mine; but still rejoiced in thus again conversing with her, after a separation of twenty eventful years, during which we had been sundered by barriers of mountains, and deep and raging seas. I now inquired after Frederick Schill, my fosterbrother, as he was called. His was a melancholy story, Angelica told me, and she would relate the more prominent occurrences of his short, but glorious life.

"Schill, as you may have heard," said she, " 'immediately after leaving college, entered the Prussian service; and while quartered in some obscure town on the frontiers, became enamoured with the daughter of a clergyman of the village. Their passion was mutual, and but one obstacle opposed their union-poverty; for Schill was only a lieutenant, and the good cure was very far from rich. Notwithstanding this,— 'His love was passion's essence,-as a tree

On fire by lightning, with ethereal flame
Kindled he was, and blasted; for to be

Thus, and enamour'd, were in him the same.'

Schill adored Josephine with all the romantic impetuosity of a oldier, and he appeared to live only for her. Although no philosopher, Schill was brave as high-souled courage could make a soldier; he knew that his only resource was his sword; he felt his country's wrongs, and he made them his own; he saw the usurper of France tyrannizing over the nations, and holding the people at nought; the widow's sigh and the orphan's tear pleaded for revenge, and his resolution was taken. Mingling patriotism with love, he determined to triumph in both, or fall a sacrifice in the attempt. It was evening when the young warrior entered the room where Josephine was sitting, to break his unwelcome determination to her. If loveliness could have shaken his resolution, or made a coward of his heart, that was the moment; he paused-hesitated— attempted to speak, but all in vain, he could only utter 'Farewell!' and, rushing from the apartment, mounted his horse, and in the deepening shadows of the night was quickly lost to Josephine's sight-for ever.

"Various changes attended Schill throughout the unequal contest; and every engagement weakened his forces, until at last he found his band almost too reduced to keep the field. This, however, was only in numbers; the spirit of his comrades was yet fearless and unsubdued; and with his devoted followers he retreated to the fastnesses of the mountains, resolved to dispute every inch of ground with the invaders of his country. Every position gained by the enemy was sanctified by the blood of some brave and independent patriot; and the hero of the Hartz, after having harassed and fatigued, by continual sallies, the tyrant's army, consummated his glory by an action as memorable as that which erst immortalized Leonidas at Thermopyla. Yet whilst every bosom throbbed, and every spirit exulted in the patriotism of their countryman, one tongue was silent, and one heart cold; the blush fled from that fair cheek, and the smile played no more over her rosy lips. But Josephine is a bride, and though the bridegroom came not to her, she went to him; and the lovely and the brave, Frederick and Josephine, now repose, side by side, in one sepulchre !"

SHE NEVER TOLD HER LOVE.

BY HENRY PLUNKETT.

A sigh went floating on the breeze,

Freed from its fetter'd stay:
Then, like the wind o'er summer seas,

Died fitfully away:

A stifled sob of grief was heard,

A breath as from above.

She did not lisp one lonely word,

She never told her love!

Sighs are the treasur'd thoughts which rise,
Like perfume from the flow'r,
When the lorn spirit's broken ties
Leave grief for beauty's dow'r ;

But oh! as bitterly they spring,
When maiden thoughts are wove,
Like her's, to joys which bless-yet wring-
She never told her love!

A tear-drop glisten'd in her eye,
A gloom was on her brow,

And her young heart throbb'd tremblingly,
As leaves when storm-winds blow;
A sigh-a tear-twin marks of pain,
Were all her heart could prove,

Her soul's best chords were rent in twain,—
She never told her love!

She wept,-how could she else but weep?
Tears bless the spirit's dearth,
And, when the frozen heart would sleep,
To brighter hours give birth:

She wept,-but dark thoughts still will cling,
As grief to joy were wove,

She yet must curb her spirit's wing,

She never told her love!

Oh! love broods on in silence still,
More deep but from its rest,
Crowds cast a chain upon the will,
And chill the feeling's zest;

But oh! the hearts frank incense burns
More bright when still thoughts move,
And she-what throbs her breast inurns!-
She never told her love!

Perchance 'tis well. Affection's name
Scarce finds a place on earth,
And better thus to quench the flame,
Than chill its zeal by dearth: