THE BRIDAL GARLANDS.

A LITTLE Cottage; its thatched roof tinted by the mellow moss, and overshadowed by a spreading tree; a rippling brook before it, that, as it meanders through the daisy-clad turf, murmurs in unison with the hum of the spinning-wheel, at which the old dame sits, beside her cottage door. Evening, and the moon shines palely forth, pale before the stray sunbeams that yet hover around earth, unwilling to desert a spot so fair. The soft light of the evening star is planted in the sky, as a maiden sits by the brookside weaving garlands. Passing fair and lovely is that maiden as she thus sits, untutored ringlets mingling with the flowers strown around her on the grassy bank in sweet confusion.

"What, ho! my gentle Lilia!" said a manly voice; holds thee so busy on our bridal eve?"

"what

Lilia looked fondly up at the youth who now stood by her side. "Garlands for the morrow," was her reply; "love and flowers, as thou knowest, Erie, hold ever company together."

"Idle, Lilia!" replied the youth; "is not thy labour vain? Night, and these flowers fade."

"Fade, Erie!" said the maiden; "woven, too, by the hand of love, with yon bright planet smiling o'er the task! Fade, Erie! No; I will place them here upon their kindred turf, there to pass the night through, and the dews shall fall from heaven upon them and refresh them; the moon shall bathe them in heavenly light, and the first beams of morning that kiss them shall cause these half-closed roses to open forth all their beauties to greet our bridal day."

"Sweet prophetess!" murmured Erie; "but a boding cloud is in the west. Look at it, Lilia! I wager thee a kiss that these flowers bloom not on the morrow."

"And I," said Lilia, "accept the challenge: be it thy doom to kiss me if they fade."

With the curtain of night came storms, yet the sun rose in a cloudless sky. Early in the morning Erie stood beside the brook, and saw that the garlands were destroyed. Then he rejoiced, and with a light foot bounded towards the cottage door; entering hastily

"Lilia! Lilia!" he cried, "thou art vanquished; my prophetess! our bridal flowers are faded;—all, Lilia, all!”

Yes, all-for Lilia too was dead!

Awe-stricken stood Erie by her side, and, as he bent over her in silent anguish, a tear-drop fell upon her pale cheek, that, rolling inwards, clung to the maiden's eye-lash, and made her seem as though she wept in death.

Solemnly knelt the trembling lover by Lilia's side, and kissed the lips of the cold corpse.

HAL.

THE snows have fled: new verdure to the plain,
And foliage to the forest, comes again :
The face of earth is chang'd: the rivers cease
T'o'erflow their banks, and pass along in peace.
The Graces now with beauteous forms advance,
And with the Nymphs lead off the joyous dance.
Hark to the words the passing year doth say,
And the fleet hour that hurries on the day ;-
"Hope not to be immortal, for thy bloom
Must fade like ours and wither in the tomb."
Soft Zephyrs melt the frost; the Summer's heat
Tramples the Spring beneath his burning feet.
Then, fruits-bestowing Autumn doth appear,
And soon again doth Winter close the year.
But the oft-changing moons restore again
The mighty losses which the heavens sustain.
But man, when once he enters the dark grave,
Where sleep the rich, the pious, and the brave,
Can feel no more spring's balmy breath, but must
Remain, his soul a shade, his body dust.
Who knows, or who with confidence can say,
That Heaven will add to-morrow to to-day?

The wealth thou leavest to thine heir, e'en he

Must one day leave reluctantly like thee.

When thou, whate'er thou art, hast breathed thy last,
And Minos' sentence o'er thee hath been past,

Thy birth, thy wisdom, profit thee no more,

Nor can affection's self thy life restore.

C. H. H.

THE ROBBERS.

(Translated from the German of Friedrich Von Schiller.)

ACT III.

SCENE I.-A Garden.

AMELIA, playing on a lute, and singing:—

BRIGHT with an angel's brightness, pure and deep,
More beautiful than aught of earth was he;
Mild as the sunbeam, when its soft beams sleep,
In summer, on the blue and glassy sea.

With him-beneath the shelter of his arm—

The holy night around us, and above!
Two hearts, with but one mighty feeling warm,
Borne upwards to the glorious heaven of love.

Two living fires that in one flame unite;

Two harps in one sweet note of music blending;
Two spirits wrapt within a cloud of light,
In high and solemn harmony ascending.

Soul to its kindred soul-they run-they fly-
They faint, they tremble with excess of bliss ;
The cold earth melts around them, and the sky;
For what has earth to do with hours like this?

He is away. The music is departed;

The fire is quenched; the sunshine is grown dim ;
He is away, and to the broken-hearted,

Life is but one long weary thought of him.

Enter FRANCIS.

FRAN. Here again already, self-willed enthusiast? You have left the banquet, and spoiled the pleasure of the guests.

AMEL. Shame on these guilty pleasures! The death-song must yet ring in your ears that sounded as your father was carried to his grave.

FRAN. Will you, then, mourn for ever? Let the dead sleep, and let the living be happy. I come

AMEL. And when go you again?

FRAN. Alas! No such dark, proud looks. You trouble me, Amelia.

I come to tell you

AMEL. I must then hear that Francis von Moor is become

"My Lord?"

FRAN. Right; that is what I would talk to you about. Maximilian is gone to sleep in the tomb of his fathers. I am lord; but I would be so entirely, Amelia. You know what you have been to our house-you have been regarded as Moor's daughter; his love for you survived even death. This you will never forget?

AMEL. Never, never. Who could so carelessly drown the thought of that in banqueting?

FRAN. The love of my father you must pay to his sons; and Charles is dead--are you astonished? does it stagger you? Yes, truly, the thought is so flatteringly high, that it stuns even the pride of a woman. Francis treads underfoot the hopes of the noblest ladies; Francis comes, and offers to a poor and, but for him, helpless orphan, his heart, his hand; and with them all his gold, and all his castles and forests. Francis,-the envied, the feared, declares himself voluntarily Amelia's slave.

AMEL. Why doth not the lightning blast the lawless tongue that pours forth words of wickedness! Thou hast murdered my beloved, and shall Amelia call thee husband!

FRAN. Not so violent, most gracious princess! Indeed, Francis does not cringe before thee like a cooing Seladon: truly, he has not learnt, like a languishing shepherd of Arcadia, to sigh out his love-lament to the echo of the grottoes and rocks. Francis speaks, and if no one answers, then will he command.

AMEL. Thou worm, command? command me? should laugh to scorn your command ?

And if one

FRAN. That will you not. I know means that can easily bow down the pride of a conceited, obstinate girl-cloisters and walls! AMEL. Bravo! excellent! And, in cloisters and walls, for ever spared thy basilisk look, and leisure enough to think and ponder upon Charles. Welcome with thy cloisters! come, come with thy walls!

Now hast thou taught me
These eternal fancies about

FRAN. Ha! is it so? Take care! the art by which I may torment thee. Charles, shall my gaze scourge out of thy head like a fiery-haired fury. The bugbear, Francis, shall, in the picture of thy darling, lurk in the back-ground. I will drag thee into the chapel by the hair of thy head, and, sword in hand, I will force from thy soul the marriage oath; and thy proud shame will I with yet greater pride conquer.

AMEL. (strikes him on the mouth.) Take that first, for thy dowry. FRAN. Ha! that shall be paid tenfold, and again tenfold. Not my wife-honour shalt thou not have-my mistress shalt thou be, that the honest peasants' wives may point the finger at thee, if thou darest to enter the streets! Gnash with thy teeth; spit fire and death out of thine eyes,-the rage of a woman delights me,—makes thee only the more beautiful and desirable. Come-this resistance will but grace my triumph. Now directly shalt thou go with me, (forcing her away.)

AMEL. (falls on his neck.) Pardon me, Francis! (As he will embrace her, she steps hastily back, and draws a dagger from his side.) Dost thou see, wretch, what I can now bring thee to? I am a woman: but a raging woman. Dare it once-this steel shall pierce through thy lascivious heart; and the spirit of my uncle will guide my hand thereto. Curses on this place.

[She drives him out. AMEL. Ah! how well I am-now I can breathe freely—I felt strong as the prancing horse, fierce as the tigress spoiled of her young. In a cloister, said he? Thanks to thee for this thought. Now hath betrayed love found a home-the cloister-the cross of the Redeemer is the asylum for betrayed love. (Going.)

Enter HERMAN, fearfully.

HER. Lady Amelia! Lady Amelia!

AMEL. Unfortunate! Why do you disturb me?

HER. This weight must from my soul, or it will press me down to hell. (Throws himself down before her.) Pardon, pardon! I have much injured you, Lady Amelia!

AMEL. Stand up! Go! I will hear nothing. (Going.)

HER. (holding her back.) No! Stay! By God, by the eternal God, you shall know all !

AMEL. Not a word more-I forgive you-go in peace. (Going.) HER. Hear but one word—it will give you back all your rest. AMEL. (looks at him, wondering.) What, friend! Who in heaven or earth can give me back my rest again?

Good man, can a word

HER. That can a single word from my lips-hear me !
AMEL. (takes his hand with pity.)
from thy lips burst the bolts of eternity?
HER. (stands up.) Charles still lives!
AMEL. (shrinking.) Unhappy!
HER. Yet one word—your uncle—