"My mother's scream so long and shrill,
My little sister's wailing cry,
(In dreams I often hear them still!)
Rose wildly to the sky.
A tiger's heart came to me then,
And madly 'mong those ruthless men
I sprang!-Alas! dashed on the sand,
Bleeding, they bound me foot and hand.

And there, from human kind exiled,
Four moons on roots and berries wild
I've fared-and braved the beasts of prey
To 'scape from spoilers worse than they.
"But yester morn a Bushman brought
The tidings that thy tents were here,
And now rejoicingly I've sought
Thy presence-void of fear;
Because they say, O English chief,
Thou scornest not the captive's grief:

O'er mountains capped with snow,

Each with his captive, far and fast;
Until yon rock-bound ridge was passed,
And distant stripes of cultured soil
Bespoke the laud of tears and toil.

" And tears and toil have been my lot..
Since I the white man's thrall became,
And sorer griefs I wish forgot-

Harsh blows and burning shame. Oh, English chief! thou ne'er canst know The injured bondman's bitter woe, When round his heart, like scorpions, cling Black thoughts, that madden while they sting!

" Yet this hard fate I might have borne, And taught in time my soul to bend,

Had my sad yearning breast forlorn

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But found a single friend: My race extinct or far removed, The boor's rough brood I could have loved But each to whom my bosom turned

Even like a hound the black boy spurned !

While, friendless thus, my master's flocks
I tended on the upland waste,

It chaneed this fawn leapt from the rocks,

By wolfish wild-dogs chased:
I rescued it, though wounded, sore,
All dabbled with its mother's gore,
And nursed it in a cavern wild
Until it loved me like a child.

"Gently I nursod it for I thought
(It hapless fate so like to mine)
By good UTIKA it was brought

To bid me not repine-
Since in this world of wrong and ill
One creature lived to love me still,
Although its dark and dazzling eye
Beamed not with human sympathy.

Thus lived I, a lone orphan lad,

5

My task the proud boor's flocks to tend;

And this pet fawn was all I had
To love, or call my friend;
When, suddenly, with haughty look
And taunting words, that tyrant took
My playmate for his pampered boy,
Who envied me my only joy.

A

For I am in the world alone!"

Such was Marossi's touching tale.

Our breasts they were not made of stone

His words, his winning looks prevail-
We took him for "our own:""
And one, with woman's gentle art,
Unlocked the fountains of his heart,
And love gushed forth, till he became
Her CHILD-in every thing but name.

Friendship's Offering, 1830.

TO A FORGET ME NOT.

FORGET ME NOT! thy gold and azure eye Beams, in its mild and modest brilliancy, A gem, a star upon the wild, more fair, For that all round thee is so bleak and bare.

Thou, thou art bright; dark are the thoughts that press My spirit, in its wilder'd loneliness..

Where is the flow'r that bloom'd, once bloom'd for me,

More beautiful, more bright, more pure, than thee?

Star of the desert! jewel of the waste!
O'er me his brightness blaz'd, as late I trae'd
My joyless way thro' this world's wilderness,
Fondly I deem'd eternally to bless!

Do others claim him now? Go, gentle flow'r,
Tell him, the hapless one, in saddest hour,
Thinks, ever thinks, on promises forgot,
Bear in thy name her prayer-Forget me not!
Must I to winds and wilds thus vainly sigh?
And is there none to heed the lorn one's cry?
Meek monitor,-ask him, who rends my heart,
If heav'n forgets to take the mourner's part!

*

dwelling. It was nearly dusk, and dreary was the scene; the river flowed swiftly by dark and turbulent. I could no more see the spot where I had once stood with Constance, for the water covered one half of the orchard. The rain had ceased, but the sky was heavy and gloomy, and seemingly but resting from its work; the night was gathering in. I led my horse into a small out-house, and then returned to the cottage; the door yielded to my touch, and I entered it. I had never been but in one of the rooms, but I went through them all; there were only four. Here I thought was Constance's room. A broken picture frame yet hung upon the wall, and I knew Constance could paint. I opened the window, and stood gazing upon the swollen river, until it was hardly visible, and then returned to the parlour. I determined that I would pass the night in the cottage. 1 spread my saddle-cloth upon the floor, flung myself upon it, and gave up my thoughts to Constance and misery. And was this the end of my hopes and dreams? was in the room we had supped in ; there stood the table, and there sat Constance.

I

Since I had parted from her, I had nurtured her image in my innermost soul-not only as a dear recollection, but as a star of hope that might cheer the rest of my days. I had travelled in wild and distant lands, but Constance had ever been my companion; I had lain down in solitary places and communed with Constance; -in my waking and my sleeping hours her fair countenance and angelic form had ever been present to me; I had listened to the melody of her voice; I had walked by her side, and felt the pressure of her hand, and the softness of her cheek; but it was all past-and for ever. Sometimes my thoughts were wrested from Constance by the rushing sound of the river and the noise

of the rain, which now poured a deluge. I was certain the stream was approaching nearer, but I felt indifferent though it should sweep me away. At length my eyes closed in slumber-I sat at supper with Constance and her mother, and I thought we had met, never more to part. The good mother joined her hands, and blessed us; and I was drawing Constance gently towards me, when the scene changed. I was in the midst of the roaring river-but I buffeted it with one arm, and held Constance with the other. "Fear not, my love," I said; "we shall reach the bank;" but she answered, "Never." Again the scene changed, and I felt myself running swiftly, almost flying, over wide plains, by moonlight, holding Constance by the hand; and we stopped among the catacombs of Constantinople, and I was alone, and searched every where for Constance, but I could nowhere find her. In every direction streams opposed my progress and at last I sat down in the midst of a marsh, and tried to sleep but the cold would not let me.

I awoke, and at first thought my dream was true, for I was lying amidst water. It was the dawn, and I immediately perceived that the Danube had risen as high as the cottage. I instantly went to the door and found it surrounded with water; the rain fell in torrents, and it was just light enough to discover the way to the house where I had left my horse. I vaulted upon him, and galloped from the scene of desolation and wretchedness. For many months after this I continued my wanderings, but never did the remembrance of this night of disappointment and bitterness leave me. "Where is Constance?" was the question I constantly asked myself. All my desire was to discover her. I looked in the face of every one. I met. In cities, I mingled with the throng of the gay, and with the

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crowds of the wretched; and every where I scrutinized like an inquisitor. Sometimes I thought I saw before me a form like that of Constance, and then I would run swiftly forward, but stop ere I reached it; for 1 always discovered that it wanted something of the perfection of the form I sought. At times, too, a face would arrest me; but that illusion was still more fleeting. Once, in the street of a Mahomedan city, a veiled female approached; there was something in the form and gait that powerfully reminded me of Constance; and, as she passed, I thought I could discover through her veil some resemblance in her features. She addressed a few words to one of her attendants, and though she spoke in an eastern tongue, I fancied the voice was that of Constance. I rushed forward a few paces, but reason came to my aid, before my temerity had endangered my life. It could not be Constance. This woman was a Mahomedan, and spoke a different language from Constance; but the incident had so disordered me, that I was obliged to sit down upon the steps of a mosque, and it was some hours before I could recover myself. On another occasion, I was on board a bark, which sailed swiftly with a side wind, in one of the Grecian bays. Another bark approached, sailing as swiftly. As it came near, I perceived upon the deck a form which seemed to realize that, of Constance, A man stood beside her, in soldier's uniform, and it was the uniform of Austria. The face, too! it was surely the face of Constance. I stretched out my arms, and cried "Constance;" but the wind, and the rustling of the sails, drowned my voice. The vessel rushed by, and I was left to conviction and misery. Some months after that circumstance I found myself at Vienna, and standing one day on the quay, I saw a boat on

the eve of departure for Belgrade. A momentary impulse, one of those which belong to destiny, impelled me to go on board, and in a few minutes I was approaching the former dwelling of Constance. About noon of the sixth day I discovered the heights, whose shapes were, alas! too distinctly engraven on my memory: and towards evening I saw reposing beneath them that cottage which awakened within me so many mingled recollections of happiness and pain.

The association which reminds us of past happiness is more painful than that which recalls subsequent misery; and the appearance of nature reminded me but too forcibly of the first day I had beheld these scenes: for autumn was again yellow on the fields; the river, gentle and transparent, kept its channel; and the evening, soft and serene, was like that on which I had said farewell to Constance.

Our boat was floating close to that side of the river, where the cottage was situated; and, as it approached, I started to see a female standing in the orchard. She approached the bank. I gazed intently upon her; a fearful agitation seized me, my breath came quick, my eyes were ready to start from their places-it was Constance's form-it was her face. "It is Constance! it is Constance!" I cried, and sprung from the boat, and the next moment I had pressed her in my arms. Tell me, ye who can anatomize the human feelings, what were mine in that moment? Joy had in an instant succeeded to misery. A moment before, and life was worthless; now it was inexpressibly dear. Light had flowed in upon a soul of darkness and despair, like the sun when it bursts from an eclipse upon a drooping world. I told Constance my story: "We have never left the cottage, said she. Have I been under an