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The Young Widow, and the Gold Locket.

133 it lay not many yards from her, gave her a you've enough money to redeem the article, species of consolation.

come again, and you shall have it." Twelve months are allowed by law for the And Margaret went her way. One month redemption of pledges, and after that time they more was allowed her. She wrote to her father may be exposed for public sale.

for the sinall sum of a pound; but the cruel Eleven months, then, had elapsed. Oh! how step-mother intercepted the letter, and it never long did it appear since Margaret had parted reached him. She begged in the street, but with her sacred treasure-her silent friend ! could not scrape together enough pence to disWhat would she give to behold it again, if only charge even the interest on the money advanced for a minute! One day, after having been gazing her; consequently the pawnbroker refused to wistfully through the window for a long time, renew her duplicate, and the locket was exposed she summoned all her courage and walked into for sale. the pawnbroker's shop.

It was just about this time that we saw the “So, you mean that locket, do you, young trinket in the window, as stated at the opening woman?" said the master of the shop, carelessly of our sketch. eyeing her duplicate as he passed one hand Not a day passed, but Margaret came to that through the bushy hair of his large head; he shop-window, to ascertain whether her treasure then blow off a feather which happened to alight was still there; for all she dreaded was, lest on his showy check waistcoat, garnished with a some one should become the purchaser, and so real gold watch-guard. “Come, I suppose, to carry it off. redeem it?" he continued; “ well, better late One evening, as the young widow was gazing than never, my dear, as the phrase goes.” as usual through the plate-glass, where, in com

“ Yes-sir-no;" faltered Margaret, in great pany with silver spoons, old watches, and rings, agitation, scarcely conscious of what she uttered. her locket appeared ticketed for thirty shil“May I see it, sir, please?”

lings, she perceived a hand within stretch to“ Now, where's the money?" said the gentle- wards it; the hand was that of the pawnbroker, man with the bushy head; for, leaning over his and he was evidently about to show the bit of ledger, he had not heard Margaret's timid re- jewellery to a customer at the counter. quest. “I see I advanced you seventeen shil- Oh! who may conceive the suspense and lings upon it-interest, at this date, three shil- trepidation of Margaret ? The fatal moment, lings-hand over a sovereign, and the locket's she thought, was come-now, now the locket yours.

might be lost to her for ever! Her heart palpi" Alas; I wish—but I have only-oh! do, tated wildly, and she trembled to such a degree sir, permit me to see it!"

that she was obliged for a minute to lean for What's the young woman a-mumbling support on the window-sill. about? I want a sovereign, I say. This is the Would it be restored to its place in the winthing you mean, an't it?” added the worthy dow? or would the customer take it away? She gentleman, extending his hand towards Mar- could dimly see him through the pane. He was garet, the locket being held between his fore- an elderly gentleman, dressed in black, and his finger and thumb.

face was half concealed by a large woollen com“ Yes, sir, yes !” she cried eagerly, with glis- forter. He was turning the locket around in tening eyes; and before the pawnbroker was his hands, and examining the sparkling stones aware of the action, she had snatched it out of by the gas-jet over the counter. Suddenly, as his hand, and carried it to her lips.

if satisfied with the article, he drew out his “Ha! is this your game?” cried the gentle- purse. Had an arrow been shot that moment man, jumping over the counter. “ John! shut to the heart of Margaret, she could scarcely the outer door-quick !-we've a thief here!" have felt more. The thirty shillings were ten

The pawnbroker rudely grasped her arm. dered to the pawnbroker, and the old gentle

So, I was too wide awake for you this time- man, depositing the gold locket in his pocket, going to run off with my property—eh? I buttoned up his coat, and walked straightway shall give you in charge, young woman. A out of the shop. month at the treadmill will do you some good.” Margaret followed him, for agony imparted to

The piteous look which Margaret gave the her energy-the energy of desperation. man might have touched a heart of stone. No, “Well, young woman, and what do you want sir, you mistake ; I had no intention of stealing of me?" said the elderly gentleman, as he felt the locket-I only wished to look at it-to-his arın gently touched. to kiss it; for it was given me by my late “ Forgive me, sir-the--the liberty-I would dear husband."

say one word.” She uttered the last words with difficulty, and " What is it then?” exclaimed the gentleman, overcome by anguish as well as affright, sank without stopping or turning around. into a chair in a corner of the shop. Margaret “You have just purchased a locket-it was had fainted.

once mine!“ Well, well,” said the pawnbroker, as she “Ah! very likely; the shop was a pawn, slowly revived, his anger being disarmed by the broker's, I believe. You pledged it then, I sad looks and wretched condition of the sup- suppose-can't help it, my good girl — I're paid posed culprit, “I won't give you in charge. for it now, and 'tis mine." Go home, there's a good woman, and when “ Yours ? Oh! pity me--pity me! Is every

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hope, then, at an end? Must I lose it for ever?”

“Now, turn back, and don't follow me, there's a good girl. I don't want to be annoyed.”

“ But you are carrying away with you all that, with my child, I prize on earth. Are you, sir, Oh! are you a husband?”

The concluding words were spoken in so pitiful, so startling a tone, that the old gentleman mechanically stopped. “A husband ? I was one once,” he said hoarsely behind his wrapper; but my wife is dead. Why,” he continued, almost forgetting himself, “I bought this very locket-for it struck me as being pretty-to keep a bit of her hair in."

“ But you can purchase another; that locket was the gift of my husband-my dead husband. Have compassion on me!-restore it to me, and God in heaven will bless you!”

She clung to his arm, weeping and sobbing convulsively; she knelt on the pavement, and it was well no one was passing at the moment to witness that extraordinary scene.

The old gentleman was moved by her strange conduct, and began to pull down his comforter, to speak, it would seem, more plainly; the pale and altered face of Margaret, as she knelt, looked up, and the rays of the lamp near them now streamed full upon her features.

“Bless my soul!” cried the old gentleman, starting back in amazement, “what do I see? who are you?"

"An unhappy forsaken being---a widow, and a mother; but," cried Margaret, clinging to his knees, “it is your own voice--your own self! I know you now! Surely God sent you here in the hour of my deep affliction. Pardon me, pity me, love me again-father! dear father!"

Yes, that old man was the country squire, the once inexorable father of Margaret ; but she who had possessed such influence over him- the bitter-hearted step-mother--was dead. Mr. Glindon had come to London partly on business, and partly with a hope of discovering his lost child, towards whom his heart relented at last. We shall not be surprised, then, that he now raised her from the ground, kissed her again and again, assuring her that he forgave her all, and loved her as tenderly as ever; nor will it be unexpected when we say that, a week from that time, the squalid room in the neighbourhood of St. Chad's Well, Gray's-inn-road, had been abandoned, and that Margaret was sitting in the drawing-room at Longwood Hall, her child there sporting around her, and on her lap that restored treasure, never to be parted with againthe Gold Locket!

You speak of your heart's anxious beating,

Of absence, its doubts and its woes; If you really thus long for our meeting,

Just say why you do not propose !
Though caution rules all that you're doing,

I own that I'm puzzled to see
Why caution need hinder your wooing ;

What can prudence allege against me?
What need thus from season to season

To balance the con's and the pro's ? Do state if you please, one good reason

Why you feel disinclined to propose. You tell all my friends what a treasure

I should prove through the trials of life ; That the man would be blest beyond measure,

Who could win so enchanting a wife ; That my talents turn hours into moments,

And tint them with couleur de rose : May not others thien prize my endowments,

And not only admire, but propose ? My income can bear to be tested,

My tenants are safe in their rents, And the rest of my fortune is vested

In the Three and a Quarter per Cents. ; I care not for dress or flirtation,

Or waltzing with red-coated beaux,
I have not one needy relation,

Then why do you fear to propose ?
We have read, sung, and rambled together ;

We have sat at the banquet of mirth;
Joined pic-nies in bright summer weather,

And told winter tales round the hearth; We have held silent converse by letter,

(In letters the mind freely flows,) You could scarcely, I think, know me better,

If you longer delayed to propose. I am charmed with this place—Seaview Crescent

Looks full on the bright bounding wave; And my constant attendant at present

Is Vernon, the studious, the grave : To share my long strolls by the ocean,

His favourite books he foregoes;
All note his respectful devotion,

Yet none seem to think he'll propose.
He is handsome, well-bred, well-connected,

Good natured, and affluent too,
Yet Love's arrows are never directed

At his heart--all perceive it won't do; The path of calm leisure he chooses,

On study that leisure bestows; He is wedded for life to the Muses,

And to woman he'll never propose. Good bye-if you really feel sorrow

At the probable length of my stay ; Read a capital tale called To-Morrow,

Which treats on the ills of delar ;
Let it rouse you from weak indecision,

For my patience is just at a close,
And I almost admit a suspicion
That you never intend to propose !

My postscript deserves your attention-

This morning with Vernon I walked ;
And many a theme I could mention,

On which we successively talked ;



You urge my return--your petition

Little notice is likely to gain; While your letters display one omission,

Your pleadings must all be in vain.

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The ocean, the clouds, the Art-Union,

Trees, cottages, poetry, prose; Till we touched on the soul's fond communion,

And, just then, he thought fit to propose ! My heart seemed to leap and to flutter,

And I felt like a bird newly caged ; But I could not, you know, truly utter

A plea that my hand was engaged ! I paused—did I think of rejection ?

No-to smile on his wooing I chose ; I was pleased with the manly affection

Which made him so prompt to propose. I hope you won't yield to vexation ;

All is best, you will find, in the end ; Cake and cards on the joyful occasion

I shall send to my intimate friend : Be a little less selfish in future,

Turn Time to account ere it goes, And don't act the part of a suitor,

Till you feel you've got nerve to propose !

Ye ancient fires of ebon night,
Thought kindles 'neath your quenchiess light;
And vacant wonder startling hence,
Grapples on high with ignorance.
Ye meet us from the purple skies,
Like the broad gaze of seraph's eyes,
Or troops of bright celestial grace,
Battalion'd in the fields of space.
Well might devotion pure, divine,
Bow down in worship at your shrine ;
Leaving an edifice of walls
To worship in Creation's halls !
Oh Truth! where'er thy home is found,
Whether in light, or shade profound,
From thy obscurity now fly,
To tell me of those fires on high !
Say, are they characters that blaze
Perpetual truths to angels' gaze,
The alphabet of Paradise,
The language of the upper skies?
Or are they choristers that hyinn,
With cherub and with seraphim,
Eternal as eternity,
Before the throne of Deity ?
Or are they spirits made to keep
The watch of earth when mortals sleep ;
Or rich gems strown in upper air,
To make the path of Godhead fair ?

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What are they? Truth, my thoughts control ;
Thou hast the worship of my soul ;
To thee I lift the inquiring eye-
Tell me, what are those fires on high?
Perchance they're studs of silver, driven
Over the ether gates of heaven,
To make them beautiful and bright,
When angels close them for the night.
Or do their lights a heaven reveal,
As through eternal space they steal,
Imparting their benignant power,
Upon our dark defenceless hour ?
Or are they substances sublime,
Of every virtue told by Time;
Shedding sweet influence by their beanis,
Until we know what goodness seems;
Thus to the moral world revealing,
Truths, from Truth's bright fountain stealing.

With one to gaze on thee with love,

More than my verse may tell, And long, long years of love and joy

Within that forest dell?

No, no, I will not ask for these,

But a boon I will request ; 'Tis that, as now, on thy bright birth-day

Thou ever may'st be blest.

'Tis that, as now, in future years

Thou may'st bear the same calm brow, And that thy gladsome laugh may ring

As joyously as now.
'Tis that thy heart may ever be light,

As in the sweet spring time,
When thou wanderest with the honey bee

Where the woodland brooklets chime; When thy mother's smile doth beam on thee,

As thou bringest thy prize of flowers, And she bendeth to kiss thy rosy cheek

For thy gift from the wildwood bowers.

What are they? Earthly sages say
They're worlds, and flaming suns of day,
Rolling in everlasting space,
Where distance hath no resting-place!
They say, round each fix'd orb of fire
Roll planets in one ceaseless choir ;
That the eternal heaven is rife
With teeming beauty, throbbing life ;
That 'bove the stars that look on earth,
Systems of other worlds have birth.
Thus skies on skies in glory gaze,
Triumphant through the wide amaze!

This, and no more, I'll ask for thee :

Think not the boon is small; llow many are sighing for joys like these ! How few are blest withal !

Banks of the Bain.

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Then joyous birds frequent the lonely grove,
And beasts, by nature stung, renew their love.
Then fields the blades of buried corn disclose ;
And, while the balmy western spirit blows,
Earth to the breath her bosom dares expose."

VIRGIL, Georgics, B. III.
“ I come! I come! ye have call'd me long;

I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth;
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass;
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

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“ I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,

And call'd out each voice of the deep blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes

Where the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.
“ From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain-

They are sweeping on to the silvery main ;
They are flashing down from the mountain brows;
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs ;
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.



March is noted in song and proverb for the low masses of heavy clouds go racing with inboisterous winds which usually visit us during conceivableswiftness over them--whilst far above its continuance: dry, cold, piercing blasts— other white vapours rest almost unmoved—and differing both from those of the Autumnal farther, farther still, beyond the reach of storms equinox, and of the Winter quarter. Sex- and the comprehension of man, the clear azure agenarians and invalids shrink from them, lies—the visible face of heaven: gaze, we say, bewailing such severity; yet to us there is upon these things, and surrender yourself to something delightfully inspiriting in that very the meditations they must induce, and you will wildness. They are not less attendants of never chide the March winds because they are Spring than are the lengthened days and in- rude. creased sunshine; and as they rush onwards with According to the calendar, Spring commences irresistible might, we fancifully may regard them on the twenty-first; but in our northern latitudes, as the actual steeds of his impetuous chariot. although his first steps have fallen on the

Find reader, if you can, some lee spot, green- mountains, he can hardly be said as yet to abide carpeted and prankt with early daisies and with us. Still a mighty change is visible on the buttercups, where, notwithstanding the partial face of Nature. Except on loftiest summits, shelter, your mantle is almost torn away every the snows have chiefly vanished, and a return, if minute-thence watch the trees tossing their it chances, will only be momentary until Winter grey arms about like a host of enraged giants, next arrives. The Winter birds have bade us shrieking meanwhile, apparently in useless anger; farewell, and our Summer visitors begin to apor gaze upwards into the infinite depths of pear; whilst many songsters, long silent, beheaven, which never seem so profound as when I come vocal, adding their voices to the first glad

The Address of a Convict to Her Child.


notes of Spring's jubilant hymn, that goes on Achilles, a similar flower rose from his blood, from this hour increasing, till it bursts into the bearing the like legend :full chorus of joy and praise.

The forest trees are putting forth leaf-buds “ Inscribed in both, the letters are the same; rapidly; those glorious green buds which all, But those express the grief, and these the name." possessed of any taste, so greatly admire. Many

Book xii. likewise flower, showing blossoms not gaudy but


like. exquisite. We fear few, even of the professed You may search for them, reader, if admirers of Nature, carefully examine these most

Another plant likewise flowers this month, beautiful productions. Grass begin to grow fast, which may justly be called classical, though its particularly on lowland meadows, where woods, blossoms grace every cottage-garden-the daffoforming a defensive screen from northern winds, dil, or asphodel of the ancients, with which they

Homer, enable the sunbeams to exercise a greatly in- sung, the Elysian fields abounded. creased power; and in such places it is very Virgil, and others, frequently allude to its golden

dear son of memory, sweet to walk, listening to the bird-songs, and brilliancy; but our own admiring---not pulling—the first flowers as they great heir of fame”- Shakspere, the neverlie cradled amid sheltering leaves, like an infant dying-has, in some fifteen words, more tenderly smiling in its mother's lap. To them come

and truthfully characterized it :honey-bees, whose ceaseless toil seems pleasure,

“ daffodils, with a soft incessant hum; and butterflies rest

That come before the swallow dares, and take perpetually on them-voyagers through the sea

The winds of MARCH with beauty." of air, folding their wings at golden islands. In

Winter's Tale. Act iv., Scene 3rd. hill streams and deep rivers fishes are seen sporting, as blissful in a dense, heavy element, as we in our more subtle one.

So the angler goes forth to prove that there is subjection throughout creation, and that Man is lord of all. THE ADDRESS OF A CONVICT TO An ecstatic spirit is diffused abroad; a general

HER CHILD. perception and participation of gladness. Well might the laurelled poet sing :



" There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

And grass in the green field.

Thy silken curls, thine eyes of violet hue,

Thy careless mirth and open fearless brow,
In this sad lonely blighted heart renew,

Blest days when I was innocent as thou.


Fain would I bend to meet thy proffer'd kiss, “ Love, now an universal birth,

Fain would I clasp thee to this aching breast; From heart to heart is stealing ;

But prudence bids me shun the fatal bliss,
From earth to man,
from man to earth,

Such love as mine is better far repress'd.
It is the hour of feeling."


Scarce dare I breathe a blessing on thy head, Our gardens now display a number of grace- A soul whose holiest sympathies are dead

At morn's bright dawn and purple eve's decline ; ful and showy flowers; amongst which the

Should hold aloof from spotless ones like thine. hyacinths are peculiarly conspicuous, from their great beauty and various colours. Doubtless they have been much improved by culture since Gaily thou smilöst, unheedful of my sorrow; the days of Ovid; but for our own part we like Ah! I would gladly meet my doom to-morrow,

No torturing cares thy happy heart molest! to think them just the same, and never look

Could'st thou through life remain thus calmly blest. upon them without recalling to mind the luckless youth Apollo unwittingly slew, and from But well I know dark rumours of my shame whose blood, by his decree (so says the fable), Will early cloud thy brow and dim thy joy ; the first hyacinth sprung:

Thou'lt blush to hear thy hapless mother's name,

And learn to bate th' unwelcome sound, my boy. A lily's form it took ; its purple hue Was all that made a diff'rence to the view.

Many will speak of my degrading death,
The god upon its leaves

Will bid thee shun my path of infamy;
The sad expression of his sorrow weaves ;

But none will add, till I resign'd my breath And to this hour the mournful purple wears

My life was one long anxious thought of thee. Ai, Ai, inscribed in funeral characters.” Metamorphoses, book x.

Yet now, ere childhood's glow hath pass'd away,

Ere duty's chains from thy young heart be riven ; We used to .look for those characters, when a

Oh! kneel mine own with clasped hands, and pray boy, fresh from the wonders of the Metamor

Thou may'st be sav'd from guilt, and I forgiven. phoses, not only on account of poor Hyacinthus, but because the poet had also written how, after Ramsgate, Ajax stabbed himself when denied the armour of January 8, 1818.

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