Abbandonata.

ARE they gone at last? am I left to my rest?

Alone with the snake at my wild heart's core ! Through the hateful day, from the East to the West, The sun has shone down on song, dance, and jestOn a love that is mine no more!

The Orient sky is white and still,

A pale moon wanes in the pearly South, The wind sighs cold o'er the pine-clad hill, Like the moaning breath all dank and chill, From a dying sleeper's mouth.

Woe worth the hour when I was born!

Must the clay live on when the soul has fled?
O God! to rise with the glaring morn,
To wring out the dregs of my cup of scorn,
When my heart and my brain are dead!

What have I to do with hopes or with fears?

For he will marry Eleanor Gray,

Though he swore he had loved me from childhood's years,
Had lived in my smiles, had worshiped my tears,

And she came yesterday!

Blithely she prated of that and this

My chosen friend, with her faithless smile; "She had heard of my fortune, my hopes, my bliss, "She gave me joy"-with a Judas kiss

Glancing at him the while.

And in that glance I was bought and sold

Not in vain was the net spread out for that bird;

He was so gallant, so gracious, and bold!

Poor, greedy, and vain, she wanted his gold,
And lured him without a word.

}

By a droop of the lashes, a turn of the lip,
By the languid wreathe of her syren neck;
By the lightest touch of her finger-tip,
By the idlest sound her tongue let slip,
She held his breath at her beck.

Yesternight, at the even-song,

They wandered and murmured under the trees; All to-day, 'mid the wondering throng, Heedless who marked him, reckless how long He sat at Eleanor's knees.

His eager lips would fluttering seek
Her dainty hand-why, mine is as fair!
Or rashly hover so close to her cheek,
That she feigned to blush-that maiden meek,
Yet smiled as she bade him beware!

What can she boast that I am not worth,

Save her wanton smile and the false blue eyes? What evil spell was cast at her birth

That she should thus beggar to uttermost dearth
The soul where my treasure lies?

My life-thread was spun out to-night,
Snapt without mercy, or hope, or aid;
On the earth, on the sky, emblazoned bright,
I read what was done 'neath the still moonlight,
What was said in the jasmine shade.

Broken it came "Love, take this ring." ""Twas hers !"-"Nay, I swear it, I love but thee;

Oh, stony heart for so poor a thing,

To doubt me!" the easy song to sing

To an old, old melody.

Then a deathly pause. The odour faint

Of the jasmine flowers crept over my brow; But their pure sweet breath was a graveyard taint, And a graveyard knell was the tender plaint

Of the traitor's pleading vow.

"But thy troth-plight given to Isabel ?"

He laughed aloud-"What are words but air? All love to her is an empty spell,

My home will be cold as a convent-cell,
And dull as a hermit's prayer."

"Nay, nay, she is fair"—" As a saint of snow!"
"And kind”—“As the beams of a wintry moon.
Oh, love, let me gather the honeyed glow
On thy ripe red lips, like roses which blow
In the fire of an Eastern noon !"

Then slow, slow kisses-and melting eyes

Gazed each into each. Oh, the maddening pain!

The torture-rack when her soft replies
Gave a welcome warm to the passionate sighs
That never were breathed in vain!

Oh, let me die, let me die ere morn !—

Through the dim wood-paths see a shadow glide; When the chilly East grew crimson with dawn, And the world awoke, the lady was gone; They sought her far and wide.

In haste and in fear, for a sudden word

Was spoken among them which froze their blood;

And the sound of hurrying feet was heard,
And wide wild eyes, where a terror stirred,
Gazed into the dark pool's flood.

For wide blank eyes with a glassy stare
Looked up into theirs from amid the nest
Of pale lily-blossoms which starred her hair,
Their serpent stems, round her bosom fair,
Had stifled her into rest.

The water-grasses grew thick and rank,
Where she lay so calm; the marsh-reeds tall

Had woven a veil, which idly sank

O'er her slender limbs, and the sedges dank

Had made her a velvet pall.

And could he marry Eleanor Gray,

With her false blue eyes and her wanton grace,
While his own true love in her beauty lay,
Slain by his falsehood in one short day,
With the murder-brand on her face?

Ay, the deed was done the bond was tied
That knit his guilt to its curse for life;
The soft mask fell from his smiling bride,
And a mocking demon stood by his side,
To rend his soul with strife.

No cold calm home-a finger of flame

Wrote Heaven's dark brand on his blighted fate; When no heir was born to his ancient name, When she bartered him and her soul for shame, And love grew to loathing hate.

'Tis a sad old tale: o'er the uplands dun,

To the place of death where the March winds rave, A wand'rer, whose race is well-nigh run,

Comes lone and weary at set of sun,

To weep at Isabel's grave.

TEMPLE BAR.

MAY 1861.

The Seven Sons of Mammon.

A STORY.

BY GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.

IT

CHAPTER XIII.

EMBARRASSMENTS OF A RICH YOUNG MAN.

T is but weary work opening letters; but when every other one or so contains from half a dozen to half a crown's worth of postage-stamps the operation becomes profitable, and the labour may be borne with. Mr. Sims got through his work quite cheerfully, and whistled as he went, not certainly for want of thought, but as a little accompaniment to a pleasant task. Now and then he came upon a letter which contained, not postagestamps, but a coin carefully stuck in a card or secured under a seal,now a sixpence, now a shilling, and now actually a half-sovereign; and at the discovery of such a treasure Mr. Sims would shake his head: in a very placable manner, however.

"When will the public learn common prudence and caution?" asked Mr. Sims, suspending his whistling, and carefully pocketing a golden effigy of her Majesty, which for greater security had been wrapped up in a piece of soft paper crumpled enough as to texture, and oleaginous enough as to surface to warrant the surmise that it had originally served as a confining locket for the tresses of some unknown Pyrrha. Are the repeated warnings of the Postmaster-General, are the innumerable convictions at the C. C. C., are the pleasing pamphlets of the Ordinary of Newgate-" A Double Rap at the Postman's Conscience," and so forth,-of no avail? It is wicked, it is cruel, to send coin by post. You mus'n't send leeches, and you mus'n't send lucifer-matches, and you mus'n't send sucking-pigs, and you decidedly oughtn't to send money. It places undue temptations in the way of the humble and ill-remunerated postman, and it wears out the letter-boxes. "Besides," he continued, slipping three fourpenny-pieces

VOL. II.

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