THE LAMENT OF THE FAIRIES.* BY MRS. E. S. CRAVEN GREEN, Oh! well we loved the Ocean Isle ere our revels pass'd away, And we came with song at the violet's birth on the balmy eve of May; We led the dance, and we scatter'd free our charmed favours round Token and gift for the threshold-stone where the offering-flowers we found. Then the music of our silver bells came mingling on the wind, As the night-bewilder'd peasant sought the mountain-path to find; And with song, and shout, and gladsomeness, a gay and frolic band Swept past him on their elfin steeds-the knights of fairy-land. And the cloudless moon came glancing out to cast her sparkling sheen On silver helm and diamond crest, and silken robes Then far away, like shadows grey, we fled from the coming sun, Lifting the spell from our watchers' eyes when the festal rout was done; And for many a year round the household hearth he told the wondrous tale, But ne'er again might find the path that led to the haunted vale. Sorrow and sin, like a darkening cloud, o'er earth's fair regions fell, And we past away to our own bright land with a long and sad farewell; Leaving our names to the forest-streams and the pastoral valleys fair, And the sylvan nooks, where the wild flowers cast their odours on the air; But one returned, though he knew the spell would change his radiant frame, And send him forth a fearful shape with a wild and mystic name, To come no more to his fairy home till Time itself should fade Yet he braved the curse and endured the weird for the love of a mortal maid. His was the wizard-band that toil'd at midnight's witching hour, And gather'd the sheep from the coming storm, ere the shepherd saw it lour; Yet ask'd no fee save a scatter'd sheaf from the peasant's garner'd board, Or a cream-bowl kiss'd by a virgin's lip, to be left Linger still, oh, sunbeam bright! Gentle child! I'm call'd afar, Joyous sunbeam! linger not; THE PAWNBROKER'S WINDOW.* (A Tale of the day.) BY MRS. CORNWELL BARON-WILSON. "All the sad variety of woe." CHAP. I. THOMPSON. There is more of the philosophy of life to be learned at a Pawnbroker's window, than in all the libraries in the world. The maxims and dogmas which wise men have chronicled, disturb the mind for a moment and pass away; but there is something in the melancholy grouping of a pawnbroker's window, which like a record of ruin sinks into the heart. The household gods, the cherished relics, the sacred possessions affection bestowed, or eyes now closed in death had once looked upon as their own-are here as it were profaned: the associations of dear old times are here violated; the family hearth is here outraged; the ties of love, kindred, rank, all that the heart clings to, are broken here: it is a sad picture, for in spite of the glittering show, its associations are sombre. There hangs the watch, the old chased repeater, that hung above the head of a dying parent when bestowing his trembling blessing on the poor outcast who parted with it for bread-the widow's wedding ring is there, the last and dearest of all her possessions-the trinket, the pledge of love of one now dead, the only relic of the heart's fondest memories-silver that graced the holiday feast-the gilt framed miniature that used to hang over the quiet mantel-shelf-the flute, the favourite of a dead son, surrendered by a starving mother to procure food for her remaining offspring the locket that held a father's hair--or, gloomier still, the dress, the very covering of the poor is there, waving like the flags of wretchedness and misery. It is a strange sad sight; to those who feel aright, there are more touching memorials to be seen at a pawnbroker's window than in all the monuments in Westminster Abbey. the most useful members of society; and but for him the last crumbs of life would often be withheld from the lips of misery. One cold wet night, about the time already mentioned, there were three persons lingering near the Pawnbroker's. It was quite dark, and the rain was falling fast and pattering loudly in the deserted street. Each of the three appeared anxious to enter the shop, but was restrained by the presence of another already there. They were all waiting until the shop was empty, and although they did not speak to each other, each seemed to understand the other's errand, and with the morbid pride of poverty to wish to execute their own unnoticed and aloue. One of these was an old man who by his drooping attitude, feeble step, and the abject look which his features expressed when he turned them towards the light, proclaimed him most dejected of the three. He was shabbily dressed, his long gray hair hung over his hollow cheeks, and his almost shoeless feet were soaked with the rain. He was the first to enter the shop. With a trembling hand he drew a metal watch from his pocket. The pawnbroker rapidly uncased it, and after a word or two laid a few shillings on the counter. The old man gathered them up, and hurried out of the place as if anxious to remove himself from such a scene. He was succeeded in the shop by another of those who had been lingering near it,. waiting until it was empty a poor looking woman wrapped in a gray cloak. She entered with a timid, flurried look, drew a worn silver spoon from her pocket, received a small sum in exchange, and glided from the shop as stealthily as she had entered. The last of the three was now left alone. It was a young woman poorly dressed; she appeared more agitated than any of the others had been, and once or twice wrung her hands as if in agony of thought. As she drew near the shop the light that fell upon her features shewed that although pale and sorrow-worn, they were of touching beauty; while her youth-she could not be more than twenty--increased the interest which her evident distress of mind was calculated to inspire. She reached the door, her hand was raised to open it, but she shrank back again; and drawing a little miniature from her bosom, looked at it wistfully by the light of the window; the tears started to her large blue eyes, she kissed the portrait, and thrusting it again into her bosom, passed on. walked a few yards-then paused-then proceeded-then came back again. There was now another customer in the shop; she had once more It had a designing look. A baker's was next to pass on. It was still raining heavily, the door, a grocer's on the other side, and when the November wind was sweeping the dark street, and sun shone upon them the two latter had an honest the cold blasts were piercing; yet the young hearty appearance, but the former with all its glit-woman heeded them not the struggle which was ter seemed to wear a sardonic smile. Yet let not evidently going on in her own mind rendered her the business of a pawnbroker be judged too harshly, insensible to the miseries of the scene around since if he follows his calling honestly, he is one of her. At no great distance from Limehouse, about eight years ago, there was a pawnbroker's shop which had many customers, and to judge by the mingled collection which filled its window, they were of every rank and condition of life. The shop had a high narrow door, a dim abrupt entrance, and looked like a dusty spider's web to entangle the flies of a poor neighbourhood. * A Drama baving recently been founded on the plot of this story, (which although it has already appeared in print we believe may be unknown to our readers), we take leave to present it to them here. She Again she came to the pawnbroker's door. The shop was now empty, but again she appeared to hesitate. At that instant the clock of a neighbouring church struck eight. She started at the sound, and without another symptom of irresolution entered the doorway. She drew out the miniature and laid it on the counter. The pawnbroker took it up and held it to the light. It was the portrait of a young sailor, and was mounted in gold. The man looked at it for a moment, examined the painting with a sort of careless curiosity, but the gold which surrounded it, with more attention. "How much do you wish on this?" said he, addressing the young woman. "A sovereign," was the reply. The man looked at her keenly. She blushed. He examined the trinket again. "A sovereign," repeated he as if musing. "Did you buy this miniature yourself?" "No," said she, in an unsteady voice. "It was given to me." The man eyed her suspiciously. Her dress soiled with the rain, her tattered bonnet and pale face seemed to him at variance with the nature of such a present. She looked distressed, and held out her hand to receive the offered pledge again. The hand was white and delicate, the voice was mournful and soft, the manner in which she addressed him, although timid, was gentle and lady-like; the pawnbroker said within himself "she has not stolen it." A sovereign and a duplicate was handed to her, the miniature was put aside, she looked for a moment anxiously after it, then drawing her wet faded shawl over her still colder bosom, departed with a look of grief. She walked hurriedly on; the lamps she passed showed that her eyes were filled with tears, and again she wrung her hands; she entered a more narrow and desolate looking region, the lamps there were nearly all extinguished by the wind, and there was no shop to send a glare into the street. She proceeded to one of the houses, knocked gently, and was admitted. In a moment she came out again with a small basket in her hand, and proceeded towards the more frequented part of this quarter of the town. When she returned, a stranger followed her; he kept himself some distance behind, as if he was anxious not to be seen, but he followed her step for step, and watched the house she entered. He was a tall man, wrapped closely up in a dark great coat, with his hat drawn forward over his eyes. No sooner did the young woman disappear than he left the street. will kill you. Kiss me, Nance, and go to rest; poor girl, you have hardly tasted food to-day." "Mother," said Nance, "let me assist you to sit up. Here is what will do you good; I heard you murmur for it in your sleep." The invalid put the negus to her mouth. The parched lips, the dry fevered throat were refreshed, and an expression of pleasure lit up the pale sharp features. Nance knelt beside the bed, and as she watched her parent, a smile of joy brightened the tears which still stood in her eyes. "Where did you get this?" inquired her mother. "I shall tell you afterwards," whispered Nance; "I have disturbed you-try to sleep again. The negus I hope will do you good-I have tea too for the morning," continued the affectionate girl, with the fond delight of a child; "sleep, sleep, dear mother." "Nance, yesterday we parted with our last shilling; how came these things here?" "I shall tell you to-morrow; your eyes are heavy-sleep now." "Go to rest then, Nance; you will make yourself ill by watching. God bless you! kiss me, yet again, and take a mother's blessing." The girl hung over her, the warm tears fell upon the invalid's sunken cheek, and the daughter threw her arm over the attenuated form, and sobbed upon her bosom. At length the mother slept, and Nance sat down and watched. The rain beat against the window, and the gusts of wind broke in long moans upon the silence. Nance thought of the future-it was a cheerless reflection; she thought of the past, and she wept again. But with the future the reader will soon be made acquainted; it is fitting he should now know something of the past. Nance Campbell was the only child of a surgeon, who had died some years before, and who, having once served in the army, left his widow and young daughter, not without a scanty means of subsistence, from the limited pension allowed the former by the war office; upon this they had hitherto lived. They were poor, without friends; but, restricted as was their income, they had struggled to support an appearance not wholly incommensurate with the rank their character and feel She ascended to a small room on the secondings assigned them. The widow had fallen sick, and floor. It was poor and scantily furnished, but had a look of order and neatness. There were two beds in the room, on one of which a woman, apparently an invalid, was lying, and on the other some articles of female dress were scattered. There was a small but bright fire in the grate. The invalid slept. The young woman threw off her shawl and bonnet, opened the basket she had brought, and took out some tea, wine, sugar, and bread. In a few minutes she prepared a glass of warm negus and a slice of toast, and with these she approached the bed. Laying her hand softly on the sleeper's shoulder, she whispered, "Mother." "Nance, my poor Nance!" said the other, languidly opening her eyes; "these long watchings the fees of her medical attendants had made a sad inroad on their limited finances; their rent and other debts had been allowed to run into arrear. Mrs. Campbell was compelled to sell her little property to liquidate the debts, and to remove into an obscure lodging in a cheaper part of London. There the mother and the daughter now residedthe illness of the former had suffered no abatement, debts and embarrassments increased; the poor widow was on her death-bed, and with her would cease the scanty income which supported them both. There was But the record of poverty is not all. an orphan boy, the son of an officer in Mr. Campbell's regiment, who had entered as a midshipman on board an Indiaman, and was now first A BLOOMING HEAP OF WILDING FLOWERS. mate in one of the vessels in the India service, who had known Nance from girlhood, loved her, and was loved again; his was the love gift, the miniature she had pledged to-night. Frank Duncan was on his voyage to India. Nance shed bitter tears--she reproached herself for having parted with the love-pledge, although at mother's necessities might have hallowed the act. It did not do so to Nance; yet were it to be done again, she would not have acted otherwise than she did. Her mother was dying, their means of subsistence were dependant on her life, and Nance, amid all her sorrows, could not hide from herself the dim picture of indigence, which threw a melancholy hue over her future fortunes. Yes, the mother was dying. Nance saw her sinking day by day, and although the subtle disease, which was preying on its victim, cheated the sufferer with a hope of life, the daughter saw the signs of decaying nature even too plainly for affection to disguise. And what would become of Nance? Their property was already expended, indigence had already set its iron fangs upon their little household; they had no friends, and he whom she loved -be, the frank and gallant-hearted, the being who made life desirable to her, the object of her fondest hopes, truest, gentlest, and most confiding affection-poor Nance felt she had betrayed. It was now when she sat thus alone in the room, that she remembered a stranger had followed her when she was procuring the necessaries for her mother; she remembered he had even addressed her, and his undisguised look of admiration when she turned her mild features to his, in surprise at being accosted; she remembered he had fallen back; she thought, nay she was sure, he had followed her. With the pure enthusiasm of her nature it at first seemed to her a juncture which, at a time of impending calamity, might be the means of warding it off, or breaking its fall. It might be some kind stranger whom Providence in its unsearchable designs had thrown in her way, to lead her from the dire casualties of female indigence, to a virtuous and happy home, to become a protector and guardian to her, and to give her away at the altar to him whom her affection entwined with every mental vision. It was thus Nance's thoughts ran on; but amid them all, she felt a nameless chill of heart which mocked the unchecked bearing of her thoughts. She remembered that the glance of the stranger's face, slight as it had been, was of a nature which would make her shrink from looking for solace or protection there; it was an idle train of unformed hopes, fears and wishes, and she dismissed them from her mind; and Nance kissed her sleeping parent, and threw herself upon her lowly bed to dream of Frank Duncan and the lost miniature. (To be continued.) THE BURIAL AT SEA. BY ANNA SAVAGE. Our vessel sailed on in her lonely path, But I mark'd the shark that had track'd our ship Still followed us silently. The sun, as it sank in the Baltic's wave, And many a cheek then more pallid grew, As we watched the shark as he onward came * The sen-mow shrieked through the dreary night, To pray o'er the lost one's grave. And the troubled waves of life's stormy sea One moment-and rude forms were bending low Our thoughts returned to his woodland home, We looked our last on the loved one's face 7 To rest 'neath the waves that mourn o'er his grave A BLOOMING HEAP OF WILDING FLOWERS. BY W. G. J. BARKER. A blooming heap of wilding flowers I twined them in a garland bright, And all the sweets that summer yields Were in the odorous wreath combined. The rose I gather'd from its spray- I knew her lips would shame the one, THE COMPANION. (Second Part.) BY MRS. JAMES GRAY. THE COMPANION. nation, and he embarked, though with a heavy heart. The grief of poor Rose was for a little while terrible, but at her age the heart and spirit are elastic, and she had never yet experienced the reality of sorrow. The idea of her father going so far away from her was very dreadful, but all Had any modern bookmaker been admitted into the details that make up the worst suffering of abthe family of the Temples, during the few weeks sence-the anxiety, the suspense, the fear of evil that intervened between Mademoiselle Amenaide's for the beloved one at a distance, were yet unentrance there, and the departure of the master of known to her. A few days passed by, and she the mansion, he might have compiled three tolera- no longer refused to be comforted. Kind friends ble volumes, as volumes are now compiled, solely came to see her and to cheer her, and not the least from the wise and brilliant sayings that fell from welcome of these was Ilenry Waldern. He had the lips of the companion. She reminded the list- wisely staid away during the first vehement burst of ener of the Princess in the fairy tale, from whose her grief. Ile was a young man of the most scrupumouth issued either a flower or a jewel every time lous honour, and he dared not trust himself beside she spoke. There was a wondrous charm in the her in her hour of sorrow, lest he should be language in which she clothed her conversation; tempted to utter words too tender in their consoher English was so pure, and her slight foreign lation. The companion's soothing attentions were accent so bewitching. Nothing seemed common-gentle and judicious, and Rose become attached place from her lips, and though she talked more than most persons, she never seemed to say too much-never for a moment wearied her hearers. She sang beautifully, played the harp and piano exquisitely, and danced like-I cannot find a simile to describe that graceful lightness and elegance of movement which some one has called | "the poetry of motion"-yet she never made any visible attempt to display her accomplishments, never seemed to ask or seek for admiration. It was the natural tribute that came to her without being demanded, and that none could begrudge to pay. It was a thing of course that so warm-hearted and imaginative a being as Rose should be fascinated and delighted with her companion. Bitter as was her sorrow at the idea of her father's absence, it was certainly mitigated by the prospect of having so loveable and lovely a creature to share her home until his return; and Amenaïde seemed just adapted to cheer and amuse her. Before Mr. Temple sailed, he held a long conference with the companion, and imparted to her his hopes and fears respecting his child's mental and bodily health, together with many strict charges regarding the books she should read, and the subjects on which he did not wish her to converse. He spoke, too, of Henry Waldern, but only as of a very dear friend, who had permission to visit his daughter occasionally; and if Amenaïde suspected the real state of the case, she did not betray any consciousness of it. Mr. Temple's mind was greatly relieved by the quickness with which she appeared to comprehend his wishes, and her sensible comments on them, which were really the precise echo of his own remarks, though clothed in other words. The parting hour came, and Mr. Temple tore himself away from his weeping child in such a paroxysm of agony as he had not felt for years. More than once in his progress towards the vessel he felt tempted to turn back, and thought he could better bear to forfeit all the large sum at stake than to be thus separated from the gentle creature, who had never yet been deprived of his watchful care. But his better judgment prevailed over his incli to her with all the earnestness of her affectionate, On one point, however, the friends did not agree. The French woman took a strange antipathy to Henry Waldern, whilst Rose persisted in liking the youth who had been such a favourite of her father. In her simplicity she never dreamed that Mr. Temple regarded him as his future sonin-law, but having been dear to that absent parent, how could he be otherwise to Rose, even if his own kind and cheerful nature had not taught her to look on him with favour? His visits were a pleasant relief to her; he brought something of |