III. IMMATERIALITIES; OR, CAN SUCH THINGS BE?

IV. LIFE AND WRITINGS OF NIMROD.

"HANDLEY CROSS."

V. THE NEW TIMON.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

VI. SOME PASSAGES IN THE PRIVATE HISTORY OF MY POODLE. BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

VII. HOW A CHARADE WAS SOLVED BY A CODICIL. BY SHIRLEY BROOKS.

VIII. THE LADY ALICE KYTELER, BEING A SECOND CHAPTER FROM THE HISTORY OF SORCERY AND MAGIC. THOMAS WRIGHT, M.A.

IX. THE COBOURG PENINSULA AND PORT ESSINGTON.

OLD SAINT PAUL'S.

BY W. HARRISON AINSWORTH, ESQ.

WITH AN ILLUSTRATION ON STEEL BY JOHN FRANKLIN.

BY

CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186, STRAND.

THE

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

THREE POEMS.

BY FRANCES ANNE BUTLER.

I.

MARGARET'S PRAYER.

ALONE-but not companionless.-
Oh no! there sits a stony thing
Close by me; on my brow and breast,
Her grasping icy fingers press;
She will not leave me any rest,
But night and day she still sits there,
And in my eyes with glassy stare
Looks with her eyes all colourless;
She is my fellow dear-Despair.
And in my ears strange voices ring;
It is a burthen wild they sing ;
And while I hear my heart stands still,
And o'er me creeps a shuddering chill;
I cannot drive the sound away :
It sings to me all night and day,
And this is what the voices say :-

"Why should'st thou weep ?
Are not the waters bright and deep,
And underneath

Is there not Death?

Bidding thee leap

Into his sheltering arms and sleep,

And no more weep.

Why should'st thou live

A shameful cast-away?
Why should'st thou strive,
Day after day,

To bear the burthen of thy years,
To drink thine own despised tears,
To feed on bitter doubts and fears;
To sit with terror on thy brow,
Watching the false lip of the world
In scorn against thy downfal curl'd?
Before his feet thy heart to throw
March.-VOL. LXXVI. NO. CCCIII.

S

Who spurns thee back with sated lust,
Trampled and vile, into the dust.
Oh, is not this a goodly life?
No more a maid-never a wife.
Oh, is not shame a pleasant thing?
And loathed love-and the keen sting
Of an accusing soul—the fire
Of a consuming, vain desire.-
Oh, is not each of these a guest,
To lodge within a maiden's breast!
Why should'st thou weep?

The bud thy trembling fingers hold
Within its soft, dark, velvet fold,
Carries a draught of the pale sleep :
Drink, from the smiling gift of love;
The flower's breath

Is sweet-but far more sweet would
Its taste for that is death.

Hark, the deep waters flow,
Come to thy bed below!
See, the fair blossoms glow,

Of their sweet sap

Turn thee to sleep,

From misery,

From infamy,

drink thou!

Sleep-and be free!"

Mother of God! be near me !
O Mary, mother! hear me!
From this temptation save me!
The life that mercy gave me,
Oh, let thy mercy spare
From this black snare!

Mother of God! be near me !
In this tremendous hour
Upbear me with thy power!
From this steep downward path,

From the dark pit of death,

prove

Turn thou my feet.-Oh, hear me !

II.

A VOICE FROM THE DEAD.

Written upon a beautiful young woman, who, after a miserable marriage of short duration, passed through a brief period of insanity to her death at two-and-twenty,

WEEP not, ye dear ones, I am now at rest;
Short was the season of my agony;

'Tis past, and I am now among the blest,
The blest for evermore, oh weep not ye

Remember how my happy childhood fled,

!

Made bright by your fond love and tender care;
Of the short years time number'd o'er my head,
Many were those of joy, few of despair.

Think not of the brief torture that is past,

Still I lay safe within my father's arms;
E'en through that dark eclipse He held me fast,
And bore me quickly from all earthly harms.
No long-protracted unavailing strife
Awaited me-no flinty, endless path
To drag my bleeding feet along-for life
Smote me at once, and gave me o'er to death.
Mine eyes were not put out with scalding tears,
Pour'd, torture-like, into them day by day;
The hideous vision of dread future years
Scared them but once-and all was swept away.

Such, as I stood within my earthly home,
As bright, as pure, more glorious than before,
To God my Father's presence am I come,
To dwell in holiness for evermore!

So think of me as by His throne I stand,
Led thither through how short an agony,
How brief a wanderer in the evil land
Is one who rests for all eternity.

And

weep not! Weep not! Thither shall
ye come
E'en in our Father's time to find the love,
Whose lowly root was in our earthly home,
Blooming immortal in the realms above.

III.

ON READING WITH DIFFICULTY SOME OF SCHILLER'S EARLY LOVE POEMS. WHEN of thy loves, and happy heavenly dreams

Of early life, O Bard! I strive to read,

Thy foreign utterance a riddle seems,

And hardly can I hold thy thoughts' bright thread.
When of the maiden's guilt, the mother's wo,
And the dark mystery of death and shame,
Thou speakest then thy terrible numbers flow
E'en as the tongue we think in were the same.
Ah! wherefore, but because all joy and love
Speak but imagined unknown words to me?
A spirit of wishful wonder they may move,
Dreams of what might but yet shall never be.
But the sharp cry of pain, the inward moan
Of trust deceived-the horrible despair,
Of life and love for ever overthrown-
These strains of thine need no interpreter.
Ah! 'tis my mother-tongue, and howsoe'er
In foreign accents writ that I did ne'er
Or speak or hear, this bitter agony
Still utters a familiar voice to me.

A GALLOP TO GRETNA.

WHO has not heard of this obscure, unsightly village, where stands, or stood, the anvil on which Hymen forged his chains? Its glory is now gone; its privileges are passed away; its smithy has ceased to be a temple; its Vulcan is no more a god!

The scenery consists of a bleak common and a pool of water, presenting little interest except to geese and lovers: full in front stands the desolate-looking hotel, and a little further on are a few cottages, among which the smithy does, and the blacksmith did, exist. The proprietor of the inn has latterly discharged the matrimonial offices.

In that lonely Inn how many a passionate prayer has been breathed— how many a wild heart found its freedom- how many a maiden trembled between Hope fulfilled and Fear to come! Beneath that humble roof, lofty birth has laid aside precedence, wealth abandoned its influence, and spirits, once pure and proud, sought an ambiguous sanction for their lawlessness. It would be sad to reckon over the small number among these who have found peace or blessing in their union-that object for which their home has been deserted, fond hearts broken, trusting hearts deceived, and gray hairs numberless brought in sorrow to the

grave.

The following story is one of a thousand that has been acted, not written: stories that lie ambushed in those commonplace announcements of "elopements in high life" that sound as usual as railway accidents, or Tipperary murders.

In the month of March last, two young men were dining together at the Imperial Hotel at Leamington; the waiters had departed with all the pomp and circumstance of important dinner; wine was sparkling on the damask cloth, and the fire-blaze leaped and roared as if it were some demon that could not altogether escape from its prison-bars. It was a beneficent demon, however, for it made the whole room look cheerful with its play, and lent something of its own brightness to the faces of our dramatis persona. Of these the younger wore an anxious and excited look, like one who has something wrong to do, and much to his say; scarlet coat and spattered boots suited well with his hurried accents, and eager eyes were bent upon his companion. The latter looked like one who had done his part, whatever it was, and with the composure of a Turkish prophet he was gazing gravely on his chesnuts. As the fire-light played upon his lofty forehead, a thoughtful eye might read that he

Had felt, inflicted, past, and proved,

more than his years would promise. His features wore at the same time the character of repose and energy, and a flash of humour gleamed at times over the somewhat saddened expression of his countenance.

"So you are determined to run away with her, and have made up your mind to all the consequences," he observed, after a pause. "Well, they used to say that a field of battle was the only spot where an Irishman could die in peace; and as the bloody sod is your natural death-bed, so I suppose Gretna Green is your national parish-church."

"Ah! now my dear fellow, don't be joking with me. It's the jackass