"Give her to me, father!" cried Arnhold; I swear to cherish and protect her while I live. Give her to me, and when she shall be the loved wife of my bosom, I will live for her aye, and die for her!"

Karl laughed in mockery. "You value life but little," said he, "to talk of sacrificing it for a woman. I never knew one worth the trouble of winning, and least of all Theresa."

The young hussar laid his hand on his sabre. Theresa threw herself between them. At the same moment Ludovic sprang from his couch, tore the covering from his head, snatched his saddle from the wall where it hung, seized his sabre, with one stroke laid it open, and a stream of gold bezants, oriental pearls, and sparkling jewels, fell on the floor. "Wretch worm! vile clod of earth! art thou not justly punished? Hence, reptile! be gone, before I forget that thou art of my blood!" Ludovic, raised his sabre, and the dastardly Karl fled, without daring to give utterance to the imprecation which huug on his colourless lips.

Trampling under foot the costly jewels which lay strewed around, Theresa rushed forward and embraced her father, exclaiming, "is not this a dream? Are you indeed restored to me? Can this bliss be real?"

66

Forgive me, my child," exclaimed Ludovic, "the pain I have been obliged to give your generous heart. My effort to make that wretch resign his claim to your hand has been successful. Grudge not that part of our store has been appropriated to the holy church; not to purchase forgiveness of the sins I mentioned, and of which, thank Heaven I am guiltless, but to be the blessed means of saving you from a miserable fate. Kneel down, my children-aye, support her, Arnhold; lay her innocent head on your bosom, and receive the fervent benediction of an old hussar."

SLANDER.

To be continually subject to the breath of slander, will tarnish the purest virtue, as a constant exposure to the atmosphere will obscure the brightness of the finest gold; but in either case the real value of both continues the same, although the currency may be somewhat impeded.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL,

BY THE AUTHOR OF LEISURE HOURS AT SEA."

I saw thee but few months ago,
(It hardly seems a day!)

Thy young cheek tinged with rosy glow,
Thy bosom light and gay:

Then 'neath thy tranquil brow shone out
A bright and sunny eye-

Oh! who that saw thee then had thought
That thou so soon must die!

Thy life was like the glassy stream
By April called to birth;

Which flows awhile in summer's beam,
Then sinks again in earth.

The flowers that blossom on its side
Decay, as ebbs the wave;

And thus the hopes thy birth supplied,
Lie wither'd in thy grave!

O, who shall dry thy mother's tear,
And sooth her anguish wild,
Now thou art lost, her solace bere,
Her child-her only child?

Vainly the sobs would friendship hush
That thoughts of thee awake;
Her burning tears but faster gush-
Her heart must weep, or break.

Thy sire, when home his footsteps wend
From scenes of wo and pain,*
Unconscious, oft, will listening bend
To catch thy voice-in vain!-

No more no more upon the air
Thy laugh of joy shall come,
To chase away each brooding care,
And bid him welcome home!

The father was a physician.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF A LITTLE GIRL.

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No more, as in thy living hours,

Shall hope's enchanting beam
Awake to bloom the varied flowers

That waved o'er life's warm stream ;

The stream that runs in darkness now
Was warm and sparkling then-
But ah! the light chat gave its glow
Can never shine again!

Yet though hope's beam be lost in night,
Life's sweetest flower decayed,

There is a star for ever bright,

A flower that ne'er can fade.

The mourner finds who seeks for them
A balm for all his woes;

That star's the star of Bethlehem--
That rose is Sharon's rose.

GEOFFREY RUDEL.

The first awakening light which fell upon the modern world, when the dark ignorance in which it had been wrapped for many centuries was about to be dispelled, was shed by the genius of the Provencal poets. Nothing can be more unjust or ungenerous than to try their compositions by those rules of criticism which an acquaintance with the classical writers (whose names and exis'ence were unknown to the troubadours) and the successful efforts of later and more gifted poets has enabled us to arrive at. The disadvantage under which they wrote, with no other guide than their own taste, no other inspiration than their own feelings, should be taken into the estimate; the state of society whose applause they sought should be considered; it should be remembered, too, that the language in which they wrote has become obsolete, and that its lighter graces are not felt nor understood even by the natives of the land in which they lived. With all these considerations, every candid