and vile insinuations—she must not be found in unbefiting company! Be pacified, and follow this corridor until you come to a door with a latch on the inside, and opening upon the staircase: be careful to close it after you, and you are safe; and now begone!" and she waved her hand imperiously.

The lady, too much alarmed and agitated to reply, could only place her finger upon her lips, and mutter two or three words of grateful thanks: she then darted into the aperture with all the vigour of desperation.

(To be continued in our next.)

DAYBREAK AT SEA.

BY MRS. ABDY.

I STOOD on the deck while the morning was breaking,
I thought on my home, on each blossom and flower
Which the sunbeams were then to existence awaking,
As gaily they glittered o'er lattice and bower.

But soon, with enraptured and eager emotion,
I watched the wide waters around me expand,

And I thought, as the light slowly broke on the ocean,
That daybreak was never so lovely on land.

From the East the faint glow on the billows descended;
Indistinctly, at first, it revealed them to sight,

Till o'er the dim surface it brightly extended,
And the vast field of waters grew radiant with light.

I wished not that song-birds were hovering o'er me,
I asked not that flowers should enamel the ground.
Enough for my eye was the ocean before me;

Enough for my ear was its deep rushing sound.

Let the landsman extol, in his songs and his stories,
The dawn, softly shining on tower and on tree:

I deem that he cannot feel half of its glories,

Till he knows the lone grandeur of DAYBREAK AT SEA,

THE FLOWER IS GONE!

BY MRS. CHARLES TINSLEY.

MOTHER! bright eyes make sunshine round thee still,
And glad young voices music in thy dwelling;

Yet owns thine heart a void no love may fill,

Save the grief-fraught one in its lone depths swelling: The flower is gone!

For thee life's spell is broken. Faith and truth,
So boundless once, now make thy spirit tremble;
Each wakening thought is darkened with the dust,
Whose frail endurance our best hopes resemble:

The flower is gone!

Thy pride is bow'd. Bright eyes, and sunny hair,
And blooming cheeks, so late in gladness cherish'd,
Now haunt thee but as types of one more fair,
Whose opening beauty from thy side hath perish'd:
The flower is gone!

The future borrows from the faithless past
A cloud of sadness that may not be broken;

And hope-fond, clinging flatterer to the last!—

Even hope hath words thy tried heart leaves unspoken:

The flower is gone!

And thou art conscious of a sleepless power,
From its first faith thy chasten'd spirit weaning;
A mighty grasp that shakes from hour to hour
The baseless rock whereon thy life was leaning:
The flower is gone!

So better, if to thee God's will be blest,
Whose hallowing purpose all around is speaking,
That but to bring thee to its own glad rest-
The only treasure worth our mortal seeking:

The flower is gone!

THE CAPTIVE MONARCH.

BY MRS. EDWARD THOMAS.

CHAPTER I.

"Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,

For you have but mistook me all this while :
I live with bread like you,-feel want, taste grief,
Need friends. Subjected thus,

How can you say to me I am a king?"

SHAKSPEARE'S Richard II.

PERHAPS there is nothing more painful to a generous and susceptible mind than the discovery that it has misplaced its confidence, and that the being in whom it most trusted is the first to deceive and betray.

Such was the disappointment which awaited the unhappy Francis I., of France, after the disastrous battle of Pavia, in the estimate he had formed of the character of his victorious rival, Charles V., of Spain.

Judging from the feelings which would have influenced his own heart under similar circumstances, he thought the Emperor would hasten, on the wings of a noble ardour, to release his royal prisoner, and, by such a timely act of mercy, secure to himself a friend for life. Francis was, therefore, most desirous that Charles should be informed, as speedily as possible, of his deplorable defeat and captivity, fondly imagining that his ready sympathy would follow the sad news, and that he should obtain instant relief and freedom from him.

To effect this important object, he drew up a memorial, in which he detailed, in the most pathetic terms, the anguish he was plunged into; and implored the Emperor to take into consideration that the most godlike quality of a conqueror was clemency; assuring him that, if it had been his misfortune to have been overthrown, not one unnecessary moment's delay should have occurred between his imprisonment and release.

This he was permitted by Lannoy to join to the despatches he was forwarding to Charles, and as land travelling was the most expeditious at that season of the year, Francis gave a passport to the commendator Pennalosa, the bearer of them, to go through France, as the quickest way of reaching Spain.

For a time he was comparatively happy, buoyed up by the pleasing anticipations which the fancied kindness of Charles awakened in his sanguine bosom. But day after day, and week after week, did he languish, neglected and forgotton, in the dreary fortress of Pizzichitonè, guarded by the almost inquisitorial vigilance of the stern and unbending Don Ferdinand Alarcon, its governor, an officer remarkable for his strict and scrupulous sense of honour, without obtaining the remotest clue to the probable period of his captivity, or any amelioration to the misery of his present unendurable condition, not even that of knowing whether Charles had ever actually received his petition or not; until, sick to death with that sickness which hope deferred creates in the melancholy heart, when left to prey upon itself, the poor forlorn Francis fell into a state of despondency which seriously affected his health.

At length, after the most torturing procrastination, urged by the importunities not only of Francis himself, but also by the more imperative ones of Alarcon, who forcibly represented the absolute despair of his prisoner, the Emperor sent the Count de Roeux to Cremona, with the sole conditions on which the King of France could obtain his liberty. These, however, were so humiliating, so dishonourable, that Francis, exasperated beyond reason at them, drew his dagger, and pointing it to his breast, exclaimed vehemently, ""Twere better that a king should die thus." The alarmed Alarcon seized the uplifted arm, and restored the aggrieved monarch to some degree of composure; but, even after weighing the odious conditions in the most deliberate manner, he protested solemnly "that he would rather remain a prisoner for life than purchase liberty by such ignominious concessions."*

Francis, having completely failed by writing to interest the selfish and ambitious Charles in his behalf, thought, with that hope which so tenaciously clings to man, that if he could but obtain a personal interview with him, he could, with the persuasive eloquence of genuine sorrow, rouse the dormant compassion of the saturnine Spaniard.

In this scheme he was favoured by Lannoy, who did all in his power to facilitate it; not out of regard to Francis, but to furnish the triumph to his countrymen of seeing that monarch in chains.

Without consulting either Bourbon or Pescara, his allies, Lannoy, with the money Francis furnished him, fitted out a galley for Genoa, under pretence of conducting him by sea to Naples; but, soon after setting sail, orders were given to the pilot to direct his course towards Spain; and in a few days they landed at Barcelona, when, to the mortification of Francis, he was lodged, by the Emperor's command, in the Alcazar of Madrid,

* Vide ROBERTSON, vol. v., p. 278.

under the care of his old jailor, Alarcon, who had followed him immediately on discovering the object of his flight.

CHAPTER II.

I duly heard the reckless waters roar,

Those waves that would not bear me to the shore;
I duly marked the glorious sun and sky,
Too bright-too blue-for my captivity;

And felt that all which freedom's bosom cheers
Must break my chain before it dried my tears."

BYRON'S Corsair.

Francis, finding it now impossible to hope against hope, abandoned himself to his miserable fate; he uttered no complaint,made no farther efforts for liberty, but mournful and silent he wasted away with fearful and startling rapidity. His appetite was totally gone, and his strength would not suffice to drag him across the narrow limits of his prison.

Physicians were summoned to the bedside of the invalid, who, perceiving that the disease was a malady of the mind, which medicine could not reach, they prescribed cheerful society, the tender sympathy of friendship, and the attendance of those dear to Francis, to alleviate his distress and lure him from despair.

The young and valiant Count Lautree de Foix, he who at the age of 18 was knighted by Bayard, " the chevalier sans peur et sans reproche," in the fatal retreat of Rebeo, which cost the hero his life, had also been made a prisoner at the battle of Pavia, while gallantly defending the chivalrous monarch, who then lost all except his honour. Alarcon, knowing his devoted attachment to Francis, and his strict integrity of conduct, obtained permission for him to share the solitude so insupportable to his beloved

master.

With the unremitting solicitude of a brother did Lautree, still feeble from the severe wounds he had received in that lamented day, endeavour to mitigate the hopeless misery which was consuming his king; but it was not in the power of the disinterested and affectionate young nobleman to pour the balm of consolation into the festering soul of Francis, aggrieved as it was by hourly disappointment and contumely.

Lautree, at last, really apprehending some dreadful result from the state he was in, secretly informed the Duchess of Alençon, the favourite sister of Francis, of it; hoping that his own efforts, seconded by her vivacity, would restore her unhappy brother to something like hope again.

Marguerite, with the alacrity of a true and ardent affection, instantly obeyed the summons of the anxious Lautree, setting out for Madrid the moment she received it.