complaints, the creditors became absurdly anxious to be paid their debts, the disciples found that

"House was gone and money spent," and yet that they had not increased their learning, in exchange for their good écus, and so a possé of police constables finished the whole matter under and by virtue of some law of "Fructidor" and "Germinal," or something else, which had as much to do with the subject as "pine-apple punch" forms any part of the controversy respecting the "Elgin marbles ;" and, in one word, St. Simonianism was driven into the streets like a common road mendicant, and left to starve and die on the roadside-What a dénoûment!

But stay, wondering reader, I have yet something better in store. Louis Philippe knew that such men as Enfantin and Chevalier would be sure to do much harm at home, unless employed abroad; and so these two former students of the Polytechnic School were employed by the French government in the north of Africa, and in Asia, to make maps, plans, charts; to examine soil, strata, mountains; to look at the Nile; to go to North America, and study man in the United States, and finally to return to the land of their birth; and, whilst Chevalier is one of the editors of the Journal des Débats, a maitre de requêtes to the Council of State, and has published some admirable books on America and on science, approved and patronized by the government; Enfantin has returned from his voyages and tours in the Holy Land, and has, within the last month, published a report on Algeria which has nearly driven the French to distraction; since his facts, figures, and documents, are all most triumphant against the system so popular in France of African colonization. Enfantin and Chevalier are now comparatively wealthy men; and Louis Philippe has not in all his domains two subjects more devoted to himself and his gov. ernment than these two leaders of Ex-Saint Simonianism!

Does not this read very like a romance? Yet every line and word of it is correct to the letter. We talk of the marvels of the age of chivalry! Why, they are nothing to our own; as my next Reminiscences will still more fully develope!

VALUABLE MANUSCRIPT.-A bibliophile is stated to have been recently found in an old farm-house near Annonay, a valuable MS. of the rough copy of the Aphorismes d' Hippocrate, by Marc Antoine Gaïot, of Annonay, which work was published by him in Greek, Hebrew, and Latin, in 1647. Gaïot was professor of Hebrew at Rome for a long pe riod. Lit. Gazette.

THE ZANTEOTE BRIDE.

BY ELIZABETH AUCHINLECK. From the Dublin University Magazine. "And will my father have me wed This haughty lord," Zurelli said"And mother, must I leave thy side, To be this English stranger's bride? Ah! can my once fond Father part For gold the darling of his heart, And make me break the true-love plight That I but pledg'd on yesternight,Can paltry gain work all this wo, Ah! speak my mother-is it so ?" "It is. Thy hand is pledg'd, my girl, To England's noblest, brightest earl, He, wandering to our lonely isle, Heard praises of thy beauty's smile And yestereve, upon yon green, Enchanted by that beauty's sheen, Vow'd to disdain both birth and pride, And seek and win thee for his bride. -Nay, cling not to me thus, my child, Thy father on De Courcy smiled, And I-oh gaze not on me now, With that sad eye and earnest brow; They wring my soul to agonyYet I have sworn-and it must be! Mark'd you no noble in the dance With lofty mien and eagle glance; Did one not breathe fond words to thee, Needless I ween re-told by me, And did not my Zurelli's eye, With joy to the long gaze reply, That dwelt on her admiringly?"

'Yes, mother, there indeed was one
Peerless amid that village throng:
Guiseppe's was that matchless face,
Guiseppe's was that form of grace.
I marked his eye, so gently blue,
Seek mine, and his alone I knew.
Yes, breathings fond my bosom stirred,
It was Guiseppe's voice I heard;
And his the plight, and his the vow,
That binds my willing spirit now.
Mother, forgive thine own poor girl,
I cannot wed this stranger earl;
What though they say his form and face
Are bright with manly beauty's grace,
And broad and rich his fair lands be,
In you cold isle beyond the sea;

I cannot leave my childhood's home,
From kindred and from friends to roam;
I cannot from my dear sire part,
I cannot wring Guiseppe's heart.
Alas! for my poor beauty's smile,
That won the stranger to our isle!
Surely within his native land
Full many a dame with jewell'd hand,
And noble form and brow of pride,
Would gladly be De Courcy's bride;
How can a lowly maid like me
Be fitting choice for such as he?"
"By Heaven, (her father sternly cried,)
Zurelli thou shalt be his bride,
Ay, even before the setting sun
His course in yon red sky has run ;
Before he stoops his brow to lave
Beneath the dark blue western wave,
As surely as yon heaving tide
By evening's setting sun is dyed,
Thou shalt be Lord De Courcy's bride."

"Alas! my father-is it so,
And must thy poor Zurelli go?

And canst thou cast me from thy heart,

And wilt thou from thy darling part?

Ah! can thy once so gentle eye
Look tearless on mine agony !

And must I leave fair Zante's shore,
Nor look upon its beauties more,
And bid a long, a last farewell
To every shady Linden dell?
And to the purple vineyard's shade
Where with Guiseppe I have strayed,
And that lone fragrant citron grove,
Where first I heard his tale of love?
Ah! who will tend my favorite flowers
Within my pleasant garden bowers,
Or gently lead to greenest dell,
Each morn my beautiful gazelle,
Or watch while o'er the flowery slope
Bounds lightly my swift antelope.
Ah! doubly dear, since mine no more,
Seem all I little prized before!
Yet hear me, father, hear me on,
Who, when thy own Zurelli's gone,
Will climb with thee the pasture-steep,
To help thee tend our gentle sheep;
Or train the truant vine with thee,
Or pluck the pod from cotton tree,
Cull the ripe currant clusters dark,
And fill with fragrant fruit thy bark;
And when thy spirit seeks repose
At peaceful evening's welcome close,
Ah! who will cheer thy wearied soul
With gay guitar and barcarole,
Or keeping time to merry song,
Bound with the castanet along
The happiest of the laughing throng?"
"No more, no more," her father cried-
"That thou shalt be De Courcy's bride
I've sworn before our Lady's shrine,
And shall I break this oath of mine!
Go, wayward girl-in haste begone,
Thy bridal robe and wreath to don."

*

*

*

Before her mirror sat the bride,
And fond ones decked with eager pride,
The tresses of the weeping girl
With costly gem and orient pearl,

De Courcy's gifts, each pearl and gem,
Worthy a princes's diadem;

While each fair maid extolled the grace
Of Lord De Courcy's form and face,
And kissed Zurelli's tears away,
And bid her hail her bridal day.

She turned with sickening soul away
From flashing gem, and rich array,
And, "deck with this pale rose, she said,
"Your wretched victim's blighted head:
Would it adorned me for my grave!
The last, last gift Guiseppe gave,
Just as we parted yesternight,
Beneath the softened moonbeam's light.
-Yet no-I must not cherish now
A gift of his-look on my brow:
The purchase of my faith is there,
The band that links me to despair.
Ah! fatal pride that bids my sire
Such honors for his child desire!
Guiseppe! thou whose name has been
The music of Love's passing dream,
Be thou forgotten-all is past,
So bright-so sweet-how could it last?
And yet how shall I teach my heart-
From all its cherished love to part,
From that one passion which could fling
Beauty o'er every earthly thing!
For not a leaf or flower or tree
But told of happiness to me;

A bliss pervaded earth and sky, If his beloved form was nigh,

Joy, Light, and Hope were where he moved-
So has this trusting bosom loved!
And say-oh say, when all is past,
That still I loved him to the last!"

The dark lengths of her glossy hair
Are braided now with nicest care;
The wreath of orange-blossoms now
Is placed upon her death-cold brow,
On her fair neck the gems are hung,
The snowy veil around her flung,
The maidens gaze with tearful pride-
Their work is done-lead forth the bride!

She gazed upon the waning sun,
His shining course was nearly run,
And varied tints stole o'er the sky

Of rosy light, and purple dye,
And lo! the western waters glow,
Burned where he dipt his radiant brow!
"Father-oh hear me still-once more
Ere yet all hope is wholly o'er !
Remember that my maiden vow

Is not my own to offer now.

This is no time for bashful pride;
The maid forsworn, the perjured bride,
Must nerve her faltering tongue to speak,
Ay, though her bursting heart should break,
Father, I love him-love him well,
More than these trembling lips can tell.
He is the first thought day-light brings,
His name the first sound memory sings-
At night arrayed in Fancy's beams,
This is the form that haunts my dreams,
The very life-spring of my heart,

I have no thought from him apart.
And I had sworn, through future years
To share his griefs, his hopes, his fears:
Surely a record is above

Of holy vows and truthful love,—
Pure was our love, and fond our vow,
In mercy, father, hear me now!"
Why does Zurelli wildly start?
Guiseppe folds her to his heart!
'Tis he, her bosom's best adored,
'Tis England's noblest, proudest lord!
White was the plume that waved on high,
Borne on his cap of Tyria: dye,
Rich was his mantle's graceful fold,
His crimson doublet slashed with gold;
The arm that round the maid was thrown
With glittering badge of honor shone,
While broidered on his ermined vest
Blazed gorgeously the noble crest
Won on a blood-red field of fame,
The sign of proud De Courcy's name.
"And cans't thou then forgive," he cried,
My fond deceit-my own loved bride?
Wandering by chance to this lone isle,
I heard of fair Zurelli's smile;

I sought thee in thy native bower,
And found that never lovelier flower
'Neath English domes, or southern skies,
That charmed my heart, or blest mine eyes,

I longed to try if what is told

Of woman's love for rank or gold
Were false or true-as peasant low

I sought thy heart-the rest you know.
The simple secret well has proved,
'Tis for myself alone I'm loved;

Oh, blissful thought; and wilt not thou,
Zurelli, keep thy late-pledged vow,
And at yon altar's sacred shrine,
Blest by thy parents now be mine?

Ay, weep the dear ones whom you part,
I could not prize a loveless heart,
And thou art fairer in thy tears,
Thy sad regrets and gentle fears,
Than when the smiles of gladness break
In beauty on thy blushing cheek.
You mourn the land you leave behind,
In mine a lovely home thoul't find,
Where every lip and heart of pride,
Shall own thee fairest, my sweet bride!"

In truth it was a princely home,
Those marble halls-that lofty dome,
The passing richness of each room,
Gorgeous with work of Persia's loom,
All made that noble dwelling seem
The fabric of some lovely dream.
Below lay terraced garden bowers,
(A very wilderness of flowers.)
And round the castle's towering pride,
The cultured lands spread far and wide.
How lovely each sequestered vale
That smiled around-each wooded dale
And breezy upland, where the deer
Went bounding by the river clear
That wound its silvery course away
By velvet lawn and mountain gray.
Yet that fair scene its charms displays
In vain to its sad mistress' gaze,
As leaning near the lattice high,
She looks upon the evening sky,
With aching heart and vacant eye.
Never were braids of raven hair
Parted o'er brow more purely fair;
So clear in its transparent hue,

You saw each blue vein wander through.
And beautiful the pensive grace,
The dearest charm of that sweet face,
Where the pale lip and paler cheek
A tale of silent sorrow speak.
And gushing tears unbidden rise
In the pure depths of those dark eyes.
Ah! 'tis most sad to shed such tears,
While yet the weeper's young in years,
Still young--yet what an age is told
Since first the heart in grief grew old!
What may that lady's musings be?
Of sunny eves-the murmuring sea-
Of whisperings which the soft wind made
Amid the fragant myrtle shade,
And the fresh fall of dewy showers
On beds of springtime's earliest flowers.
"Alas!" she sighed, "my blessed isle,
Dost thou still wear as bright a smile
As when Zurelli's light foot prest
With bounding step thy verdant breast?
And are thy cool delicious bowers
As gay with thousand-tinted flowers
As when amid the grateful shade,
A happy child I blithely played?
Yes-and the richly-plumaged bird
Still in the acacia-grove is heard,
And still my diamond-eyed gazelle
As wildly treads its native dell,
As gladly snuffs the mountain-breeze,
And browses on the almond trees,
That ope their silver buds as fair
As ever on the whispering air.
And still my little caique's sail
Flaunts idly in the fragant gale,
The while the sparkling waves below,
As brightly in the sunbeams glow,
And gem with glittering spray the oar,
Zurelli's hand shall guide no more.

At jocund evening's peaceful hour
Sounds the low lute from glen and bower,
And still with darkly-braided hair
Throng to the dance the maidens fair;
But what is she-once happiest there?
A lonely and a loveless thing,

Round whose sad heart these memories cling
With blighting clasp and deadly sting!
Mine is the dark despairing heart
From light and hope for aye apart,
Mine is the wild and wasting pain
That cannot be at rest again,

For I have loved and found it vain!
And yet, how could I deem his pride
Would brook that I, his peasant bride
Should be the gaze of scornful eyes
The theme of insolent surprise-
The mocked, perchance, of every voice,
Nor blush to own his hasty choice.
But he did love me - it may be
This wasting change began in me-
Mayhap when my De Courcy came
From tournay or from field of fame
To tarry by my side a while,
Less bright he found Zurelli's smile-
It may be that my tear-dimmed eye
Met his, with cold unkind reply;
And thus, perchance, each saddened look
Seemed to my lord a mute rebuke.
Of late within the banquet-hall,
'Mid sounds of mirth and festival,

Where pealed the laugh from pleasure's throng,
And flowed the wine-cup and the song,
Methought at times his gentle gaze
Turned towards me as in happier days.
I felt his eye upon me dwell,

I felt my heart with triumph swell,
For many a noble dame was there
With coronet and jewelled hair;
And many a high-born graceful girl,
With ermined robe and clasp of pearl,
And diadem and princely plume
Moved lightly round the glittering room,
While eyes that made the lamps seem dim,
Were showering all their beams on him.
And yet, 'mid all that beauty's blaze
Mine was the form could win his gaze!
Then o'er his soul some change would come
To shade his brow with sudden gloom;
Anon he'd join the dance and song,
And speed the light-winged jest along,
And smile with every lady fair
As though he was the happiest there.
Mine be the anguish now to bear
The bitterness of deep despair;
Still must I love him-still alone
Weep the bright hours for ever gone-
Still must his name for ever be
A treasure dear to memory,
'Mid all this wreck of happiness
I could not bear to love him less!
Yet there is one, who even now
Would fondly kiss my faded brow,
And lay this aching head to rest
With soothing kindness on her breast-
Does not each hour, each moment prove
That change will mark all other love?
Passion with youth and charms departs,
Time steals the truth from other hearts.
All else is mutable below,

A mother's love no change can know!
Oh for one echo of her voice

To bid my drooping soul rejoice—
Oh for my father's fervent kiss,
Earth's purest holiest caress,

That fell upon my brow at even
Like to a blessing sent from Heaven."

She paused-there was no living sound
To break the utter silence round,
Save the cool cascade's tinkling flow
That played amid the flowers below,
And twilight darkened calm and still,
O'er voiceless glen and lonely hill.

For many a day unstrung and mute
Had lain that fair girl's favorite lute,
But now her snowy hand she flings
Idly across those glittering strings.
'Twas memory's music! How that tone
Brought thoughts of honrs for ever gone-
Ah! wherefore can she only raise
The well-known song of others days?
Tears gush anew at that sweet lay,
She turns, and casts the lute away.
Alas, she sighed, how heavily

The long, long day has wearied by!
Its lonely hours at last are gone,
And night with solemn step comes on,
But not to me the morning light
Brings joy, or calm repose the night!
My aching eyes gaze sadly round'
On gilded roof, and marble ground,
While shuddering at the deepening gloom
I wander through each stately room,
And start as on the mirrored walls
My shadowy image dimly falls.
Still faster fades the evening light-
Oh will De Courcy come to night!"

But hark to the impatient fall

Of footsteps through the echoing hall.
'My first, best loved," a low voice cried,
Her lord kneels by Zurelli's side!
He parted back her clustering hair,
Gazed on that face so passing fair,
And wildly kissed her dewy cheek,
'Zurelli, dearest, loveliest, speak!
If I was ever loved by thee,

་་

Oh, listen now, and pardon me--
Let not De Courcy sue in vain,
To see Zurelli smile again!"

An idle task I ween 'twould be
To trace that truant's history:
Too often has the tale been told,
Of broken vows and hearts grown cold.

Sadly he spoke-Zurelli heard,
And woman's pride within her stirred.
She turned away her tear-dimmed face,
And sought to shun his warm embrace.
Then as the idol of past days
Rose to her faithful memory's gaze,
And as upon her softened soul
Those pleading accents sweetly stole,
She hid her brow upon his breast,
And felt that she again was blest!

"Twas eve-the parting sunbeams dyed
With crimson glow the waveless tide,
And gently kissed with blushing smiles
The shores of Grecia's gem-like isles,
While all around on earth and sky
Was spread the glorious radiancy.
Impelled by many a rapid oar,
A light barque neared the lovely shore,
With throbbing heart upon the prow
Zurelli stood her cheek's deep glow
Burned brighter as she turned her eye
Upon the blue delicious sky,"
And saw the evening's sunbeams rest
Upon her native Zante's breast,

And listened as the tinkling bells
Chimed blithely from the pasture dells.
While from the Ilex grove was heard
The song of many a bright-winged bird.
Sadly De Courcy leaned apart―
Remorse was busy at his heart!
He thought of that fair bridal hour
When from her lowly cottage bower
With all a lover's rapturous pride
He bore his newly-plighted bride-
Ah, ill had he her trust repaid,
By blighted hopes and faith betrayed!
He did not move, he dared not speak-
He watched her burning lip and cheek;
He saw how wildly her dark eye
Flashed as she fixed it on the sky,
He shuddered at its brilliancy,
As looked she on the evening ray,
And gazed her very soul away.

}

My own Ionia! I have seen Once more thy hills of grateful green, Have seen thy sky's unrivalled hue Of golden glow, and cloudless blue; How have I pined to look again On each loved path, and mossy glen; Ply, boatmen, ply the rapid oar, Oh, let me touch my blessed shoreYet, 'tis too late-Life's silver cord Is loosed, and now my heart's adored" (Gently she turned towards her lord, And whispered with a seraph's smile, "Lay me at rest in mine own isle." He clasped her in his wild embrace, He gazed upon her changing face, And kissed in agony her browOh never seemed she dear as now! While closer to his breast she clung And blest him in her native tongue; Once, and but once, her waning eye Turned to her loved Ionian sky, Then fixed upon the face of him Who o'er her bent-that gaze grew dim, A smile upon her pale lips shone, "De Courcy-Mother," was she gone? They bent to catch another breath, And started-for they looked on Death!

DUKE OF SUSSEX AND THE BIBLE.-The Duke of Sussex was a great collector of Bibles. Few men were more diligent and ardent students of the sacred volume than his Royal Highuess, a considerable portion of every day being set apart for its persual. His attainment in biblical criticism was very considerable. The Rev. Dr. Raffles, at the opening of the new Independent College at Withington, near Manchester, last Wednesday, stated that 30 years ago he waited upon his Royal Highness at Kensington Palace. "Did you ever meet with Bishop Clayton on the Hebrew Text, Mr. Raffles?" asked his Royal Highness. "I am acquainted with Bishop Clayton on Hebrew Chronology," said the doctor. Ay, ay," rejoined the Duke of Sussex, "but that is not what I mean. The book I mention is a thin quarto, so rare that I borrowed it of a friend, and so valuable that I-(forgot to return it, we thought Doctor Raffles was about to represent his Royal Highness as saying; but no, and let book collectors take a leaf out of his Royal Highness's book,-and so valuable that I copied it with my own hand." -Col. Gaz.