It was on this day that I took my last leave of my Matilda. It was a summer evening; her melting hand seemed to dissolve in mine, as I prest it to my bosom. Some demon whispered me that I should never see her more. I stood gazing on the hated vehicle which was conveying her away forever. The tears were petrified under my eyelids. My heart was crystallized with agony. Anon - I looked along the road. The diligence seemed to diminish every instant; I felt my heart beat against its prison, as if anxious to leap out and overtake it. My soul whirled round as I watched the rotation of the hinder wheels. A long trail of glory followed after her, and mingled with the dust; it was the emanation of Divinity, luminous with love and beauty, like the splendor of the setting sun; but it told me that the sun of my joys was sunk forever. Yes, here in the depths of an eternal dungeon, in the nursing cradle of hell, the suburbs of perdition, in a nest of demons, where despair in vain sits brooding over the putrid eggs of hope; where agony wooes the embrace of death; where patience, beside the bottomless pool of despondency, sits angling for impossibilities. Yet, even here, to behold her, to embrace her! Yes, Matilda, whether in this dark abode, amidst toads and spiders, or in a royal palace, amidst the more loathsome reptiles of a court, would be indifferent to me; angels would shower down their hymns of gratulation upon our heads, while friends would envy the eternity of suffering love. Soft, what air was that? it seemed a sound of more than human warblings. Again. [Listens attentively for some minutes.] Only the wind; it is well, however; it reminds me of that melancholy air which has so often solaced the hours of my captivity. Let me see whether the damps of this dungeon have not yet injured my guitar. [Takes his guitar, tunes it, and begins the following air, with a full accompaniment of violins from the orchestra.]

Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds·

II.

Sweet kerchief check'd with heavenly blue,

Which once my love sat knotting in!—
Alas! Matilda then was true!

At least I thought so at the U

-niversity of Göttingen —

-niversity of Göttingen.

At the repetition of this line ROGERO clanks his chains in cadence.

III.

Barbs! Barbs! alas! how fleet you flew,

Her neat post-wagon trotting in!

Ye bore Matilda from my view;

Forlorn I languish'd at the U-
-niversity of Göttingen-
-niversity of Göttingen.

IV.

This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in!
My years are many-they were few
When first I entered at the U-

-niversity of Göttingen-
-niversity of Göttingen.

There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu-
-tor, law professor at the U-

-niversity of Göttingen-
-niversity of Göttingen.

VI.

Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,

That kings and priests are plotting in:

Here doom'd to starve on water gru

-el, never shall I see the U

-niversity of Göttingen-
-niversity of Göttingen.

During the last stanza ROGERO dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion: he then throws himself on the floor in an The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.

agony.

[This song is a joke on Sir Robert Adair, who studied at Göttingen, and fell in love with the daughter of his tutor. The last verse is said to have been written by William Pitt the younger, who was shown the other verses and was intensely amused by them. He had evidently not read the entire play, as Rogero's food is more substantial.]

THE NEEDY KNIFE-GRINDER.

[The poem quoted below and travestied was by Robert Southey.]
THE WIDOW.
Sapphics.

COLD was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell;
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked;
When a poor wand'rer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom :
She had no home, the world was all before her,
She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her:
"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer.
"Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger

Here I should perish.

"Once I had friends - but they have all forsook me!
Once I had parents - they are now in heaven!

I had a home once -I had once a husband

Pity me, strangers!

"I had a home once I had once a husband

I am a widow, poor and broken-hearted!"
Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining;
On drove the chariot.

Then on the snow she laid her down to rest;

She heard a horseman: "Pity me!" she groaned out.
Loud was the wind, unheard was her complaining;
On went the horseman.

VOL. XX.-16

Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold and hunger,
Down sunk the wanderer; sleep had seized her senses:
There did the traveler find her in the morning —

God had released her.

This is enough, unless the reader should wish to be informed

how

Fast o'er the bleak heath rattling drove a chariot;

Or how, not long after,

Loud blew the wind, unheard was her complaining-
On went the horseman.

We proceed to give our IMITATION, which is of the Amobæan or Collocutory kind.

Sapphics.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE Knife-Grinder.

Friend of Humanity

"Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in 't,
So have your breeches!

"Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-

-road, what hard work 'tis crying all day Knives and
Scissors to grind O!'

"Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?

Did some rich man tyrannically use you?

Was it the squire, or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit?

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,

Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story."

Knife-grinder

"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

"Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-
stocks for a vagrant.

"I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;

But for my part, I never love to meddle

"I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned firstWretch whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance, Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast!"

[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]

CASABIANCA.

BY FELICIA D. HEMANS.

[FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE, by marriage HEMANS, was born at Liverpool in 1793, died in Ireland, 1835. Besides her famous short lyrics, she wrote "The Vespers of Palermo" (1823), "The Siege of Valencia" and "The Lost Constantine" (1828), "The Forest Sanctuary" (1827), and others.]

[Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post in the battle of the Nile (1798) after the ship had taken fire and all the guns had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.]

THE boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.