resigned her claim to this fair province; and on the first appearance of European politics promising to favour her attempt, she again despatched a mighty army for its reconquest. With their wonted valour the Servians rushed to the frontier-and he who wore her coronal, whose sword was as an army, whose presence in the fight was victory, where was the warrior chief of Servia? Irresolute, bewildered, lost, he lingered in the capital; late he came, and with him brought fear and panic. On the morrow he fled into exile-for life!

After a brief campaign, Servia was again subdued, but the Turks (in pity was it, or in scorn, or in fear? In fear, for in utter despair there is danger) left to her a remnant of her lost liberty.

For long years Kara George wandered in exile at length, hearing that his countrymen were preparing for one more effort for freedom, he came to the frontier, and sent to inform Milosch (the then chief of the state, and his old companion in arms) where he was hiding, in readiness to join in the coming struggle. That night a messenger departed from Milosch to the man who, for memory of other days, was sheltering the homeless wanderer.

'The head of Kara George or thine own.'

He read-and obeyed.

The head of Kara George! Living, it had more terror for the foe than a rampart aflame with cannon. Dead, the vilest of the rabble of Constantinople might spit at it as he passed the city gate.

The struggle came. The Osmans were expelled the land never again to return, and Milosch was a free Prince in Servia. But the heart that could send to ignominious death the man who trusted him-the brave, the wise, the exalted, the erring, the humbled, the penitent-prompted to acts which made his rule insupportable. He was forced to abdicate, and himself to drink of the exile's bitter cup. Then the people, remembering the hero who first led them to victory, remembering his many services and forgetting his one error, elected his son Georgevitsch, a wise and brave prince, to rule in Servia.

THE ILA AND THE PATRIOT.

THE

A Legend of Serbia.

HE sun behind the wood-clad mountain sets,

And stealing o'er the plain comes twilight's shade,

Though glitter still the gilded minarets
Of wall-engirt Belgrade.

All day the air has slept, and slumbers still;
No ripple on the Danube gliding by,
No stir of leaf upon the wood-clad hill,
No cloudlet in the sky;

Unless yon silver wreath may

cloudlet be,

Upsailing on the azure sky serene, Like pleasure-bark afloat, far out at sea, When but the sail is seen.

The up-cast light that gilds the minarets
Strikes slantingly each gauzy vapour-fold,

And all its silver-tissued edges frets
With crimson and with gold.

And swiftly through the ether it comes on;
Though yet the air, heat-laden, slumbering be,
Though ripple on the river there be none,
Nor stir of leaf on tree.

And on it seated-clad in robe of white
That mingles with the vapour, fold and fold,
With streaming hair out-floating 'mong the light
That fringes it with gold—

A Vila, with uplifted, warning hand,

Upon her chariot cloud comes swiftly on-
A Vila, like a Queen of eastern land
Upon her ivory throne.

And on the water's margin it descends,

What time a pinnace leaves the farther strand And, tracing stealthily the river's bends, Comes grating on the sand.

Its single occupant a woe-bent man,

Whose hair is whitened, not by age but grief, Whose cheek in darksome hiding has grown wan As hueless underleaf.

Is this the chosen of the dauntless band

That rushed like torrent down a mountain

gorge,

And swept the haughty tyrants from the land— The patriot, Kara George?

With warning gesture, and repellent hand
Laid sternly on the boat's uplifted prow,
The Vila hails in accents of command:
'Hold! speak! whence comest thou?'

And he 'From exile, where I've wandered long,
Waiting the hour when Servia should arise,
And cast the ruthless authors of her wrong
As low as now she lies.

'The hour has come.

The cry of her despair

To other lands was passionately made;

They heard and answered not: and she will dare Be free without their aid.

'Her children gather in the cloister's gloom, In forest shades where swarthy lime-trees

grow,

In lonely glen and cavern dark: I come

To lead them to the foe.'

To him the Vila: Back! She needs thee not.

Thou, the ungrateful! that didst from her flee In sorest need; though from her lowest hut She stooped and lifted thee,

'And placed thee on her throne, and did entrust To thee her dear, her new-found liberty,

When from her breast fierce Osman's race was

thrust,

And she erect stood, free.