were flung,

Rose in the sky, and bore thee soft along;

The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way,
And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay.
5. Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence

Came the deep murmur of its throng of men,
And as its grateful odors met thy sense,

They seem'd the per'fumes of thy native fen.
Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight
Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight.

6. At length thy pinion flutter'd in Broadway :

Ah, there were fairy steps, and white necks kiss'd
By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray

Shone through the snowy vails like stars through mist;

'Murmur (mer' mer).—2 Worse (wêrs).—3 Curse (kêrs). —* Gåunt.-Asks (asks). Birth (berth).--- Earth (erth).- TITAN, a name often used by the ancients for HELIOS, the sun. Fair. -10 Nursed (nễrst).— 11 Airs (arz).—12 Wäft.-13 Danced (dânst).-14 Calm (kẩm).- 16 There (thår). Fairy (får ́ 1). - Through (thrỏ)

16

And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin,
Bloom'd the bright blood through the transparent' skin.
Sure these were sights to tempt an anchorite!2
What do I hear thy slender voice complain?
Thou wailèst when I talk of beauty's light,
As if it brought the memory of pain.
Thou art a wayward being: well-come near,
And pour thy tale of sorrow in my ear.

8 What say'st thou, slanderer!-rouge makes thee sick!
And China Bloom at best is sorry food?
And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick,

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood?
Go! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime;
But shun the sacrilege another time.

9. That bloom was made to look at--not to touch;

To worship-ot approach-that radiant white;
And well might sudden vengeance light on such
As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.
Thou shouldst have gazed at distance, and admired—
Murmur'd thy admiration, and retired.

10. Thou'rt welcome to the town; but why come here
To bleed a brother poët, gaunt' like thee?
Alas! the little blood I have is dear,

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.
Look round-the pale-eyed sisters in iny cell,
Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.
11. Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood
Enrich'd by generous wine and costly meat:
On well-fill'd skins, sleek as thy native mud,

Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet:
Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls,

The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls.

'Trans pår' ent.- Anchorite (ångk' o rit), a recluse; a hermit; one who retires from the world from religious motives.-' Rouge (rôz). Thirsty (therst' I).- - Worship (wer' ship).— Dåred.—” Gäunt. —" A lås' 'Banquet (bảng kwet.—' Turtle (ter th).