sure of such a heart!

Sybil, I have no words to express my scorn of him. If I could make you hate him I would.” "Hate him, Juliet! Oh! remember what a tyrant my father was said to be; and he is only a younger son, and entirely dependent on him.”

"Is? No, Sybil, he is no longer a younger son. I am not much acquainted with his late movements, but this, at any rate, is well known; his brother Henry was shot in a duel with another officer, at Iver-heath, near London, about three months ago."

"Heavens, Juliet! you never wrote me this."

"I preferred telling you, love, if we ever should advert to the subject at all, which I fondly hoped might not be the case. I had no wish to awaken in your mind recollections or anticipations of what I more than feared there might be good reason to wish buried in oblivion. I have more to tell you, Sybil, though after what I have just heard you say, there are few things I would not more willingly do. But it will come best from me. His father is dead too; he died six weeks ago. I suppose you have not seen the Scotch papers regularly, or you must have noticed the announcement of his death. And-and-it is confidently asserted amongst his friends here, that Grantley Forbes is on the eve of marriage.' Sybil became as pale as death, but it was with no further evidence of emotion that she repeated in a calm voice,

"Marriage? To whom, Juliet ?"

"To a Miss Dunbar, a considerable heiress in the north. He is every way unworthy, Sybil. I have been told by one whom I consider very good authority in his affairs-an old friend of his family, that he has behaved very ill to this young lady; that, villain as he is, he was engaged to her five years ago; and that his conduct since, as, indeed, I need not to be told, has been such that it is a matter of surprise to all her connections that the match should go on. But it is now arranged, they say, only that of course his father's death has delayed it."

"If that be true," said Sybil, "if it be possible that he was engaged then... .. I do not believe it, Juliet. I cannot believe that. The remainder of the story is likely enough to be true."

Unprincipled, heartOne day, Sybil, you will, know there must be time

"And what is he ?" exclaimed Juliet. 66 less! Let us speak of him no more. you must, think of him as I do. I given for that."

"Juliet," said Sybil, with that confiding simplicity which formed in womanhood as well as at an earlier age a distinguishing characteristic of all her words and actions-" Juliet, I spoke nothing but the truth awhile ago, though I could have spoken it to no one but yourself. I cannot forget Grantley Forbes, but I will never love the husband of another woman; therefore I must try

to think of him as dead; which indeed he will henceforth be to me. But even now I cannot regret that I did love him, for it made me happier than I should ever otherwise have been. Don't blame him too severely; I cannot bear to hear you do so. How can we guess at all the circumstances which have led to this. I hope I hope at all events that he may be happy. She dared

trust her voice no farther.

Night came, and Sybil was in her own apartment. "I am alone now," she said, as she sat down by the table. "Now I may cry; it will relieve this dull, dead pain at my heart."

But that pain at the heart is one which stifles the fountain of tears. She could not weep; she could only press her hands over her dry and burning eyes, and think over old times, old cherished hopes, old recollections, all that passes in review before us as we dig the grave of love. She remembered the long weary months and years which had gone by in suspense and uncertainty, and dreaming of the past; and wondered that her heart still retained such intensity of feeling as to writhe beneath the last blow. Alas! the blow which kills the heart's last, best, dearest treasure, falls with equal severity of pain, fall when it will, and after what previous length of suffering it, will. It is a fierce pang which extinguishes hope, the tenacious of existence. True, she feeds on visions, but if they have sufficed to give life and vigour, their loss is as terrible as that of realities. "I have too long been a dreamer," said Sybil to herself, as departed days crowded on her recollections; "I must try to cure myself of dreaming."

for

She took from her letter-case some relics which had lain there years, now doomed to destruction; for henceforth she had nothing to do with relics of him. They were few in number, and such as no sentiment but love could have led any one to value; a few notes addressed to her father-the last of all wrapped round the bouquet which she had worn on the day of their final interview-one note to herself, of a few formal lines in the third person respecting the loan of a book, the withered roses formerly mentioned, and a bunch of violets which he had brought her one day in early spring. These were all; but over these how many warm tears had flowed, how many fond recollections clung around them, how much of woman's undying love had hallowed these empty memorials! Even now the sight of them sufficed to open the floodgates of her imprisoned tears, and she wept long and bitterly as she looked at them. She had taken them out with an intention of burning them, but her courage failed. "Not to-night," she said to herself, "not to-night. I must visit the Holms once more, and sit in the old garden again. The circle must be completed, and then, on the night of my return, I shall burn them all." She locked them up again, and endeavoured to compose her mind to her evening devotions,

"The hand of a Father," she said, "is in all that befalls us. His will be done! If I had never known the sorrows I have done I should never have known the sin of giving up my affections to the things of earth. And if this last bitter cup must be given to my lips, I know there must be a good reason for it, else it would not be."

THE EXILES.

A DUET.

HERE'S TO AULD SCOTLAND.

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

Macgregor.

Он, here's to auld Scotland again,

Of beauty and valour the shrine !
A bumper, a bumber for Scotland we'll drain,
The land o' thy fathers and mine.

Duncan.

When we left the dear Highlands as boys,

My heart was as simple as thine;

How we wept when we turn'd fra' the hame o' past joys,
And the friends that we loved o' lang syne!

Macgregor.

I can still see the dominie's face,

Wi' his bonnet an' cassock o' gray,

As we took our last look o' the auld gloomy place,
Where we played wi' our comrades sae gay.

Duncan.

Oh, check not the tears as they start,

Thine eye only answers to mine;

Though gray, I am still but a boy in my heart,
When I think o' the friends o' lang syne.

Macgregor.

Oh, here's to the hills an' the braes,

The torrent and lonely ravine!

An' here's to the sports and the loves o' young days,
When we laugh'd wi' the lassies at e'en.

Duncan.

An' here's to auld Scotland again,

Of beauty an' valour the shrine!

A bumper, a bumper for Scotland we'll drain,
And one for the friends o' lang syne!

CLASSIC HAUNTS AND RUINS.

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL, AUTHOR OF THE TRADUCED."

No. VIII.

THE GREEK ISLES.-CONcluded.

HAIL Samos! leagued with Egypt's early kings;
Where science reigned, and commerce spread her wings ;*
Tyre of the Ægian! waking Cræsus' sigh,

Thy ruined mart yet strikes the wondering eye;
Walls cased in marble, turrets stately still,
Theatral benches ranged along the hill.

Lo! where the bird that steals the rainbow dyes,
Spreads his rich train, alive with thousand eyes!
He stands where rose his mistress' fane of old,†
With porphyry pillars, altars rich with gold;
Ah! shut thy plumes, gay bird, thy pride must bow,
For what of Juno recks the Samian now?

Here in this mouldered porch once taught the sage,‡
Boast of all Greece, the wonder of his age;

Who read the stars, and traced the soul's bright course,
Though errant long to one eternal source ;
Caught from truth's radiant planet partial gleams,

Sublime in error, beautiful in dreams!

Pass we dark Patmos with its peal of bells;
Sweet from the echoing rocks that music swells;
Yet faint and dying oft, as breezes sweep;
Sure some young Nereid sighs along the deep:
Or from the cave where he, the dreamer, lay,
While on his rapt soul burst eternal day,

Celestial harpings steal o'er ocean's breast,
Angelic forms still haunting place so blest. §

*Seven centuries before the Christian era, Samos, under the patronage of Psammetichus, King of Egypt, became remarkable for maritime enterprize, and was only inferior to Tyre and Sidon as regarded its foreign trade. The ruins of the ancient city are situated near Mount Ampelus; the walls are incrusted with marble, and many of the square towers still stand; but the great Temple of Juno, the tutelar goddess of the island, exhibits in its remains but little to attest its ancient magnificence.

The peacock was sacred to Juno.

+ Pythagoras.

The cave, called the Holy Grotto, in which St. John is said to have written the Apocalypse, is still shown at Patmos, at a short distance from the great monastery which bears his name,

Isle of Apelles! Cos, the rich and fair,
While time thy granite city deigns to spare,
Lives not one piece of all thy painter drew?
Phryne's fine form, Campaspa's eyes of blue?
Is Philip dust? doth Venus glow no more,
Wafted by nymphs to Cyprus' myrtled shore ?*
Yes, thy great master's heaven-descended art
Hath left no trace-so brightest things depart.
Apelles' works have shrunk into a name,
An idle echo voiced by doubtful fame.
But Julis' wrecks still line the storied strand,
Speaking, this hour, of all that's fair and grand.
The massive walls, the pillars of the shrine,
Breathe Titan strength, yet grace in every line.
High on the ridge that breezy billows kiss,
Whitens, like snow, the bold Acropolis.
No ruins rival these through all the isles;
They wear no frown, but beauty's softest smiles.
It seems as though that sage who here had birth,†
The mighty Healer, once renowned through earth,
Had breathed a spell on Julis' towers of gray,
Strengthening their strength, arresting e'en decay.‡

Cos! famed of yore for black-eyed loveliest maids,
Who walked in white, their hair in silken braids.§
As now the summer sunlight glistening falls,
On grass-grown streets, and sites of royal halls,
Full many a glowing form, to fancy's eye,
Leans in the shade, or glides in beauty by.
The thin gauze veil, a cloud around her throne,
Reveals a brow-such Phidias carved in stone;
The dimpling cheek, the sweet vermillion lip,
Where warm Anacreon's bee might nectar sip;

* Apelles, the Raphael of classic times, was a native of Cos. He drew several portraits of King Philip of Macedon, but all his superb paintings were thrown into the shade by his Venus Anadyomene; it represented the birth of that goddess, at the moment when she is supposed to be rising from the waves, attended by all the marine deities.

+ Hippocrates, the physician.

The ruins of Julis, the ancient capital of Cos, seem entitled to more attention than has been bestowed upon them by travellers. The famous Oxford marble, generally believed to have been found at Paros, was, "in reality," to use the words of Clarke, "discovered among the ruins of Julis." These striking remains cover the summit of a hill, the base of which is washed by the sea. The Acropolis, or citadel, stands on the cape. Tournefort describes the masses of marble employed in the building of the great temple, and the walls, as surpassing any other remains of antiquity to be found in the Greek islands. Some of the blocks are more than twelve feet in length, almost rivalling those at Baalbec and Palmyra.

Ovid describes the women of Cos as peculiarly beautiful, and says that they always dressed in white. Vide Met. 7. Fab. 9.