Dedication to the Queen.

THROUGHOUT a varied, and now rapidly closing existence, have I seen but one such being, and although the first vivid impressions which my mind received have been worn away by time, yet does it still retain a recollection of a nature not to be obliterated.

True, I saw her but on two or three Occasions in the course of my life, and under very different circumstances. She flashed across the path of my existence as a meteor across the stormy heavens, startling and dazzling the spectator, and although scarcely more connected with me than that with him. Yet has the gleam remained impressed upon my mortal vision, long after the object has been removed; the sweet note, which the contemplation of her has formed

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among the discords of my life, seems yet softly to vibrate upon my ear.

How I came to entertain the strong interest for her, with which my mind is imbued I know not, even now. Our meetings have been few, brief, and far between-in no way have our lots been cast together-she has been to me, more as one in a book, or in a dream, than as a real person, and yet have I started at her sight, thrilled at the sound of her voice, as though she had been the love of my youth and of my whole life, whose form I may never see, and whose voice can never again bless my ears.

And was it beauty that so delighted me? In some measure I believe it was. Beauty! beauty! what floods of intense delight hast thou not poured in thy richness over my senses and my soul!

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what deep rapture, calm from its very excess, have I not drunk, as I have stood gazing on thee, enrapt-gazing on thee as an abstract thing! as an imbodying of the essence of all loveliness! as the palpable presence of the beautiful to mortal vision! Inanimate nature is beautiful, and the soul drinks peace from its contemplation; the woods are beautiful as they shine beneath the rich light of leafy June! they are beautiful when many-coloured autumn tinges them with its deep hues, and waves them with its sweeping winds! they are beautiful as they bud into life in spring; nay, as they stand desolate amid the snows of winter, stretching their forked branches, as in remonstrance towards the sky! The waters, too, are beautiful, from the tinkling_rill and the lively brook to the mighty stream and the vast sea itself, beautiful in smiles and in brightness, beautiful in terrors and in storms! The mountains are beautiful! sublime! silence reigns among the dark pines, grandeur and desolation sit upon the snow-clad peak, and in the deep unfathomable ravine! Nature is beautiful in all her aspects and in every mood; in the lake and in the sea, in the meadow and in the mountain, in the soft breath and verdure of May, and in the iron-bound ruggedness of winter! But what portion of this beautiful system, in its chosen spots, in its happiest moments, can equal human beauty in its power over the human soul? Who, that in the season of his hot youth has drunk of the draughts of woman's beauty, but will own the thrill to the very core, which has rushed indescribably through him, as he hung on those deep and dangerous delights, even as one all entranced.

And thus it is that I have gazed on beauty, even as I have gazed on a work of art, or as I have listened enraptured to the sweet faint strains of far-off melodies. A picture has haunted me for months, a spirit-stirring song has had full possession of my mind for weeks, nor could I displace it by any effort, and these things have actually furnished me with a corporeal and tangible enjoyment. Thus with equal abstraction have I contemplated some beauty-thus did I contemplate Marion's when first I beheld her!

I was young, enthusiastic, wild! the

love of locomotion and the generous allowance of an affectionate, and now long lost parent, supplied me with abundant resources, and a child of nature did I study her, in her wildest as in her softest moods, from the foaming Norwegian cataract to the purling rill of Castaly, from the boiling Maelstrom of the north to the halcyon seas of southern Europe did I range, and in each and in all did I discover much to delight a mind so constructed.

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It was at Marseilles, the Athens of the Gauls, that we met for the first time, and for very many years we did not meet again. She was in company with her father, a general in the Austrian service, and as it was a time of anticipated warfare, he had been suddenly summoned to join the army, while she was to remain as near the rear as her safety would allow. We embarked late in the evening, which had closed on a lovely summer's day, and were soon fairly under sale for Genoa.

Soon after daybreak on the following morning I was on deck, and observed that the portentous appearance of the sky had attracted considerable attention from the crew-the windward horizon became blackened, the gusts swept longer and heavier over the bosom of the deep. The smooth and confused surges, which had risen sullenly around the cutter, were now rolling in huge masses to leeward, proclaiming by the mighty dimensions of their base, the size of the superstructure they were fitted to sustain. Soon the tops of the swelling waves became broken into boiling foam, and every thing gave token of the approaching tempest. The stormy albatross and the screaming seamew were hurrying past in every direction, hanging over the surface of the waters as if the convulsion had already commenced in the upper air.

It was now that Marion and her father first came on deck, and fearful was the scene that presented itself to the view. Marion, however, remained undaunted, clinging closely to her attentive and anxious parent. With uncovered head and her long dark hair floating wildly, did she firmly place her foot at midships and contrive to retain her position. It was at this very moment that a tremendous sea broke over

the vessel, and swept off the master, who was at the helm; he was only seen for one instant, and then suddenly sunk into the deep abyss, one faint suffocating cry was all we heard. Now it was that the general flew to the post of difficulty and danger, and having seen vicissitudes by sea as by land, he assumed the future conduct of the labouring and weatherbeaten bark. Marion still stood firmly by her father's side, nor could she be induced to leave him. Her eyes turned to the weather-bow, looked boldly and proudly on the tempest, while a bright glow, called into her cheek as much by the enthusiasm of the moment, as by the agency of that unseen spirit, whose chariot is the rude winds, whose dwelling is on the deep, gave her face the appearance of beauty, almost unearthly. Her father, as he firmly grasped and controlled the helm, could not but gaze ever and anon on his lovely and inspiring daughter, whose conduct and appearance infused fresh vigour into his arm, and renewed the hopes of his heart; indeed, she appeared like the spirit of the waters, under the influence of whose charms alone they could be quelled-in the midst of this tumultuous scene of terror, this one beautiful and serene object shone like a solitary star on the tempestuous ocean.

Still, under the direction of her new pilot, whose composure and skilful conduct had already restored the confidence of the crew, did the vessel gallantly hold on her way as if actuated by some living and reasonable impulse, now toiling up the steep of some enormous wave, whose ridges of boiling foam hung high and howling over her, and now sweeping boldly into an abyss, formed, it might be seen by the flight of the billows, before a conquering foe; thus, presenting a proud and magnificent spectacle to those who were identified with the struggle, and whose fate was involved in the event.

I was at Jena, whither I had gone for the purpose of visiting an early and dear friend, who had been grievously wounded in a recent engagement, and here again did I accidentally encounter-this the object of my idolatry. The instant my eyes lighted on her I felt as if I now beheld the incarnation of that vision of

beauty, which had so long flitted across my waking reveries and the dreams of my sleep. Here did I again behold that union of diversified excellences which my own heated fancy had so often fused together, but which I scarcely could think, or hope to find, united in nature. When I saw her she was singing—singing one of those hymns (I may truly call them) of national excitement and feeling which at that time swarmed through the country. All the nobler and more exalted sentiments of the human heart were gathered on her countenance and in her accent. Patriotism, the excitation of war in a just-in THE only just cause-national defence! hatred in the only case in which it is a virtue, against national oppressors-these, softened and embellished by the reflection that one dearer to her than all the world was sharing in the dangers to which she was spurring on her countrymen, gave added power to the supreme loveliness of her features and melody of her voice, while they received in return that influence over the soul derivable from nothing but beauty and sweet music.

On this memorable evening it was fated that I should behold Marion in all her various moods and moments most becoming to a woman. The tone of her song, turned the conversation upon war -its excitements, its dangers, its terrors, and Marion related the story of a touching circumstance which she had half witnessed in the last campaign, in a manner which displayed her in a woman's fittest character-pity's minister and handmaiden.

It was a simple story of a soldier's bride, who accompanied him to the wars, whose husband was killed in action, and who, after searching the field for his corpse, had died upon it, in bringing an infant into this miserable world, in a manner so typical of its utter misery. The orphan child had been sent to the town in the rear, where Marion then was. She fostered and adopted it, and the poor infant was present, the unconscious spectator of the interest excited, by the tale of its own woes.

On this occasion I did not meet the general, her father, she exhibited the greatest anxiety on his account, as he had been recently despatched to some considerable distance from the main body of the army, on a matter requiring great

skill and intrepidity. He had been absent but a few days, the overflowings of filial affection were exhibited in every action, and in almost every sentiment of his daughter, and gave her increasing interest in the minds of all by whom she was surrounded.

My friend, whose melancholy situation had occasioned my visit to this part of the world, did not long survive; surgical skill, friendly sympathy, were of but little avail, they might soften the pillow of death, but they could not restore him to health and strength again; they did alleviate his sufferings, but they could not deprive the ruthless monster of his prey when once within his grasp. The tale of his death is but short, and few lines may compass it.

During the progress of the French army through the Grand Duchy of Saxe Weimar, the commanding officer of a regiment of cuirassiers, gave his men permission to put to the sword the inhabitants of a village which was famed for its patriotism, and had offered a determined hostility and protracted delays to the soldiery of the invader. Pillage and massacre unbridled and unbounded, was the immediate result of their capture. The peasants were a simple people, they were fighting at their own thresholds for all that formed their little store of wealth-they were no hirelings paid for shedding blood in a cause they neither felt nor understood. They were a simple people, and knew little of the pitiful ambition of rulers-they were men urged to desperation, and what had their enemies to oppose to its influence? They had numbers, increasing numbers and good discipline, and able commanders; and more than all this, they had revenge, which urged them to wreak upon the helpless and unresisting, when the strong had fallen, the deaths of their companions in arms. It would have been mercy, a mercy little understood by a ferocious soldiery, had they only stabbed their victims to the heart, but brutal lust and burning vengeance were not to be so satiated-they deprived death of all consolation, of every mitigation in its bitterness.

The morning of the day in which this village fell into the hands of the spoilers, had witnessed the long-expected and happy union of Juan Weiber and Margaret, the only daughter of a respectable

farmer in the neighbourhood, and there were some circumstances attending this marriage which made it a universal festival. Before the shades of evening had set in, and while Juan, the happiest of peasants, was clasping to his bosom, with all the fervour of true and passionate love, his beautiful and newly-made bride, sounds and sights of war broke in again suddenly upon the repose of the delicious little village. With flushed cheek and burning brow did Juan leave his lovely wife without a murmur, and Margaret, heedless of the danger that threatened them from without, tenderly reproached her husband for quitting her on this their bridal-day. He was already on the threshold, but returned to kiss the tear from the cheek of his beloved, and to assure her that his desire of fame, and the wish to distinguish himself, originated in his anxiety to prove himself worthy of HER, and he said truly. One vast passion in its mighty flow had aroused every faculty of his being, and to do or die was his resolve. Unsheathing his father's sword, he conjured the assembled villagers to fight to the death, for their homes, their wives, and their children! It was in the fierce onset which immediately ensued that my friend met his untimely death, and that too from the hands of the incensed and suffering Juan.

But why conceal the mournful finale of this day? in the calamities of war such events as these probably happen by the hundred-the conqueror sees them not, and thinks not of them, even those who witness, forget them as soon as seen. Margaret concealed herself for some time in a luxuriant grove attached to their dwelling; but alas, her security was but temporary. Here had she often held sweet converse with her lover, here, in this delicious bower, had the lovers often steeped in a delirium of joy; and forgetful of all, save each other, the earth's uttermost bounds seemed to them but as a cold unimaginable distance that had nothing in common with the little world they would encircle with their clasping arms, here had the two lovers again met; but, great God! how different from all that had preceded it was that terrible meeting! They met in the darkest despair, shedding tears of blood! for the mental torture which wrung from Margaret the tears of burn

ing indignation that bathed her face, forced also the red stream that welled from her fair and wounded bosom to a deeper and more rapid flow, life receding with its gush. Juan was by her side, leaning on his sword, crimsoned to the hilt. He spoke not, he moved not, but seemed rooted to the spot, retaining a terrible consciousness of his fate. She, his loved one, his bride of the morning, was dying, and her broken accents were needless fuel to the one towering and absorbing ambition of his soul. A perceptible shudder ran through her exhausted frame, as she exclaimed, "I am a lost creature and it is well that I am dying-but so very young and so happy as I might have been! Juan, they resisted my prayers, my entreaties. I prayed but for death at their hands, oh, why was it denied me? even death would indeed have been a boon of mercy!" Scarcely had she given utterance to these words, when casting an imploring look on her husband, she sank upon the ground in the last brief agony of death.

It was a village in Westphalia at which I stopped for a few days. I had almost unconsciously wandered from my inn, till I found myself in the churchyard. I paused and looked around me—the spot was singularly beautiful-the old tower of the church was mantled with ivy. One large yewtree, and one only, stood within the precincts of the place, and overshadowed many graves with its gloomy branches. A brook, the low gurgling of which tallied with the scene, bounded the churchyard to the south and east, and beyond it, a deep wood of pines stretched away towards the manorial chateau. I paused, and leaned upon a gravestone, the spot was suited to my feelings, the grave held all that the world had pos

sessed for me! what was the world to my heart, but one ground of graves!

Whilst indulging these bitter fancies I was suddenly roused by the loud stroke of the church-bell, which began to toll, as for a burial. And so indeed it was, for on looking up, I perceived a long procession approaching the church-yard; as it advanced, I perceived it to be the funeral of a military man, for there was a considerable number of troops, both before and after the body, and I could distinguish the charger of the deceased led along in his military accoutrements, typical of the rank of his departed

owner.

The procession approached me, I stood aside to let it pass; it was in unison with my train of thought. There is something very imposing in a military funeral; though the trade is that of death, yet so opposed is it to mourning that there always appears something incongrouus, yet not disagreeably so, in its signs when displayed by a soldier. A brief sigh, and a passing requiescat over his slain comrade, is all that we look for at his hands: a funeral, on the contrary, bespeaks that the deceased died by disease, not the sword, for brief are the obsequies of those who fall in fight.

As the body approached I turned my eyes instinctively towards the chief mourner-a female; her hair was parted on her brow, her face was deadly pale, her form seemed statue-like-so still and equable was her bearing, although she in fact moved onward. Her eyes too, shining and conspicuous in her pale countenance, fixed, and full of grief, though tearless as they were, seemed to my excited mind, to shed a light too deep and holy for mere humanity.

Suddenly a thrill, like electricity, shot through every fibre of my frame, for it it was Marion, it was her father's burial, she was following him to the grave!