Through the hush of thy lone haunts I wander again,
Where these time-hallow'd relics, familiar remain,
As if charmed into magic repose;
The pass subterraneous,--the fathomless well,
The mound whence the violet peeps--and the cell
Where the fox-glove in solitude grows.
In the last rays of sunset thy grey turrets gleam,
Yet I linger with thee--as to muse o'er a dream,
That mournful truths soon will dispel;
My pathway winds onward--life's cares to renew,
And I feel, as thy towers now fade from my view,
'Tis for over--I bid thee farewell!
E.L.J.
* * * * *
THE NOVELIST.
* * * * *
THE HUNTSMAN.
_A Traditionary Tale: by Miss M.L. Beevor._
"The merciful man is merciful to his beast."
"The worm we tread upon will turn again."
Charles, the chief huntsman of Baron Mortimer, was undeniably a very
handsome young man, the _beau ideal_ of the lover, as pictured by the
glowing imagination of maidens, and the beau _real_ of a dozen villages
in the vicinity of Mortimer Castle. Yet, was his beauty not amiable, but
rather calculated to inspire terror and distrust, than affection and
confidence: in fact, a bandit may be uncommonly handsome; but, by the
fierce, haughty character of his countenance, the fire which flashes
from his eyes, and the contempt which curls his mustachoed lip, create
fear, instead of winning regard, and this was the case with Charles.
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