eye was turned upon me as she spoke; but there was a languor in her gaze, that seemed to say her thoughts were not on what she was about her countenance was interesting, and had been beautiful, but sickness or sorrow had spread a pallid hue over her features; and though at times a transient hectic would flush her cheek, it soon passed away." Edward sailed last week," she cried;-" Ellen buckled on his sword,—and Edward smiled on Ellen-but he is gone to the wars-I shall never see him more." I was still supporting her, and, as she uttered these words, a hot tear fell upon my hand. I cannot describe my feelings at that moment; there was a thrill through my frame; and I began to feel a lively interest for the lovely stranger and her misfortunes. She observed what had happened; and pulling out a white pocket-handkerchief, with an air of the greatest simplicity, gently wiped my hand." Edward will come back," said I, scarcely knowing what I uttered: “Come back,” she cried, starting from her seat, and staring full in my face; “Ah, no! you're joking with poor Ellen-but you're a kind man, and you are kind to Ellen-Edward shall thank you." She put her hand into her bosom, and pulling out an amulet cross, which was supended by a purple ribbon from her neck, "Look," she said, "this is what Edward gave me-Good-bye, Ellen!" said he, "but Ellen could not say "good-bye”—and he flung this round me-(she gave a wild stare).-There is a mist over the rest-I often harass this poor head, but I cannot remember any more." It was easily to be perceived that her intellects were deranged, and I was unwilling to leave the unfortunate girl in that situation. I gently raised her; and, seemingly unconscious of what she was doing, she walked on by my side. We had not proceeded far along the shore, when a man and woman came running towards us, in breathless anxiety, who appeared to be searching for something they had lost. On recognising the poor girl, who was hanging in listless apathy on my arm, I saw a sudden flush of joy pass over the countenance of the old woman, and they both gazed alternately on me and her :-the old man was the first to break silence, and asked me, in rather an angry tone, "What I was doing with his daughter?" I related to him the circumstances of our meeting, and what had since happened. They thanked me in very affectionate terms for my kindness, and then, turning to their daughter, loaded her with caresses and questions; but she seemed lost in thought, and not at all to understand their meaning. On the way home they related to me her history; they informed me, that they themselves were attendants on the bathing-machines, and for the last twenty years had gained, by their joint endeavours in that occupation, a comfortable livelihood;—their only daughter, the unfortunate heroine of my tale, had a few months back fixed her

affections on a young man of a neighbouring village; their attachment was reciprocal; and the day had been appointed for their marriage-but her lover some time before had enlisted in the *** regiment, and the whole corps had been suddenly ordered off to the Continent: the poor girl had been inconsolable from the time she first heard the news; they continually found her in tears, and all attempts to comfort her were in vain; she attended him on board the ship that was to convey him away, and, clinging to his arms, was for a long time unable to be separated. When the vessel was under weigh, they were obliged to carry her off by force; she fell into a swoon, and was conveyed home in a state of insensibility: being put to bed, in a short time she was in a high fever. They obtained for her what little medical assistance their means could afford, and were in hopes she had been gradually recovering-but her grief preyed upon her mind, and though the fever had left her, her intellects were materially injured. Though they sat by her bedside, and paid her the most affectionate attentions that tenderness could dictate, she seemed not to recognise them, or to be conscious of their presence. Her Edward was always uppermost in her thoughts; and though lost to every thing else, she seemed to have a distant recollection of the scene she had been last engaged in. On the morning in question, they had gone out to their usual avocations, and had left her still lying in bed; on their return they were astonished and alarmed at finding the bed empty, and her clothes not in their place; -they inquired among the neighbours, but could find no intelligence of her they at length heard that she had been seen pacing silently along the shore, and had accordingly proceeded in search of her, not without a fear that, in the deranged state of her mind, she might commit some act of desperation, before they would be able to prevent it. This simple narration of the poor girl's affection interested me extremely. While I remained at the place, I paid frequent visits to their cottage, and thought at last I could perceive a gradual amendment in poor Ellen's health; she at times exhibited signs of returning recollection, though her general discourse was of the little circumstances that had taken place during her last intercourses with Edward. I took an interest in her welfare, and rejoiced to think she was recovering; but, alas! how futile are human hopes! I was soon after called away from the place, and circumstances prevented my return during two years. I was then accidentally passing through, and stopped for a couple of hours, that I might inquire after Ellen. The path, that led to her cottage, was through the churchyard; and in going along my attention was attracted by a tombstone of rude sculpture, that seemed newly erected. I walked up to it to read the inscription it was simply this:

I stood for a moment steadfastly gazing on the stone, and unconscious of any thing around me. The recollections of my former adventure crowded on my mind—I remembered her interesting features, her affectionate simplicity. "Poor Ellen," said I," thy roses were nipped, when they were beginning to expand; thine was an unhappy lot here, but thou art gone to a better world, where sorrow and care are not." I felt a tear trickling down my cheek, which recalled me to myself. I took a last look on the stone, and proceeded on my way. "Is sensibility a blessing?" thought I, as I walked pensively along. "Surely not. It may refine the passions-it may give a tone to the affectionsbut it makes us feel the thorns of life doubly acute: yet it is an amiable virtue, and one which we cannot refrain from admiring."

The gate of the little garden in the front of their cottage was open; the flower-beds, which I used formerly to admire for their neatness, were trampled on, and in disorder. The old people. were removing their furniture, preparatory to their departure for a neighbouring village. They were surprised to see me, but received me with cordiality. I perceived that my presence recalled unpleasant remembrances, and therefore determined that my visit should be short. I was informed that Edward had returned from the war with a wooden leg, and a pension. He was told of the affection and despondency of Ellen; but arrived only in time to see the first grass springing up on her grave. His grief is deep, but not violent; he has ordered that stone to be erected as a memorial of their loves-and his greatest pleasure is to visit at evening the green sod, which he allows not to be trampled on, or injured. The old woman opened a little work-box, and producing a small net purse, placed it in my hand. My initials were on the side-it was, she said, the work of her daughter during her illness, which she had desired, if ever I returned, should be given to me as a token of remembrance.

Poor Ellen! years have passed away, since the time I last gazed on your pale form-since the time I shed a tear of compassion on the turf that enshrouded it; but that purse-the last relic of your affection-the memento of your kindness, remains still whole and inviolate; it is treasured up amid the most precious of my earthly possessions;-and whenever. I indulge myself with gazing on it, an involuntary tear starts to the eye of CHARLES BELLAMY.

Maimoune: a Poem.

CANTO Ι.

f.

"Marriage is-Gad!—a cursed bore."-GOLIGHTLY.

I.

In those fantastic days, when elves and fairies
Held high command o'er sublunary things,
And teased us mortals with as mad vagaries
As ever sprung from bard's imaginings,
Playing strange pranks in cellars and in dairies,

Riding the Nightmare o'er the breasts of kings; Souring good beer, cow-milking, and cream-skimming, And thumping clowns by night, and pinching women :

II.

When madcap Oberon reigned in all his glory, Now holding King-like quarrels with his Queen; And now with Puck upon the promontory,

Seeing such sights as since were never seen; There liv'd, renown'd in Oriental story,

A mighty King-we'll call him Fadladeen, Because his name's not mention'd by the Lady Whose tale I borrow, Queen Scheherazade.

III.

Fame says he reign'd with wondrous approbation,
(Especially of courtiers and bashaws ;)

In times of peace was mild in his taxation,
And made some very creditable laws;
Indeed, in their invidious situation,

Few Monarchs ever gain'd so much applause;

In private life, the truth I can't evade is,

He was a perfect devil with the Ladies.

IV.

He had a most inveterate aversion

To matrimonial fetters; and he swore,
In oaths befitting so sublime a person,

That 'twas unworthy of the crown he wore,
And inconsistent with the State's exertion,
To wed a number that exceeded four;
And so, to give his royal conscience ease,
He had four Wives and sixty Mistresses.

V.

It seems that this arrangement was ill made, for
He had no issue, save an only son,

Whom, twelve long years, he had devoutly pray'd for,
To all his country's Gods;-when all was done
This single boy would have been cheaply paid for
By the oblation of his Father's throne;

For in all lands, from Araby to Arragon,
The Sun ne'er saw so wonderful a paragon.

VI.

I don't intend to give a long narration
Of his surpassing beauty, for I hate
Your curst, detail'd, minute enumeration

Of cheeks, eyes, noses, lips, hair, shape, and gait.
It is enough that they became his station,

He look'd, and walk'd, and spoke, and drank, and ate,

As for a Hero of Romance 'tis meet

To look, and walk, and speak, and drink, and eat.

VII.

You may suppose the youngster was a pet,
E'en from his cradle, a spoil'd child indeed;
The self-will'd tyrant of the Haram; yet

It seem'd no spoiling could with him succeed. 'Twas very rarely he was known to fret,

And very quickly did he learn to read;

At four years old, I've heard, he wrote some verses
To a lame, hump-back'd daughter of his Nurse's.

VIII.

And years pass'd swiftly o'er him, and he grew
In stature and in strength; his Tutors swore
(And I believe that what they swore was true)
His Royal Highness knew a vast deal more
Than the most erudite of all their crew;

In fact, they found it an exceeding bore,
Whether for pleasure or for pride he task'd them,
To answer half the questions that he ask'd them.