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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?"
Where the worm is rioting free;
“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;
Ye lovely and thoughtless and young!
The fairest in Normandy seen ;
To gladden the heart of Eugene.
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 ;
What ills were in store for him yet?
Of Normandy's peasantry, queen,
And excited his jealousy keen.
Nor linger'd to bid her adieu-
To sea, in his frenzy, he flew.
Filled now with dismay and despair,
That braid of her beautiful hair.
She flies to the beach of Honfleur-
"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;
And his duty he better would learn.
Her hands they were clasp'd with delight-
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.
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;
Too sadly proclaim'd it was he.
Her chamber with white would array-
And gayest she seem’d of the gay.
His life had been saved on a spar;
His fortune had borne him afar.
But how shall he meet his dear injur'd Annette ?
Her reason, how shall she regain ?
And deck'd for the bridal again.
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.
Play not with the chords of the heart;
DAN LONE SOME.—Unfinished.
Is it not Colinet, I lonesome see,
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-
Old heads could trace it higher-do not jeer,
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