WINDS.

BY MISS M. L. BEEVOR.

Wild fitful winds are moaning,
With deep and deadly groaning
They fall and rise;

Now near, they're sadly sighing-
Far now, their wail is dying
Along the skies.

Like fiends, now hoarse they're speaking,
Then, their shrill, fearful shrieking
Vexes the night :-
Anon, their mournful singing
To many breasts is bringing
A strange delight-

Flashes of thought,-bright gleamings,-
Golden, mysterious dreamings,
Which wake alone,

In souls, to whom the tragic,
Tender, and intense magic
Of SONG, is known :-

Such, when mad winds are crying,
On the blast's pinions flying,
Compass the world;

Far spheres and void space sweeping-
Till, the spent storm-gale sleeping,
To earth they're hurl'd.

TO MY SISTER.

ON HER HAVING WROUGHT AN ELEGANT VEIL.

The rose is on thy cheek, love,

The rose of richest dye;

But close within its fragrant folds

The treacherous worm may lie.

Then, trust not to such transient flowers,

To chain affection's wing

This hour they're bright within your bowers, The next, a formless thing.

The smile is on thy lip, love,
The smile of frolic's spell;
But ah! too soon its altered charm
May of sad sorrow tell:

Then on such changing things ne'er lay
The fondest hopes of earth-
Alas! the seeds of stern decay
Are planted at their birth.

Thy soft blue eye is bright, love,-
Is bright with joy unchilled;
But ere to-morrow's sun has set,
With tears it may be fill'd:
Then look not on this worthless world,
But let thy glance be given,
To seek the bliss which lies unfurled,
In yon perennial heaven.

Aye, drop the modest veil, love,
O'er cheek, lip, eye of blue-
Shut out the curious gaze, love,
And hide thy blushing hue:
Let each unstudied look of grace
Beneath it lie enshrined :-
Yes, I would have thee veil thy face,
But do not veil thy mind.

Ah, no! the mind is Heaven's breath,
A spark from yonder sky,

Which, 'mid the ruins made by death,
Shall never, never die ;—

But when the dreams of pleasure, love,
And life's fleet joys are o'er,

The mind shall bud anew above,
To bloom for evermore !

G. H. E.

WIT.

Wit is a feather, Pope has said,
And females never doubt it;

For those who've least within the head,
Display the most without it.

THE YOUNG WIDOW OF BREMEN.

THERE is a mural monumental tablet, in a common field wall, near a handsome house in the suburbs of Bremen. On one side of the lane in which it stands are the court-yards of some spacious residences, on the other is a walk, leading through some of the prettiest fields near the town.

Two travellers, in the last century, stopped to gaze on this tablet, which appeared to have been very recently erected. It was of very fine execution, and looked fitter for some old church, than the place were it stood. The design represented a kneeling female figure, mourning over an urn; in her position and features remorse was mingled with grief. Her eyes were hidden by the hand which supported the weeping head. By the broken sword and entangled balance on which her feet rested, the mourner seemed to personify Justice. No inscription or other guide to the meaning appeared, and our travellers turned eagerly to see if any one were near who could explain what the monument meant, and why it was placed there.

At length an old man, of a sad but benevolent countenance, came slowly up, and of him they inquired the meaning of this tablet. He sighed deeply, and then bade them sit down beside him on the grass.

You might look long (said the old man after a pause of some minutes) on the crowded ramparts of Bremen, when all the fairest were there, ere your eye rested on a more beautiful face, or a lighter and more graceful figure than Mary Von Korper's. Often were her dark eyes beaming, and her little feet seen twinkling, on the favourite resorts of the fair and the gay; and if the stranger asked who she was, whose smile was brightest, and who moved along so trippingly, the answer from all or any of her townsmen would be ever the same, ""Tis the young Widow of Bremen." And fair-very fair she still was; still looked she younger than many girls under twenty, though she had been the Young Widow of Bremen for seventeen years at least.

She had been married when a mere child; her husband died soon after the birth of his only son, and marriage seemed never to have dimmed the first freshness of her youth and beauty; so that when her son Hermann returned now and

then from Jena, where he studied, and when he and his mother walked together, even her near neighbours thought rather of a brother and sister, than of a mother and her son. And he looked rather her older than younger brother, for Hermann, like his father, was of a thoughtful, deeplychannelled cast of features, whilst our widow had the light, sunny glance of a girl. So young, so handsome, and so fond of life and enjoyment, it seemed strange that Mary had never married again. This was not for want of offers. Each suitor, however, met the same cold, civil repulse, and the same answer, in nearly the same words. She said that she could not love him. Indeed the standing jest of her neighbours was, that Mary never looked serious save when refusing an offer.

Up to the period of our narrative, her life, during her widowhood, had been pure above the breath of scandal; but the same could not wholly be said of her married career. There were queer tales of a young Bavarian officer, whom her husband had found too familiar with his household on his return from a short absence, and whom he drove an die degens spitze out of Bremen; for Hermann Von Korper the older, was a man whom few dared to trifle with. But nothing more was ever made of this story than a mere domestic quarrel, and the early unblemished widowhood of Mary ba nished it from the memories of all save the very old, or the very scandalous.

Our narrative properly begins with the return of young Hermann home in the autumn. He was now eighteen-full of impetuous passions and feelings; just in this point resembling his father, though, when nothing roused him, you would have thought him a quiet, melancholy, low-voiced youth.

The household of Mary Von Korper included a Verwalter, or land and house-steward-a sort of confidential manager, raised over all the other servants, and filling, in some sort, the place of master of her establishment. This office had long been filled by one who had entitled himself to the esteem of all the neighbours, and they all sorrowed greatly, when old Muller was persuaded by his kind young mistress to better his fortune, by accepting a far higher service which she, unsolicited, procured for him. His place was filled by

a wholly different sort of person, and filled so rapidly, that few knew of the change until the stranger was amongst them. Adolphe Brauer was a far younger man than his predecessor, but he was far less liked. Not because he was rude or haughty to the poor; on the contrary, his manners were more than commonly courteous. But all this suavity wanted heartiness and sincerity, and he was feared rather than loved.

I knew the widow's family at this time, and with herself I was always on terms of the most friendly and confidential intercourse. Before this visit, I had been as kindly received by her son as was possible with one of his close and reserved character. Now, however, his manners were more than cold; they were absolutely repulsive.

Meanwhile, rumours began to circulate: first scattered and low-whispered-then more uniform and frequentlouder in voice, and bolder in assertion, against the character of my fair neighbour. It was said that the new steward seemed high in his lady's confidence and favour; that he was admitted to many long and close private consultations with her; nay, even that die junge Wittwe had been seen leaning on his arm in the open street; and sorely were the antique Misses Keppelcranick, time out of mind, the best modistes in Bremen, scandalized thereat. Out of this same walk had further arisen a most remarkable rencontre which was witnessed by Peter Snick, the tailor, who lay perdu behind a high wall, over which, now and then, he could peep with fear and trembling.

Hermann, who had left his mother's house for the day, but had returned home sooner than he had expected, on turning a corner into the Bauerstrasse, met his mother leaning on the arm of Adolph Brauer, they separated hastily, with fearful looks, the moment they saw him. Hermann merely gave his mother one stern glance; then springing on the steward, he seized him by the throat. Adolphe quailed before his fury; indeed the steward was rather of a crafty nature than of boiling courage; and when his young master flung him from him, and ordered him home, he obeyed without a word. Hermann then, with a proud cold air, took his mother's arm, who looked more dead than alive, and both vanished from the terrified gaze of Peter Snick.

L. 35. 1,