No farther subterfuge, no farther chance ;
'Tis Pallas, Pallas, gives thee to my lance ;
Each Grecian ghost by thee depriv'd of

Now hovers round, and calls thee to thy


Maria. THEY were the sweetest notes I ever heard ; and I instantly let down the foreglass to hear thein more distinctly 'Tis Maria, said the postillion, observing I was listening-Poor Maria, continued he, leaning his body to one side to let ine see her, (for she was in a line betwixt us) is fitting up

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on a bank playing her vespers upon her pipe, with her little goat beside her.

The young fellow uttered this with an accent and a look so perfectly in tune to a feeling heart, that I instantly inade a vow, I would give him a four and twenty fous piece, when I got to Moulines

And who is poor Maria ? said I.

The love and pity of all the villages around us ; said the poftillion-it is but three years ago, that the sun did not shine upon so fair, so quick-witted and amiable a maid : and better fate did

Maria deserve, than to have her banns forbid, by the intrigues of the curate of the parish who published them

He was going on, when Maria, who had made a short pause, put the pipe to her mouth and began the fame air again-they were the same notes; yet were ten times sweeter ; It is the evening service to the Virgin, said the young man-but who has taught her to play it--or how she came by the pipe, no one knows; we think that Heaven has affifted her in both ; for ever fince she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only con


solation-she has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays that service upon it almost night and day.

The postillion delivered this with so much discretion and natural eloquence, that I could not help decyphering something in his face above his condition, and should have fifted out his hirtory, had not poor Maria taken such full poffeffion of me.

We had got up by this time almost to the bank where Maria was sitting : she was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses, drawn up into a filken net, with a few olive leaves


twisted a little fantastically on one side-lhe was beautiful; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heart-ach, it was the moment I saw her

--God help her ! poor damfel ! above a hundred masses, said the postillion, have been said in the several parish churches and convents around, for her,but without effect, we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin at last will restore her to herself ; but her parents, who know her best, are hopeless upon that score, and think her senses are lost for ever.

As the poftillion spoke this,


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