down by tyranny. Great God! and was this beauteous flower snatched from me to be thus trampled upon? The idea roused me to madness. I clenched my teeth and my hands; I foamed at the mouth; every passion seemed to have resolved itself into the fury that like a lava boiled within my heart. Bianca shrunk from me in speechless affright. As I strode by the window my eye darted down the alley. Fatal moment! I beheld Filippo at a distance! my brain was in delirium-I sprang from the pavilion, and was before him with the quickness of lightning. He saw me as I came rushing upon him-he turned pale, looked wildly to right and left as if he would have fled, and trembling drew his sword. Wretch !' cried I, well may you draw your weapon!'-I spake not another word-I snatched forth a stiletto, put by the sword which trembled in his hand, and buried my poinard in his bosom."

After this Giozzi flew from justice, and became a wanderer on the face of the earth. Some years ensued, when, to appease the feelings of conscience and a broken heart, he returned to the scene of his crime, and atoned for it with his blood.

WOMAN.

Call woman-angel!-goddess !—what you will,
With all that fancy breathes at passion's call;
With all that rapture fondly raves, and still

That one word, wife, outvies, contains them all.
It is a word of music which can fill

The soul with melody, when sorrows fall Round us like darkness, and her heart alone, Is all that fate has left to call our own.

Her bosom is a fount of love that swells,

Widens and deepens with its own outpouring; And like a desert spring, for ever swells

Around her husband's heart, when cares devouring,

Dry up its very blood, and man rebels

Against his being-When despair is lowering,
And ills sweep round him like an angry river,
She is the star, his rock of hope for ever.

Yea, woman only knows what 'tis to mourn,
She only feels how slow the moments glide,
Ere those her young heart loved, in joy return,
And breathe affection smiling by her side.
Her's only are the tears that waste and burn;
The anxious watchings, and affections tide
That never, never, ebbs !-hers are the cares
No ear hath heard, and which no bosom shares.

Cares-like her spirit, delicate as light

Trembling at early dawn from morning stars.
Cares-all unknown to feeling and to sight
Of rougher man, whose strong bosom wars
With every passion in its fiery might';

Nor deems how look unkind, or absence jars
Affection's silver chords by women wove,

Whose soul, whose business, and whose life is love.

J. M. W.

FINERY.

BY MRS. GORE.

There is nothing more vulgar among the sins of social life then what is termed finery. It is, in fact, a distinguishing mark of absence of caste; for what can a person, really distinguished by birth or merit, gain by presumptuous disparagement of the rest of the human race. It is the policy of the eminent to elevate the claims of those beneath them, in order that, by raising the standard of comparison, their own superiority may attain yet higher distinction; and the moment a man or woman affects to be fine-to shrink from contact with any but the elect, and to raise a glass of inquiry to the unknown physiognomies of plebeian life, it is to be inferred that something is rotten in the state of Denmark; that so studious an arrangement of the folds of the velvet mantle and ermined robe, purports the concealment of some gash or blemish beneath, known only to the wearer.

THE POLISH WIDOW TO HER SON.

Play on, my lovely infant child, and I will watch the while The ills, that sadden all around, have not yet check'd thy smile;

And as thy cup of life may near its brim alone be sweet,
Be happy, ere the gathering clouds above thy pathway

meet.

Thou heedest not the sable robes thy little limbs that fold; Thy father's and thy country's fall are both to thee untold; The very eagles of our foe, that pass so proudly by,

And mark'd by thee with childish joy, not knowing tyranny.

But this will change-the dream will pass-and thou must learn the tale

Of deeds that blanch the manly cheek, and make our maiden's pale;

And when to me thou'lt sweetly turn of ages past to know, Oh! how shalt I reply to thee, and hide a mother's woe? To speak of Poland's ancient fame-and then her fallen state;

To mention Kosciusko's name-and then record his fate; To tell thee of a father's love-and then a father's grave, Who perish'd for that native land he had not power to

save,

Yes-this will truth demand from me, a tale unspoken now, And then, methinks, the cloud of grief will darken o'er thy brow;

And make that youthful spirit, erst so gentle and so gay,
To thoughts of sadness and of strife become an early prey.
And, when to manhood's stage arrived, thou'lt spurn the
Polish dance,

To learn to urge the war-horse on, or couch the Polish lance ;
The spirit of the fallen brave shall be revived in thee,
And thou shalt long to strike a blow to set thy country free.
In vain will dangers frown around, and prudence bid thee
hold.

The ardour of a noble mind shall not be thus controll'd; Though baffled oft, again, again the Poles will claim their right,

And rather die than tamely crouch before a despot's might.

Perchance that little hand, which now is grasping at the flower,

May be the first to draw the sword against oppression's

power;

Or to the Polish winds unfurl the banner of the free-
They wafted it in days of yore, and what hath been may be.
But, oh! again the patriot band may only strive in vain
Against the myriads of the foe upon the Polish plain;
And nations, powerful and free, again may view them fall,
Unmindful of Sobieske's name, or honour's sacred call.
And then, my son, thy father's doom may speedily be thine :
To meet the "soldier's fiery death" while in the foremost

line;

Or worse? if wounded in the fray, with mingled pride and pain,

Through life amid Siberia's wastes to drag the galling chain.

Oh! fears have thrill'd the mother's breast, however Hope hath smiled,

Or fortune seem'd to hover o'er the cradle of her child; Then think, thou tyrant of our race, what feelings mine must be,

To see the prospects of my son thus darken'd o'er by thee

A DANCING SCHOOL AMONG THE INDIANS.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHATEAUBRIAND.

When I was in America, on the frontiers of the country of the savages, I was informed, that in the next day's journey I should meet with a countryman of mine among the Indians. On my arrival among the Cayougas, a tribe belonging to the Iroquois nation, my guide conducted me into a forest. In the midst of this forest stood a kind of barn, in which I found about a score of savages of both sexes, bedaubed like conjurers, ravens' feathers on their heads, their ears cut into figures, rings passed through their noses, and their bodies half naked. A little Frenchman, powdered and frizzed in the old fashion, in a pea-green coat, a druggit vest, muslin frill, and ruffles, was scraping away on bis kit, and making these Iroquois dance to the tune of Madelon Friquet. M. Violet, for that was his name,

followed the profession of dancing-master among the savages, by whom he was paid for his lessons in beaver skins and bears' hams. He had been a scullion in the service of General Rochambeau, during the American war; but remaining in New York after the return of the French army, he resolved to give instruction in the fine arts. His views having enlarged with his civilization even among the roving hordes of the new world. In speaking to me of the Indians, he always styled them Ces Messieurs Sauvages, and Ces Dames Sauvages. He bestowed great praise on the agility of his scholars, and, in truth, never did I witness such gambols in my life. M. Violet, holding his fiddle between his chin and breast, tuned the fatal instrument: he then cried out in Iroquois, "To your places !" and the whole troop fell a capering like a band of demons. Such is the genius of nations.

WHAT IS IT?

'Tis the meed of the good, 'tis the joy of the brave,
'Tis a solace that lightens the toil of the slave;
'Tis seen in the care-furrowed cheek of the wise,
And felt in the glances of beautiful eyes.

'Tis the food of affection, the incense of beauty-
The fountain of justice, the safeguard of duty;
The patriot it prompts for his country to bleed,
And the martyr it urges to die for his creed.

It nerves the lone mariner tossed on the deep,
It cheers the pale student his vigils to keep;
The miser to gain it surrenders his gold,

For 'tis lent and 'tis bartered, 'tis bought and 'tis sold.

'Tis the end of our labours, the gaol of our race,
It supports us in sickness and death's cold embrace,
It goes with us downward, the dark to illume,
And 'tis graven in marble or slate on our tomb.

'Tis a cheat that deludes both the simple and wise,
The substance we lose, but the shadow we prize;
And this shade we pursue till the end of our days-
What is it detraction? 'tis worse: it is praise!