treated them with courtesy, Iole received them with a smile, and they deemed themselves repaid. The Emir being interrogated how he met with Count Giordano, related as follows: "Be it known to you, my sovereigns, that after the summons of the King, which took place below my quarters, I threw myself on the ground to weep over the past and present misfortunes; I heard a sound like a footstep on the pavement, and a whispering in my ears: The Provençals are burning the Palace; thy insulter is shut up within it; if he dies, who can purify thee from thy reproach? Hast thou forgotten that thy remedy is in the hand of him who smote thee?" I rose at once, and remembered that though I could not combat, my followers could; I bade them assume their arms, and I led them to the Palace. I know not how it was with the enemies, but they were standing still, as if they feared to proceed further. We attacked them, dispersed them, entered the prisons, and took forth the Count Giordano. I informed him of the circumstances on account of which I had hastened to save him; he answered me with tears, that since Manfred was obliged to fly, through the perfidy of his troops, he would not live to bear reproach, he hated life. I observed to him, that what he said was too true, but that I was not able to prevent the fact-I could only avenge it; and after avenging it, to cause the heads of the chiefs who commanded the troops at the Gate Del Rapido, to be buried in a place apart from their bodies; I gave him arms and a horse, and he went forth. The Provençals were already in occupation of the Palace."

"And they have burned it ?" inquired Manfred.

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No, they preserved it, that Charles might pass the night in it." "Oh, Charles! thou dost already enjoy the satisfaction of reposing in the bed of the vanquished; but I attest the world whether it be by the cowardice of the son of Frederick."

"Now that Charles has set foot in the kingdom, what concession ought we to make to him?"

"What hast thou said, Emir? Have such words issued from thy lips?"

"Certainly; is he not a Christian? wouldst thou not grant him earth to bury him?"

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May I never be compelled to grant him more! Proceed with thy relation."

"My King, it is finished. We tried our fortune once more; the enemies were on the alert; we slew many; but many of ourselves were slain also. Twice, when I was rushing without a sword through the thick of the affray, to animate the Saracens, D'Angalone covered me with his shield, and defended me from the enemies' weapons. Giordano, I gave thee thanks then, and I thank thee now and ever. Meanwhile, the Provençals surrounded the town, and the first columns of infantry began to

appear through the Gate of Abruzzo; we incurred the danger of being enclosed between two bodies of the enemy; I knew that Manfred was safe, I had D'Angalone along with me, I had accomplished what I had wished; we closed our ranks, and, overthrowing all that opposed our progress, we reached the open country."

In the east, the shades began to clear away, objects resumed their distinct forms and colours, the day was about to dawn. The trumpets announced the march; the King mounted his horse, his troops followed him; they forded the river Volturno, at a little distance from the place where they had passed the night, and taking the road by Telese, they approached Benevento. Tradition reports that Manfred, seeing so many faithful and brave men around him, said: "Even misfortune has its uses; I have proved these men, I may trust to them, as to my own sword; my right hand will sooner maim my left, than these will grudge their lives to save the crown of their Sovereign." (To be continued.)

THE MORNING SUNBEAM.

BY MRS. EDWARD THOMAS.

THE Sunbeam dances o'er the bed
Where evening veil'd a beauteous head!
Beauteous in death!—a lily pluck'd
For heaven, ere ray of sin had suck'd
The honey-drop of innocence

From chalice, stainless of offence.

It is the fresh and early morn,

The sunbeam's there-the corse is gone!

The casement is flung open wide,
Admitting a glorious tide

Of lustre,-light with gladness blent,
As if rejoicing seraphs lent
The effulgence of empyrean skies
To dazzle mortal's entranced eyes!
The hum of bee,-the song of bird,
All nature's harmony is heard;
Welcoming in the genial day:
The chill of death to chase away.

It may not be,-the mother there
Is cold in her unsunn'd despair;
She feels not morning's vernal breath:
She only feels the blast of death !—

Unconscious of the gorgeous blaze,
Awakening creation's praise,
That now irradiates all space,
And even glows upon her face,

Within she turns her eye,—the gloom
Of her heart's winter clouds the room.

At length, aroused from sorrow's dream, By the importunate sunbeam,

She gazes on the vacant bed,

In hopeless search of the loved dead; With what false bliss is memory fraught, As her quick glance that sunbeam caught! In fancy, by the sleeper fair,

She pours above her matin prayer!

Again, the kiss is slightly press'd,
Which yet such mighty love express'd!
Again, the chequered radiance breaks
Fantastic o'er his lids, and wakes
Her infant with a start of glee,
Whose arms in buoyant ecstasy
Are flung around her neck,-the while
His lips part with spontaneous smile,
As, half in earnest, half in play,
She chides her lovely pet's delay,
Who coaxes still, from mere idlesse,
Not to precipitate his dress!

Ah! charming wiles of infancy,
Resistless in a mother's eye!
Again, his glittering golden hair
Grows yet more golden, as the air
Uplifts it in the glancing light,
Until it sparkles on the sight!

The mirror is reversed,-she saw
The sunbeam sullenly withdraw,
Enveloping her babe in gloom,

While shadowy spectres haunt the room.
Life's glory in his eye grew dark-
His clasping arms grew rigid-stark-
His animated smile grew set,

As if a lingering joy, Death let
Those pinched and purple lips retain,
To aggravate a mother's pain.
His shining golden hair grew dank-
The golden hair her hands did prank
So proudfully around his brow!
Oh! where its beamy halo now?

His bier she followed,-but saw not,
With her sad, tear-veiled eyes, the spot

O'erwhelmed, upon her knees she sunk,
That little bed her wild tears drunk.
“Would she could pray! would she could pray
To Him who'd called her babe away!
Would she could pray to share his grave!
But to her roof her parched tongue clave."

The sunbeam, like an angel, stole
With cheering brightness on her soul;
She felt that it was sent in love
A missioned radiance from above,
To teach her in her woe to turn
Where Resignation's lamp doth burn
To light Despair's and Sorrow's gloom,
Dark else as the eternal doom!

To God she looked up through her tears,
To bless her cherub in the spheres.
"Sunbeam supernal! ray divine !
Shine on! still for the mourner shine!
To light her path! to track my way
To regions of unclouded day!"

SIR MONK MOYLE.*

BY J. LUMLEY SHAFTO.

CHAPTER IV.

"Home of our love-our fathers' home!
Land of the brave and free!

The sail is flapping o'er the foam,
To bear our bark from thee."

Ir was one of those beautiful mornings in early spring, which cheer the heart, after the long and desolating reign of winter, in this our northern climate, and give promise of bloom and warmer sunshine soon to come, when our little party prepared to embark on board the Dublin packet. All the necessary arrangements being completed, they were soon sailing" over the waters of the deep blue sea," with a favourable gale, for green Erin. To say a single word upon that glorious element, and its startling effects upon those who voyage upon it for the first time, would be worse than superfluous. These have been described in the appropriate and eloquent language of a Marryat, a Howard, a Chamier, a Hall, and others of those nautical heroes (a proud and bright array), that have wedded our hearts to the "boundless ocean," in those stirring and life-like scenes which have immortalized their skill and genius.

There is not, perhaps, any place more likely for persons to become well acquainted with each other, without the preliminary etiquette of a formal introduction, than on board ship. We have even known some lasting friendships arise, out of those casual meetings. The familiar footing on which, owing to seasickness and other contingencies, perfect strangers are often obliged to meet, makes a sort of family business of it. The delicate young lady is not ashamed to accept of the attentions of any strange gentleman whom gallantry may bring to her side. The woman of fashion cares not to appear upon deck, if the voyage be a protracted one, in her nightcap; and the first duchess in the land, at the prospect of an impending storm, begins to drop a peg lower than the true aristocratic attitude, and, when the tempest rages, is constrained to acknowledge (to herself, at least) than the chances for life are no greater for her

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