HE THAT SAITH HE IS IN THE LIGHT, AND HATETH HIS BROTHER, IS IN DARKNESS EVEN UNTIL NOW.

HE THAT LOVETH HIS BROTHER ABIDETH IN THE LIGHT, AND THERE IS NONE OCCASION OF STUMBLING IN HIM.

Anon.

FROM SHELLEY'S REVOLT OF ISLAM.

O LOVE! who to the hearts of wandering men
Art as the calm to Ocean's weary waves!
Justice, or truth, or joy! thou only canst
From slavery and religion's labyrinth caves
Guide us, as one clear star the seaman saves.

To give to all an equal share of good,

To track the steps of freedom though through graves

She pass, to suffer all in patient mood,

To weep for crime though stain'd with thy friend's dearest blood,

To feel the peace of self-contentment's lot,

To own all sympathies, and outrage none,
And in the inmost bowers of sense and thought,
Until life's sunny day is quite gone down,
To sit and smile with Joy, or, not alone,

To kiss salt tears from the worn cheek of Woe;
To live, as if to love and live were one,-

This is not faith or law, nor those who bow

To thrones on Heaven or Earth, such destiny may know.

But children near their parents tremble now,
Because they must obey—one rules another,
And as one Power rules both high and low,
So man is made the captive of his brother,

And Hate is throned on high with Fear, her mother,
Above the Highest,-and those fountain-cells,

Whence love yet flow'd when faith had choked all other,
Are darken'd-Woman as the bond-slave dwells

Of Man, a slave; and life is poisoned in its wells.

Man seeks for gold in mines, that he may weave

A lasting chain for his own slavery;

In fear and restless care that he may live,
He toils for others, who must ever be
The joyless thralls of like captivity;

He murders, for his chiefs delight in ruin;

He builds the altar, that its idol's fee

May be his very blood; he is pursuing,

O, blind and willing wretch! his own obscure undoing.

Woman!-she is his slave; she has become

A thing I weep to speak-the child of scorn,
The outcast of a desolated home;

Falsehood, and fear, and toil, like waves, have worn
Channels upon her cheek, which smiles adorn,
As calm decks the false Ocean-well ye know
What Woman is, for none of Woman born
Can choose but drain the bitter dregs of woe,

Which ever from the oppress'd to the oppressors flow.

This need not be; ye might arise, and will

That gold should lose its power, and thrones their glory;
That love, which none may bind, be free to fill
The world, like light; and evil faith, grown hoary
With crime, be quench'd and die.-Yon promontory
Even now eclipses the descending moon:-
Dungeons and palaces are transitory-
High temples fade like vapour-Man alone
Remains, whose will has power when all beside is gone.

Let all be free and equal!-from your hearts
I feel an echo; through my inmost frame,
Like sweetest sound, seeking its mate, it darts-
Whence come ye, friends? Alas, I cannot name
All that I read of sorrow, toil, and shame,
On your worn faces; as in legends old
Which make immortal the disastrous fame
Of conquerors and impostors false and bold,

The discord of your hearts, I in your looks behold.

Whence come ye, friends? from pouring human blood
Forth on the earth? or bring ye steel and gold,
That Kings may dupe and slay the multitude?
Or from the famished poor, pale, weak, and cold,
Bear ye the earnings of their toil? Unfold!
Speak! are your hands in slaughter's sanguine hue
Stain'd freshly? have your hearts in guile grown old?
Know yourselves thus! ye shall be pure as dew,
And I will be a friend and sister unto you.

Disguise it not-we have one human heart-
All mortal thoughts confess a common home:
Blush not for what may to thyself impart
Stains of inevitable crime: the doom'

Is this, which has, or may, or must become
Thine, and all human kind's. Ye are the spoil
Which Time thus marks for the devouring tomb,
Thou and thy thoughts and they, and all the toil
Wherewith ye twine the rings of life's perpetual coil.

Disguise it not ye blush for what ye hate,
And Enmity is sister unto Shame;
Look on your mind-it is the book of fate-
Ah! it is dark with many a blazon'd name
Of misery-all are mirrors of the same;
But the dark fiend, who, with his iron pen
Dipp'd in scorn's fiery poison, makes his fame
Enduring there, would o'er the heads of men

Pass harmless, if they scorn'd to make their hearts his den.

Yes, it is Hate, that shapeless fiendly thing

Of many names, all evil, some divine,

Whom self-contempt arms with a mortal sting;
Which, when the heart its snaky folds entwine
Is wasted quite, and when it doth repine

To gorge such bitter prey, on all beside
It turns with ninefold rage, as with its twine
When Amphisbæna some fair bird has tied,
Soon o'er the putrid mass he threats on every side.

Reproach not thine own soul, but know thyself;
Nor hate another's crime, nor loathe thine own.
It is the dark idolatry of self,

Which, when our thoughts and actions once are gone,
Demands that man should weep, and bleed, and groan;
O vacant expiation! Be at rest.-

The past is Death's, the future is thine own;

And love and joy can make the foulest breast

A paradise of flowers, where peace might build her nest.

Recede not! pause not now! thou art grown old,
But Hope will make thee young, for Hope and Youth
Are children of one mother, even Love-behold!
The eternal stars gaze on us!-is the truth
Within your soul? care for your own, or ruth
For other's sufferings? do ye thirst to bear
A heart which not the serpent custom's tooth
May violate?-be free! and, even here,

Swear to be firm till death! They cried, "We swear! we swear!"

THE UNCONQUERED.

A TALE.

"ATHELINE shall be the prize of the victor."

"Atheline is her own mistress: If she loves me, I need not further assurance; and if not, I would not injure whom she loves."

"By our Lady, thou shalt either fight, or resign thy pretensions to the maiden."

"I will do neither. Atheline is too noble to love a brawler or a braggart; and such I should deem myself were I to accept thy challenge."

"Coward!" muttered the exasperated Gaveston; then added aloud—“ I will proclaim thee a recreant."

"Calumny will not move me." Was the calm reply.

"Spiritless coward !-Wilt thou fight me now?"

"I will not. Were I a coward, thy taunt would scarcely remove my fear; and being none, thy words cannot make me such, nor prove aught except the baseness of the utterer."

A blow was the sole reply to this retort, for Gaveston was one of those who prefer reputation to worth: he could choose to be a liar, but could not endure the imputation of falsehood. Tresilian was not slow in defending himself. As he lacked not the moral courage which is superior to opinion, so he possessed physical strength and skill sufficient for personal defence. The blind fury of the challenger was no match for the cool self-possession of his antagonist; and in a few moments Gaveston was disarmed.

"Take up thy sword!" said Tresilian, at the same time sheathing his own weapon-"Thou would'st have fought better hadst thou drawn it in a reasonable quarrel. Here is my hand in token that I bear no enmity."

Refusing the proffered kindliness, Gaveston strode sullenly away. "There will be a time for my revenge," growled he between his set teeth."

Not many days after this, a letter was brought to Tresilian. It was the handwriting of Atheline:-What could be the contents?-Though he had long loved her he had never avowed his passion, waiting till he could discern some betokening of her preference for him. Hastily, and with a trembling hand, he broke the seal, and read as follows:

"Honouring thy nobleness, Tresilian! I would as far as possible shield thee from sorrow. I cannot be blind to the meaning of thy continual attention, nor am I ungrateful for thy regard, though unable equally to return it. In a few days I shall be the wife of Gaveston. Let us not meet again. Spare yourself the pain of an interview which can afford no satisfaction to "ATHELINE."

Tresilian gasped for breath; he pressed his hands convulsively against his brow; he seemed to have no thought, to have lost all sensation save the consciousness of an all-whelming sorrow. The golden chain, that had fast bound his hopes to the future heaven, was broken: his dream of the many-featured Joys ministering at the shrine of Love had faded like the promise of a too splendid morning, and there remained nothing for the mid-noon and even, but the ever-dripping tears poured from the heavy destiny that o'erclouded his desolate heart. “ May she be ever happy!" were his first words, as he resumed the consciousness of time from the far depth of the Past. May she, without me, be as happy as I have hoped to render her!" He speedily made preparations for his departure from the place wherein his hopes had livedand were buried. But, though determined strictly to fulfil the wishes of the loved, he could not leave without some farewell, some token that he might hang over the tomb of his happiness; a last word, not that of rejection, which he might ever wear upon his withered heart. He might not see her, but she had not prohibited his writing; she would not refuse him an answer: He wrote thus:

"ATHELINE,

"I obey your will, my destiny: I will not haunt the presence of your happiness with the unsightliness of suffering of which you are innocent. Let me have but one parting wish as a talisman to control my future doom, that if I may not be happy, I may yet be worthy. May all happiness be yours, although unshared by

His messenger soon returned with the following reply: :

"DEAREST TRESILIAN,

"TRESILIAN."

"What means your melancholy letter? I hear you are about to leave me, and you say that you fulfil my wishes. What madness is this? How have I desired, how can I desire your absence? Tresilian, you have my heart. I have long loved you, though your modesty or despondency allowed you not to understand me. I can have no happiness unshared by you—I

am yours.

"ATHELINE."

In a few days, the Lovers were united. The letter which had deceived Tresilian was traced to his rival, Gaveston, whose enmity now became yet more rancorous; but his violent menaces were unheeded: no evil thing could find place among the pure joys of the noble-minded. Month after month passed away the swift-rolling stream of Time, as it passed the dwelling of Tresilian and Atheline, greeted with the same melody the same delicious flowers blooming upon its ever-verdant bank. At length Tresilian had to leave his home for a few days, to sojourn in a distant town. His business completed, he hastened to rejoin his wife, from whom he had never before been so long absent. As he neared his home he was surprised at not perceiving her as usual come forth to meet him. He entered-she was not at the door to welcome him. She could not be absent, for she knew at what time to expect his return-Could she be ill?-He hastily ascended to their chamber. She met him on the threshold; and, rushing into his arms, hid her face in his bosom. He raised her head: her features wore the peculiar ghastliness