and virtues the theme of general praise, and he visited our humble home, that he might by personal enquiry satisfy himself as to the truth of the common report. To see Marianne was to admire her, and the old man did admire her-her beauty pleased-her conversation delighted-and her kind attentions attacked him in his weakest and tenderest part, his vanity. He saw her too in a situation, of all others the most interesting to old age, as nurse to a mother whose temper was soured by pain and debility. When he left the house, he left it with the determination that Marianne should be his daughter; he acted upon the good old maxim that a good daughter cannot make a bad wife. You may picture to yourself, my dear Spencer, the happiness of Marianne and Tracey, for that was the name of her lover-indeed they were happy. One of those female poets, who are at once the wonder and ornament of this astonishing age, has said, as beautifully as truly, "They loved-they were beloved-oh happiness! I have said all that can be said of bliss, L. E. L. According to this definition of bliss, they were happy, blessed, beyond measure. If Tracey was eager for an immediate marriage, he found his father not less anxious for its speedy accomplishment. The old man's haste and impatience fully made up for his former reluctance. Tracey pressed his suit with ardour-he pleaded (forgive an old lawyer's technicalities) before a favourable judge, and his jury (it was a woman's heart) gave a favourable verdict. The preliminaries were quickly adjusted; the day of marriage was fixed; and I received a hasty summons to attend the wedding in the capacity of bridesman. Never shall I forget the morning on which that letter came. I was sitting in the little dark garret which I called my rooms, sullenly brooding over some abstruse treatise of metaphysical nonsense; but I was not wholly employed on this-I was building np airy castles of imagination, and dreaming of literary fame and forensic honours. What a relief!!-a summons home! and on such an occasion. I flung away my books. I bounded like one mad with joy, and in less than an hour, was on my way to my native village. I soon arrived there, and a happy and affectionate family welcomed me. It was a happy family, but so busy! My sisters were all employed in the manufacture of some article of finery, and my own room, a little closet, which I had chosen to call my study, was absolutely converted into a depôt for millinery. I found Marianne kind, beautiful, and affectionate as ever, and my short absence from home endeared her still more than before. She looked so happy and so proud, and she endured, and replied to, the raillery of her sisters and friends with such good-nature and archness, that I thought that love, which generally imparts to young ladies a languid, but pretty and interesting sort of stupidity, served to sharpen her fancy and increase her wit. I was greatly amused-the little baggage actually attempted to play off the serious matron! "For shame, brother!" said she to me one day, as I reminded her of some of the pranks of her childhood, "I shall be married next week, and then you know-" but a loud and light-hearted laugh put a period to what, I am well convinced, was intended to be a very solemn and matronly objurgation. You will think me an old fool, Spencer, but I cannot help dwelling on those days! At last the 29th of May, the day fixed for the wedding, arrived. The ceremony was to take place in our village, and the marriage feast and revels were to be held at our house,-whence the bridegroom was to convey his wife in the evening to the house which he had provided for his reception. That house, for ever accursed be it! was situated on the opposite banks of the Wye. Heavy thunder showers had fallen for some days previous, and the river was much swollen above its usual channel, but it was still safe and passable. Early in the morning, the bridegroom came, eager with hope, and full of happiness. All the friends of the families accompanied the youthful couple to the church, and as the last solemn words which delivered my sister into the hands of a fond and devoted husband were repeated, I mentally prayed a fervent prayer for the happiness and welfare of beings so young, so lovely, and so virtuous. "The ways of heaven are dark and intricate,' that prayer was not heard. " The day was spent in feasting and revelry; plenty, and even elegance crowned the board, and the long hoarded casks of old October, which had been brewed in anticipation of some such event, were broached in honour of the marriage. Loud and long was the merriment of the guests-long and deep were their potations—the song, the laugh, the jest, echoed merrily among the old rafters of the farm-house kitchen, for there, as being the most spacious room in our humble tenement, was the marriage-feast held. The events of that night are so strongly impressed upon my memory, that not one jest nor song has escaped it. My poor sister was a sweet singer-she had no skill in music-she was ignorant of the science, but she had taste and feeling, and was one of the sweetest warblers in the vale ofI had often listened with rapture to her melodious voice, but never had her strains appeared half so sweet as on that night. She sang-the song she chose was a melancholy one, and by no means suited to the occasion-why she selected it I know not, it could not have been from a presentiment of her approaching fate, for never, before nor since, have I beheld a face lighted up with such smiles of sincere and unalloyed joy. I shall never forget it—often in my hours of solitude, in my waking dreams, have I fancied that the tones of that sweet voice floated near me. You take interest in my feelings, I know, my dear Spencer, and the song, simple and destitute of poetical beauties as it is, may perhaps afford you a transient pleasure. MY SISTER'S SONG. There is a meek and holy thought that cheers the Christian's breast, That makes the glad more gladsome still, and gives the wretched rest A flame that knew not darkness yet, a bliss without a bane, Compared with which all worldly things are but as baubles vain— It fires the warrior to the fight, it glads the wretched slave, And cheers us 'mid the thoughts of death, of sickness, and the grave, Alleviates every misery, and lightens every load It is the still small voice within that speaks A HOpe in God! When first in helpless infancy my voice essayed a prayer, I raised my eyes to heaven above and knew a God was there ;- When youth and beauty pass away, and dull and dreamy age Foretells that death shall quickly close life's strange and varied page, There is a thought that drives away the terrors of the tomb— A joy that lessens woe-a light that brightens every gloomThat cheers the parting sufferer's heart when life yields up its breath That robs the grave of victory, and takes the sting from deathThat best supports the dying wretch beneath affliction's rodThe holiest of holy things—a fervent HOPE IN GOD! At the termination of this song, an old man, who sate near me, said, that she was too good and too beautiful to be long-lived; at the moment, I thought little of this-it was nothing more than an emphatic expression of pleasure and admiration. Events made it appear prophetic, and often since, when I have listened to tones of harmony from the lips of youth and beauty, I have thought on my sister and shuddered. All was joy and happiness, song succeeded song, and our house witnessed a scene of revelry and gaiety to which it had long been a stranger, and which future events for ever banished from its walls. The floor was covered with dancers, and though the evolutions of the rustic revellers wanted the stateliness of the galliard of old, and the gracefulness of our more modern quadrille, there was no deficiency of merriment and activity. All looked, and all acted, as if grief and sorrow had never known existence-they were like butterflies, rejoicing in their summer garments, and looking as if winter were for ever banished from the world. At length the time arrived when Tracey was to take home his bride to the house which he had prepared for her reception. F Parental anxiety, ever tender and apprehensive, represented the probability of danger from the fords of the river, and it was suggested, nay, even intreated, that they should pass the night under my father's roof. But there were several objections to this plan— Tracey wished to conduct his bride to the house of which she was to be mistress-and my sister's modesty shrunk from the idea. They departed. I attended them, and held the one side of the reins of my sister's horse, while Tracey took the other. We enlivened our ride by conversation on different subjects, and I thought that I had never known Marianne so animated and impassioned. At last we arrived at the end of the Vale of and I resigned her to her husband. We exchanged a fond embrace of affection, and I left her, as I thought, in the possession of every happiness which humanity is capable of knowing. Although the occasion was one of happiness, I felt, as I turned my horse's head, a sort of void at my heart-I was melancholy. As I rode along, my head full of visions of happiness, in all which my dear Marianne bore a prominent part, I heard, or fancied I heard, a long, loud, and agonizing shriek—I stopped and listened, and found it was real. Frantic with terror and apprehension, I spurred my horse to his utmost speed, and rode in the direction of the river. As I approached the shrieks became terribly distinct, and I was but too certain from the roar of the waters, that the flood had, since morning, increased to a frightful magnitude—I reached the banks-Oh! God! what a sight for a fond and doting brother. Two horses, dripping with wet, stood trembling by the river side, and by the light of the moon I could distinguish the dark form of a man struggling against the violence of the stream. A little lower down, a white robe was seen floating with the current. I cannot proceed farther-THEY WERE BOTH DROWNED. J. P. P. C. ODE TO SYMPATHY. (BY THE AUTHOR OF "SYLLA," A TRAGEDY, FROM THE FRENCH.) WHO, where is he that hath not felt, As he at Beauty's feet hath knelt, |