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There floundering deep, the lost spirits weep

And gnash in their lasting pains, Doom'd by the great Sire to the penal fire,

And bound in eternal chains.'

In the voiceless tomb, till the final doom,

I shall brood with my raven wing, 'Till the Saviour's breath shall cry unto death,

“Oh, death! where is thy sting?"
I shall sleep with the dead, in their last cold bed,

Where the worm is rioting free;
Till the Power to save, shall say to the grave,

“Oh! where is thy victory ?"

ANNETTE DE L'ARBRE.

The following lines were written beneath an engraving of Annette De L'Arbre.

There she is the poor maiden—the hapless Annette !

Whose story my bosom hath wrung;
What a lesson! sad lesson to every coquette,
And its deep admonitions, ye should not forget,

Ye lovely and thoughtless and young!
Annette was a beauty surpassingly fair ;

The fairest in Normandy seen ;
She loved—and her lover was gone to the war,
And she gave at their parting a braid of her hair

To gladden the heart of Eugene.
'Twas a talisman dear, which he treasur'd in fight

Through a long and a bloody campaign ; And when he laid down on the cold ground at night, 'Twas pressed to his heart with a throb of delight

And a prayer to behold her again.

Time pass'd--and Eugene to the village return'd,

The village where dwelt his Annette ;
With feelings unalter'd, his bosom still burn'd,
And crown'd with the laurels his gallantry earn'd

What ills were in store for him yet?
Ah, vain of her beauty-pursued as a belle,

Of Normandy's peasantry, queen,
Though with softest affection her bosom did swell;
Annette would pretend to love others as well,

And excited his jealousy keen.
Despairing and madden'd, he rushed from her sight,

Nor linger'd to bid her adieu-
A ship under weigh, furnish'd wings for his flight;
And ere her soft slumbers were broken by light,

To sea, in his frenzy, he flew.
The first news of her loss, which the fair one obtain'd,

Filled now with dismay and despair,
Was a letter in which, wretched girl! was contain'd
That pledge she had given, her heart was enchain'd-

That braid of her beautiful hair.
Wild, frantic, undone,-disregarding disguise,

She flies to the beach of Honfleur-
She strains o'er the weltering waters her eyes,
A speck in the distance, the maiden descries;

"I'was his ship-and she sank on the shore.

They bore her from thence, and from that fatal day

Her spirits and cheerfulness fledShe turn'd from her suitors, disgusted, away From those that were happy, and those that were gay,

And seem'd to all hope to be dead. There was one--and bug one -whom she anxiously

sought: "I was the mother of absent Eugene; On her, she, alas ! had calamity broughtShe only, seem'd vow to engross every thought

Over her, would she tenderly lean.

At length to that mother, intelligence came,

That her penitent son would return;
He confess'd himself selfish, acknowledged with shame,
His conduct to her was deserving all blame,

And his duty he better would learn.
What joy sprung up in the heart of Annette !

Her hands they were clasp'd with delight-
Ah! happiness, then, was in store for her yet,
From the breast of her lover she'd banish regret

If once she were bless'd with his sight. The months rolld away—and the time was at hand

The time when they looked for Eugene; Dark tempests had swept o'er the sea and the land, And fragments of vessels were strewed on the strand,

When his ship was announced in the Seine. Dismasted and shatter'd she slowly advanced,

While hundreds were thronging the shoreAnnette stood among them with pleasure entranced, How sparkled her eyes ! how with joy they danced !

At thought of their meeting once more. Vain-vain was the hope !-the poor maiden they told,

(And her heart like that ship was a wreck,) That during the storm which had over them rolld, Eugene, (and her current of life it ran cold,)

Had been washed by a wave from the deck.

She fell to the earth with a shriek of despair ;

Her reason was shook from its throne; Dark-dark was the cloud which came over the fair, And long did her malady baffle all care

By friendship and tenderness shown.

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But at last, from the couch of disease, she withdrew

In a troubled-bewildering niaze; Of the past she knew nothing, or seemingly knew, Except that she prayed when the stormy winds blew,

And loved on the waters to gaze.

And waving her kerchief, she seem'd to expect

That some one was coming from sea;
The tears that were coursing each other uncheck’d,
Remembrance all gone that her lover was wreck’d,

Too sadly proclaim'd it was he.
At times she would deck herself out as a bride,

Her chamber with white would array-
Her cheek with the maidenly blush would be dyed,
And smiles take the place of her tears that were dried,

And gayest she seem’d of the gay.
Meanwhile to the village, poor Eugene came back,

His life had been saved on a spar;
A vessel for India, he cross'd on her track;
And thus with a spirit cast down-on the rack,

His fortune had borne him afar.

But how shall he meet his dear injur'd Annette ?

Her reason, how shall she regain ?
How know that his love is unchanged for her yet?
Ah! wait till her chamber in order is set,

And deck'd for the bridal again.
So 'twas—and the day of the bridal came round,

Annette sat array'd in her charms: He's coming,” they cried, and she rose at the sound, The door it flew open-her lost one was found !

She knew him and sunk in his arms.

Peace entered her soul and her reason return'd,

And she seem'd through the past to have dream'd. Then let not a lesson thus bitterly learned, Ye young and unthinking! be thoughtlessly spurn'd,

Nor idle ye maidens be deemed.
Remember this tale of Annette and Eugene-

Play not with the chords of the heart;
Those exquisite strings may be sundered I ween,
And seldom united again are they seen,
When once they are forced to dispart.

DAN LONE SOME.—Unfinished.

CANTO I.

Is it not Colinet, I lonesome see,
Leaning with folded arms against the tree?
Why in this mournful manner art thou found,
Unthankful lad, when all things smile around?-- Philips.

Dan Lonesome was a wight of gentle blood

As any in this western hemisphere; It had not “crept through scoundrels since the flood,"

And he could trace it up through many a year,

Far as his country could her lov'd career-
No stain on it could tongue calumnious fling;

Old heads could trace it higher-do not jeer,
Up to the days of some old Saxon king,
But if they could— to do it were an empty thing.

His home, I wot, it nothing boots to tell,

Save that 'twas somewhere in that Old Domain, Which once wished monarchy, 'tis said, so well, She honor'd Charles, and loath'd base Cromwell's

reign; Right gladly had she rear'd Charles' throne again, And did resolve, if that might not be won,

T'invite him bither, cross th’ Atlantic main, To hold for us, the scepire and the crownAh! well-a-day, that deed !-what mischief it had done!

Certes, the times are wondrous changed, when we

The very name of king can scarce abide, Since we have quaff’d thy cup, sweet Liberty!

But let us not our ancestors deride;

Sly Cromwell ceased his cloven foot to hide; Gaind were his ends, that subtle Archimage,

And all his canting cunning laid aside, The tyrant open stalk'd upon the stage; The play was still the same—they had but turn'd the

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