"Answer me, Richard; do you believe there is another world?"

"Most fervently!" ejaculated the prisoner; and it was evident that the reply was an involuntary one.

"Then give us both your blessing, reverend sir," exclaimed Lucy, casting herself on her keees before the clergyman. The pale cheek of the venerable old man was suffused with a slight glow, and his hand trembled as he laid it on the supplicant's head, saying, in a voice scarcely intelligible from emotion, " May God of his infinite mercy forgive the young man the wrong he has done to thee and thine, and take ye both unto himself in a world where there is neither sin nor suffering!"

"Amen!" responded Lucy; and the amen was solemnly echoed back by the whole assemblage.

She now rose from her knees, kissed her lover tenderly between the eyes, and, exclaiming, "farewell!" dashed him suddenly from the cliff. So unexpected was the action, that no hand was quick enough to stay it; and before the waters had well closed over his body, she flung herself headlong after him. One cry of the falling victim-one plash of the waves below-and all was over.

THE BANQUET OF THE SAXON NOBLES IN
WESTMINSTER HALL.

Rude was that old grim hall,-magnificent
Came the full glare of torches o'er its roof,
Revealing its proud inmates; and it linked.
Its radiance to the spear, and it beamed out
Homage to the plum'd helm. Around the walls
Banners were marshall'd,-banners that had seen
The triumphs of a thousand battles! they
Bore testimony of the lordly chiefs

O'er whom they wav'd,-they told of myriads slain
For one fierce despot,—and, they shadowed forth
The times, when men pour'd out their sacred blood
Like water,-rich and plenteous. Many harps
Breath'd festal music through that spacious hall,
And incense, sweet as the calm summer's breath,
Ascended, in a cloud, from the bright jars,

O'er which pure flowers entwin'd. The goblet pass'd,
With laughing wine o'erflowing; and the lips

That quaff'd of it, possess'd a sunnier tint

Than e'er had brightened them. There were brave chiefs
Assembled in that hall,-not one had turn'd

From the flush'd foeman's spear, but in the fight
Had stood like the dread oak, when tempest throng,
Battling around it! Dauntless sate those chiefs
Beneath their scowling banners; yes, they bore
The air which had distinguished their proud sires,
When with bare swords, they scattered the pale hosts
Of their Norse foe, and shook the Reafen-flag
In triumph o'er their Oddune. Oft they spoke
Of godlike victories pictured on the wall,
And then, with mighty eloquence, started up,
Breathing dire vengeance!

And the archery,

Attired in Lincoln green, rose from their seats,
And, to the sound of harps,-the sweeping sound-
Fresh from the illumin'd galleries, they displayed
The bows that had dispersed a flood of shafts
In the wild conflict. "Lead us on," they cried,
"And let the raven claim the splendid feast
Which we'll prepare!" The trumpet lifted up
Its terrible voice, and a great clangor rush'd
Through the vast edifice! Then the spearmen bold
Threw down their ponderous gauntlets, then they spoke
Not as vile men, but gods! Their language told
Of hills and vales, o'er whom the savage Dane
Had poured his tens of thousands ;-culture sank
Beneath the oppressor's tread, and brand and flame
Carried destruction, where the plough and scythe
Had dwelt in happier ages;-then they told
Of England's fairest nobles who had given
Their blood for their dear country, of vast fields
Strewn o'er with slaughtered yeomen,-and of saints
Mocked by the red destroyer. And shall we,'
They sternly asked, "shall we, as Saxons, brook
These merciless wrongs! no-be it ours to gain
What our proud sires could not!" The harps rang out
A glad assent, and lordly Horsa strode

Into the throng of chiefs.

"Pour," he exclaimed, "Pour in your cups the nectar, and, with me, Quaff to the health of England. Peace to her, And honour to her nobles!" Then he rais'd The rich bowl to his lips, and having drank Its sparkling liquid off, he threw his sword

On the wide festal bench. ""Tis done!" he cried,
This country shall be ransomed—not with gold,-
But bright and free-born iron! Hear me, chiefs!
Abet me, vassals! with your thronging belts,
And bacinets white-plum'd. Ye've seen me drink
A good and rich libation, and I say—

Yea, with the trumpet's menace, that the sword
Shall thus drink up our blood, if, with that sword,
We slaughter not the Dane! I speak not to
Rowenas of the hyacinthine hair,

Or infamous Vortigerns, but unto ye-
To ye I speak, ye nobles and ye serfs,
Before whose flashing shields the foe has fled
Often like fleeting chaff! 'Tis not for us
To wear the grand and glittering pageantry
That dignifies the warrior, unless we

Are free to bear it through the bleeding land
On which the Norse spears bristle. Oh tear down
The griffin crest,-let not the breath of slaves
Come under the rich corslet,-break the stave
To which the banner clings,-in sackcloth go-
Go to the shrines that your fam'd sires have made
Holy by their own blood!"

A pause ensued-
A dreadful pause ;-the pictures on the wall
Were not more silent than the giant forms

Rang'd round about them! but that pause pass'd o'er,
And every lip sent up a clamorous shout,—

Wild and determined. Then the gates were thrown
Back on their hinges, and a brilliant host,

With sweeping war-cars, hatchets, spears, and brands,
Pour'd through them, to the music of the harps,
And a great noise of trumpets!

Deal.

REGINALD AUGUSTINE.

Those valleys, or glens, as they are called, which intersect the Grampian mountains, in Scotland, are chiefly inhabited by shepherds. The pastures over which each flock is permitted to range, extend many miles in every direction. The shepherd never has a view of his flock at once, except when they are collected for sale or shearing. His occupation is to make daily excursions to different extremities of his pastures in succession ; and to turn back, by means of his dog, any stragglers that may be approaching the boundaries of his neighbours.

In one of these excursions, a shepherd happened to carry along with him one of his children, an infant, about three years old. After traversing his pastures for some time, attended by his dog, the shepherd found himself under the necessity of ascending a summit at some distance, to have a

more extensive view of his range. As the ascent was too fatiguing for the child, he left him on a small plain at the bottom, with strict injunctions not to stir from it till his return. Scarcely, however, had he gained the summit, when the horizon was suddenly darkened, by one of those impenetrable mists, which frequently obscure those mountains. The anxious father hastened back to find his child; but unfortunately missed his way in the descent. After a fruitless search of many hours, amongst the morasses and cataracts, he was at length overtaken by night. Still wandering on, without knowing whither, he at length came to the verge of the mist, and, by the light of the moon, discovered he had reached the bottom of his valley, and was now within a short distance of his cottage. To renew the search that night, was equally fruitless and dangerous: he was, therefore, obliged to return to his cottage, having lost his child and his faithful dog, which had attended him for years.

Next morning, by day-break, the shepherd, accompanied by a band of his neighbours, set out in search of the child; but after a day was spent in fruitless fatigue, he was com⚫ pelled, at the approach of night, to descend from the mountains. On returning to the cottage, he found that the dog, which he had lost the night before, had been home, and on receiving his usual allowance, (a piece of oat cake,) had instantly gone off again. For several successive days the shepherd renewed his search after the child; and still, on returning home at evening, disappointed, to his cottage, he found that the dog had been home, and, on his receiving his usual allowance of oat-cake, had instantly disappeared. Struck with this singular circumstance, he remained at home one day; and when the dog, as usual, departed with the piece of cake, he resolved to follow him, and find out the cause of this strange procedure. The dog led the way to a cataract, at some distance from the spot where the shepherd had left the child. The banks of the cataract almost joined at the top, yet, separated by an abyss of prodigious depth, presented that appearance which often astonishes and appals the travellers that frequent the Grampian mountains; and indicates that these stupendous chasms were not the silent work of time, but the sudden effect of some violent convulsion of nature. Down one of these ragged and almost perpendicular descents, the dog began, without hesitation, to make his way, and at last