To cheer the old man's desolate heart, and still
Rejecting all; when lo! a message came,
An instant summons from his Susan's sire.
Like one lone wandering on a perilous moor,
That hears a voice in darkness, and proceeds,
In desperate haste, to meet or friend or foe,
Regardless whether-Leonard hurried forth
To meet his doom. A little gloomy hope,
Much like despair, was kindled in his eye,
And made his heart beat audible and hard.
The faint alarm had caught his father's view,
As silently he clasp'd his palsied hand;

The old man shook his head with such a smile
As had no comfort in't.

With louring looks,

And a proud menial's scanted courtesy,

Was Leonard usher'd to the well-known room

Vocal so oft with Susan's melody,

And gladden'd with her smile. 'Tis double woe,
The woe that comes where joy was sweetest found.
There sat the parents of his wife betroth'd,
Dear as his own, in happier days, and call'd
By the same filial names. The mother meek,
With sad o'ercharged eyes that dare not weep,
Obey'd the mandate of her husband's hand,
And hastily, without a word, withdrew,
Casting on Leonard one mute pleading glance,

That said- Remember, he is Susan's father-
Though your's he will not be.'-Long pause ensued-
At length the stern man spake: "Young Sir," said he,
"I have an irksome duty to perform,

But 'tis a duty that I owe my child.

L

Few words are best-my daughter is not for you—
My reasons need no tongue to plead for them—
Urge not my promise-you are not the youth
To whom my word was given-I pledged the girl
To the inheritor of my friend's estate,
Not to the heir of my foe's beggary."

Big-hearted Leonard neither dropt a tear,

Nor spake reproachful word; more grieved to find
A soul so base in form so long revered,
Than for the signet set to his despair-
The coward murder of his dying hope,
And the sweet records of young innocent years
Transform'd to shame-envenom'd agony.
Yet long he linger'd at the gate, and raised
To Susan's chamber window a long look
Of resignation deep-a long farewell;
But she was nowhere to be seen; and yet,
He fondly dream'd-what will not lovers dream ?—
He heard her sigh, and leant a listening ear
To hear her sigh once more.-Full well he knew,
Though nought distrusting Susan's simple faith,
His claim annull'd-his suit by her forbidden.
Not all the sophistry of love, though urged
With eloquence divine, and looks of warmth
To thaw the "chaste and consecrated snow
On Dian's bosom, could induce the maid
To wave obedience, or make head against
The strong religion of her filial fear.
So, hopeless-purposeless, he loiter'd home,
If home it could be call'd-begarrison'd
With portly bailiffs, and by duns besieged;
Keen-eyed solicitors, and purple hosts,

And sallow usurers-miscreants, that grow fat,
On general ruin-bills mis-spelt, as long
As his old father's boasted pedigree.

Proud Leonard felt it shame, a burning shame,
To waste a sigh upon his personal grief
Amid the helpless downfall. Nought he told,
His father nought inquired, for all was known
Without the painful index of sad speech.
They talk'd of things long past-of better times,
And seem'd as they were merry. 'Twas the last,
The saddest night beneath the ancient roof-
The next beheld them inmates of a gaol-
And gaol-bird was the word that Susan heard,
Whenever Leonard or his sire was named.

There is no man can love as woman loves,
With such a holy, pure, and patient fire,
Or Susan had gone mad. She pray'd, and wept,
And wept, and pray'd—but never look'd reproach
To him, for whose degenerate soul she pray'd-
And pray'd she might not scorn him, might not hate
The author of her being. Though no word—
No brief adieu-had closed the failing eyes

Of her departing hope-for every port
And inlet to her home was closed, and none
Dared name her lover; yet firm faith survived,
The strong assurance of a vow enroll'd
In heaven, and her own wise innocence
Forbade suspicion of her Leonard's truth,
And bade her live, though sure a blessed thing
For her it were to die. What life was hers!
Hard-eyed rebuke, and wrath and ribald scorn,

Solicitation of a mother's tears,

And the perpetual siege of fancies fair
Reflected from old days of happiness,
With Babel dissonance her heart assailing,
Made misery many-faced-a hideous dream-
A monster multiform-a dizzy round
Of aye-revolving aspects-woeful all.
Sweet Susan ever was a lowly maid,
Unpractised in the arts of maiden scorn;
Yet she could teach" her sorrow to be proud,"
And walk the earth in virgin majesty,

As one who owed no homage to its rules,

No tribute to its faithless flattery.

She loved her silent, solitary woe,

And thought, poor soul! all nature sympathized
With her lone sorrow. Every playful breeze
That dallied with the moonlight on the leaves,
Sung mournful solace to her wounded spirit,
As if it were indeed a mournful sound,
Mournfully kind. The gladsome nightingale,
That finds the day too short for half her bliss,
And warbles on, when all the tuneful grove
Is silent as the music of the spheres,
Sounded to her like wakeful melancholy
Dwelling on themes of old departed joy.

The nightingale grew dumb-the cuckoo fled-
And broad-eyed Summer glared on hill and plain—
And still no word. Was Leonard dead, or flown
Before the swallow? Doth he dwell forlorn
As the last primrose in the shadowy glade,
That bloom'd too late, and must too soon decline?
The birds are silent, and the shallow brook

Is hardly heard beneath the dark, dark weight
Of over-roofing boughs? And is he gone-
Gone like the riotous waters of the rill,

That smoking, gleaming, whitening on their way,
Display'd an earth-born Iris to the sun,
And in their beauty and their pride exhaled?
Ah no! He lives, in sunless prison pent,
Watching the death-bed of his prison'd sire;
Who, on low pallet stretch'd, in noisome den,
Scarce wider than a captive lion's cage,
Breathes the mephitic and incarcerate fog
That morn not freshens nor still even cools:
His dosing slumbers broke with clank of chains,
And felons' curses, and the horrid mirth

Of reckless misery. Beside him sat

His once gay consort, squalid now, and lost
To self-respect, with grey dishevell❜d locks,
All loosely wrapt in rags of silk array
Her aspect, channell❜d with impatient tears ;
Now sullen mute, now loud in wordy woe,
Chiding the murmurs of her gasping spouse,
And the meek patience of her boy. 'Twas well
The poor old man heard little, nothing mark'd,
For drowsy death lay heavy at the gates
Of outward sense, and the beleaguered brain
Refused its office. Long he lay, and seem'd
A moving, panting corse, without a mind,
By some foul necromancer's horrid charm
In life detain'd. No word to living soul

He spake, and though he sometimes mutter'd prayers,
His understanding pray'd not. Leonard pray'd—
But silent as the voiceless intercourse