of Magdalene's voice. The thought nerved him with new energy, and he summoned all his remaining strength. His antagonist sank, pierced through the heart. At this moment Magdalene and her father burst into the room. 'Brother, unhappy brother!' broke from her lips, and she fell lifeless upon his body. Despair fell upon Waldemar. He stood thunder-struck, overwhelmed by the thought of a brother's murder. At length Magdalene revived. Her first glance fell on Waldemar, then on his bloody sword. She swooned again, and fell back upon the bleeding body of her brother. They bore her away, and her aged father, who had stood with his eye fixed in death-like gaze upon his son, followed in silence. Waldemar remained alone, with the reflection that he had destroyed the happiness of those he held most dear. Soon the Count returned. He had recovered his self-possession, and held out his hand to the murderer of his son. Waldemar was overcome; he sank at his feet, and moistened his hand with his tears; but the old man drew him to his heart, and both wept aloud in each others embrace. When the Count had sufficiently recovered himself, he narrated to Waldemar how his son Camillo, after he had been obliged to leave on account of the duel, had taken service in the French army, and a few days before had agreeably surprised them; how Magdalene had told her brother of her Waldemar, and how he rejoiced in the hope of knowing and loving the friend of his sister. Waldemar's frame shook with anguish at the recital. He raved as one mad, and the Count snatched the sword out of his hand to prevent him from taking his own life.

But now the anxiety depicted in every movement arrests their attention. Alas! Magdalene, whose tender frame could ill endure such a shock, was dying!

Waldemar became frantic with despair; he prayed the count to let him see Magdalene once more, and threw himself at his feet. Trembling with emotion, the stricken father turned away that he might not refuse the unfortunate man this last request. Magdalene, whose heart struggled painfully between affection and horror, could hardly be persuaded to see again the slayer of her brother; but her lovely spirit, so near its departure, overcame the reluctance, and undying love conquered. But here is a fragment of another letter from Waldemar :

GUSTAVUS, I am ruined! I have murdered the peace of three angels! The stain of blood is on me, and despair throbs in my veins ! Gustavus, curse me! Fearfully do visions of the past haunt me; they will drive me mad. I am crazy now!

Once more have I seen her whose heaven of joy I have destroyed; once more she looked on me with all the tender expression of former love, and faintly whispered: Waldemar, I forgive you!' These words went like a dagger to my soul, and I sank down at her feet. With her last effort she tried to raise me— to draw me to her bosom; but her strength failed, and she sank dead into my arms!

'Gustavus, Gustavus, despair is hurrying me to her again; yes, I am hastening after her. She has forgiven me, the lovely, the sainted one, but I-I cannot forgive myself! I must offer up myself; only by blood-by my blood-can I wash the stain from my soul !

'Farewell! I dare not contend with my destiny. I have murdered my own peace. Farewell, thou true brotherly spirit!-GoD in mercy will let me die!'

His last wish was granted him. That little skirmish was the prelude to a decisive battle, and the following day saw the two armies join in fearful conflict. Waldemar fought with desperation, rushed into the heart of the hostile army, and found what he sought-death! Pierced through with countless bayonets, he sank in the thickest of the fight, and the last word that breathed forth from his dying lips. was 'Magdalene!' His companions in arms, who loved him with generous enthusiasm, sought him out after the battle, and with tears of manly sorrow laid him in the family vault at Villarosa, by the side of his much-loved Magdalene.

THE CREMATION.

BY WILLIAM BELCHER GLAZIER,

TO-NIGHT my eyes, tear-laden, have wandered sadly o'er
The lines that told a passion, sleeping now to wake no more.

From each mute and voiceless syllable are dreary memories born,
That with fingers dim and spectral point to days forever gone.

'Forever,' oh! 'Forever!' 't was the word you breathed to me
When your girlish faith you plighted, with the stars alone to see.

False scroll and falser passion! how it haunts me lying there,
Read into my deepest memory, treasured up to mock despair.

Tears of joy have fallen on it, and again and yet again

Have my lips sought out the places where your fingers might have lain.

Foolish tears, ye were but squandered! idle was the clinging kiss!
Of the love that blazed so brightly there is nothing left but this.

Ere this too be cold in ashes, let the voices of the past
Speak once more unto thy spirit, speak for this time and the last.

We were young in life; no shadows fell upon our lightsome way;
There was then no night of sorrow that would never break to day:

No passion heart inwoven, no memory so deep

That the wave of Lethe only could lull it into sleep.

Then I lingered in the sunlight of thy deep and pleading eyes,
Then I felt from out the fountains of my heart a love arise.

Not unloving was thy accent, not of anger was thy blush,
When the words 'I love you!' came to break the twilight's holy hush.

But the lip on mine that quivered, and the crimson on thy brow,
Seemed to say with chiding fondness: 'Canst thou doubt I love thee now?'

Doubt thee!-if from out the silence of the sky a voice had rung,

6

Saying Doubt her!' all the closer to thy heart I would have clung.

Then the distant gleaming glory of the stars appeared to lie
Reflected in the lustre of thy timid upturned eye.

Then I seemed to hear life's volume closed with soft and muffled sound,
And a whisper, saying, 'Read no more; thou hast the secret found!'

But to-night the stars have lighted their mournful fires again,
And to-night my heart is saying, 'Did she love thee even then?

'Didst thou think, in that sweet moment when her kisses lightly fell, That to-night the only accent on thy lips would be 'Farewell!''

Yet it must be; through the midnight with a dreary, hopeless tone,
The wind the word repeateth, and repeateth that alone.

I must sift thee from my spirit; I must sever thee from thought;
In the net of my remembrance must thy image ne'er be caught.

There were hopes my heart had guarded; let them perish in their prime;
Let no answer to their longing come from out the future time.

There were springs that blessed life's journey; let me never of them taste:
There were green spots where we rested; let them be a barren waste.

It was summer when I met thee, and with hues as bright and gay
As the summer's wooing blossoms, dawned love's twilight into day.

It was autumn when we parted, when the flowers no more were fair,
When the maple tossed his bloody arms upon the frosty air.

So the autumn of the spirit came with sudden step on me,

And, with hues at death the brightest, fell the leaves from passion's tree.

Wherefore do I speak of passion? here are words that seem to rise
From its hotliest blazing altar, from its purest sacrifice.

Did they spring from young Affection? did they Truth's impression wear?
No! the Falsehood looked from out them with a leaden, mocking stare!

Brighter blaze, ye flames that flicker, fiercer yet, ye embers, glow,
While amid your red embraces this faithless scroll I throw !

All is dark; amid the forest of the pines with sullen roar The midnight wind is saying, 'No more, oh! never more!' Hallowell, Maine.

Then dig away, ye sons of toil!
Root out the last year's stubble;
Plant, sow and reap, until the soil
Its greatest yield shall double;
Here is a hungry army come
Your hoarded heaps to find,
And it will sweep them all, nor leave
A gleaner's share behind.

A REVELATION.

'HALLOO, my Fancie! whither would'st thou go?

J. H.

Ir was my fortune, during the period of early manhood, to become acquainted with a lady of delightful conversational power, much energy and vivacity of mind, and great goodness of disposition: my senior by many years; and who, with the tact that properly belongs to her bright sex, found diversion, and perhaps interest, in examining the impulses of a young unpractised existence of the other sex, where the heart still promised, what the fancy drew.'

Perhaps it may have been in reward of the docility and frankness with which I submitted to the analysis, and exposed unreservedly my hopes and fears of after-life to her judgment; perhaps it may have been impulsively and without premeditation, that she raised the veil from off a picture of domestic life, (of which we had been conversing,) and gave me a lesson that I have never since forgot.

Young, ardent minds of either sex look forward in this country to that 'state of untried being,' called MARRIAGE, almost with the dreamy imaginings of fear and hope with which they regard an interchange of worlds. LOVE, says Madame de Stael, which is a mere episode in the life of man, forms the life of woman.' But this observation, applicable and just to our sex in Europe, is far less exact in America, where those of our youth, who deserve the name of American Youth, labour on from day to day, in hope, in industry, in ceaseless toil, in self-denial; picturing to themselves, as the precious reward of a long course of purity and exertion, the perspective joy of sharing the fruits of this life of untiring labour with the one Being to whom they can ever say, ‘Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following thee; for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thon lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my GoD: where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried: the LORD do so to me, and more also, if aught but Death part thee and me.'

This is Love. This is Marriage. This is Love and Marriage in America. This is that state of unity of which the ALMIGHTY hath said, And they twain shall be ONE. That spiritual union, of which the community is perfect; in which thoughts that spring up, and have their root in the one soul, grow, and bourgeon, and effloresce, throughout the