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The earth, the heavens and all,

That were I crown'd the most imperial monarch,
Thereof most worthy; were I the fairest youth
That ever made eye swerve,—had force and knowledge
More than was ever man's, I would not prize these
Without her love for her, employ them all;

:

Commend them, and condemn them, to her service,
Or to their own perdition.

Perdita's response to this passionate address, conveys in so many words the whole history of Woman's love-the reason of her obedience the cause of the willing homage she pays her lord. The delicacy and tenderness of the thought make it something more than the mere echo it may at first seem.

I cannot speak

So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better;
By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out

The purity of his.

This pretty betrothal is, however, marred by the discovery of Florizel's father, who, himself disguised, has been present during the festival, and has overheard the whole of the heart-contracting. There is in this scene an edifying passage or two on the proper authority of a father in these matters, but we are sure our young readers will think, with ourselves, that the scene is very pretty as it is in the extract.

The conclusion of the story is, as it ought to be, a happy one. Perdita, who has been wooed by Florizel,

Not with the pedlar's silken treasury, but

Up in his heart—

by gifts, packed and locked

asserts the equalizing power of the passion. She has strength of heart enough to remember

The self-same sun that shines upon his court
Hides not his visage from the cottage, but

Looks on all alike.

And he renounces rank, riches, power, exclaiming, when reminded of them,—in his noble pride of the wealth of his possession,

I am heir to my affection.

He will not give up that hand

As soft as dove's down, and as white as it,
Or Ethiopian's tooth or the fanned snow.

And well she rewards him. Her recovered rank-for the plot is made unnecessarily to turn upon her being in reality a princess, as if such a woman had not all the queen in her already— her restored rank is but a poor recompense for his truth, compared with the faith and dignity of her right royal heart.

Camillo, the old courtier, before the obscurity of her birth is cleared, to persuade her from tempting the wrath of the king and the trials awaiting the unequal match, says

Prosperity's the very bond of love;

You know

Whose fresh complexion, and whose heart together
Affliction alters.

Shakespere, in two quiet lines, gives us the full answer to this flimsy axiom. And let us recollect that all the great Poet's creations are built upon this principle, that his first article of faith is the truth and constancy of Woman's love. It is to be found scattered through all his works-even in his sad and reproachful Sonnets: in every play of his, where Woman's affection is a conspicuous feature-and in which of them is it not? he asserts it in the slandered Imogen, the suffering Desdemona; and playfully, yet as truly in the lively Rosalind and the provoking Beatrice everywhere, in short, where he charms us with any Portraiture of the sex, and never more charmingly than in the simple words, which come, as a reply to the man of the world from the gentle Perdita, and with which we shall close our notice of this beautiful character.

I think affliction may subdue the cheek;
But not take in the mind.

POPPIES.

Up they rise, with buoyant stem
What in glory like to them!
King-cup bright or daisy pied,
Briar rose, all diamond-eyed,
Golden gorse or wheat-flower blue,
Fade beside their sovereign hue;
Lifting high, the sun's first-born
Their scarlet crests above the corn:
Up they rise to none to yield,
The painted warriors of the field.

See the queen bee murmurs by,
As each red cup takes her eye;
Now she flutters on the brim :
Now her wings around it swim :
Now she in the ruby ring
Dippeth feather'd foot and wing:
Off she flies with rifled sweet
To her fern-hid wood retreat,
But her gauzy pinions bear

The vermeille theft about the air.

OI love the poppy's bloom,

Lighting up some green nook's gloom;
Or banner'd round some faerie-king
The urchin's foot that way to bring;
Or in its royal pride of place
Dwarfing all the homelier race,
Springing up mid' blade and ear,
The meadow's mimic emperor.

Perhaps some white one droops her head
Near some lover, passion-red,
Bending down, all pale with dew,

Till she catch the ardent hue,

Then blushing up with borrowed glow,

The twining stems together grow.

OI love the poppy bright,

In jacket-red or boddice white,
Lying on maiden's snowy breast,

Or 'neath a child's soft finger's prest,

Or flaunting in a harvest hat,
What garden-plume so gay as that!
Glorious flower! blest by eye,
Thou gladdest with thy color high,
Happy flower! blest by brow
That thy cups with dreams endow,
Father of visions, child of light,
A King by day, a God by night!

F. C.

LUIGIA; OR THE MODEL.

"Earth has no heart, fond dreamer! with a tone-
To send thee back the spirit of thine own.-
Seek it in heaven!"

MRS. HEMANS.

WE were once shewn a picture of exceeding beauty, numerous copies of which have since appeared, and may still be occasionally met with in the various print shops of our great metropolis. It was that of a young girl, holding in her hand a

golden-colored bird, whose little beak was saucily pecking at the small and exquisitely formed mouth of its mistress. The dark, rich complexion, long, asiatic eyes, and intensely black hair, the massive folds of which were carelessly confined by a gay colored ribbon, the fringed ends floating gracefully on her shoulders, proclaimed her to be a native of some foreign land. The expression of the countenance was touchingly sad, in spite of its rare beauty; and the very smile with which she met the caresses of her little favorite seemed given to the past. It may be, we thought, for the memories which it brought back. There was a world of love and grief in those dreamy eyes, and we imagined a thousand histories of the original, full of romance. High-born she must have been-the very turn of the small, graceful headthe tiny hands-the tranquil style of her loveliness, were all noble !

Our companion smiled at our enthusiasm, and spoke of the aristocracy of beauty! but he soon became grave again. It was a sad history which the old Artist told us; well has it been said, that "truth is strange, stranger far than fiction."

Luigia was the only child of an Italian image-maker who had quitted his native country and come over to England in the hope of bettering himself; but falling into dissipated habits, had gone on gradually from bad to worse until, at the time our story commences, he was stretched upon a bed of sickness from which it was unlikely he would ever rise up again. His wife was a stern, violent-tempered woman; rendered so, perhaps, in a great measure by the scenes through which she had passed, and the long and weary years of trial and poverty she had been called upon to endure. Poor Luigia, alternately fondled and beatenbrought up to nothing useful, except when Villani occasionally permitted her to assist him in modelling his images, wherein she evinced a fine taste that only required cultivation, grew up as ignorant as she was beautiful. Her imperfect knowledge of the English language while it prevented her mingling with others of her own age, preserved her from much evil association, and kept her gentle, and pure-minded in the midst of poverty and vice.

At the time of which we write, Luigia had scarcely attained her sixteenth year; continually upbraided by her mother, and feeling bitterly her own helplessness, there was nothing that she would not have done, and nothing alas! that she could think of to do, except weep and lament. Until one night when Villani was worse than usual and they had no food, or even furniture remaining to procure any, her mother drove her into the streets

with harsh language to beg. Luigia drew her tattered shawl around her, and wept as she stretched forth her hand to solicit in her sweet southern tones the charity of the passer by.

A young sailor gave her six-pence for her eyes! but forgot to notice that they were full of tears. And an old, grey-headed man, with a peculiarly marked countenance, observed kindly, that it was a pity she should take to such a trade.

"What can I do?" said Luigia, and her musical voice was choaked with weeping, "My father lies at home dying-and we have no bread to eat!"

"The old story," replied her companion, with a sternness that was partly assumed in order to conceal the sympathy which would make itself visible notwithstanding. "Where do you

live ?"

Luigia mentioned the place of their abode, and offered to conduct him thither; thinking, perhaps, that the sight of their misery might plead more powerfully than all she could urge. "Do so, my child," replied the old man, after a pause. may at least give me an idea, and I will reward you for your trouble."

The stranger was an artist.

"It

"It is not far," said Luigia, gently, and somewhat embarrassed by his earnest gaze.

"I was not thinking of that. You are very beautiful, my child!"

Luigia colored and smiled; and they walked on in silence.

Mr. Freeland, for so we shall call her companion, did indeed get an idea! He had no previous conception of the utter misery and destitution so frequently to be met with in the dwellings of the poor. His benevolent heart ached to witness the distress, which he not only promptly relieved, but offered to pay Luigia so much an hour to sit to him, and also to recommend her to his friends.

"With such a face," said he, "she will make her fortune as a model!"

The mother looked proudly upon her child, as she smoothed back her long, shining hair; while Luigia thanked him gratefully, and with tears of joy. Mr. Freeland was enthusiastically devoted to his profession, and his name ranked among the very first artists of the day; but in all other things he was simplehearted as a child, and never once dreamed of the thousand temptations to which he was about to expose the young and beautiful protegé. The action was kindly meant, and received in the

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