622 



THE BLACK MASK. 



at one extremity, on a large couch, laid two females buried in sleep. 

 At the other end was a bed with the curtains drawn closely around ; 

 wax-lights were burning at the head and foot. The emperor with an 

 unsteady step approached the bed, and with a trembling hand drew 

 aside the curtain. There, extended on a coverlid of snowy whiteness, 

 laid the object of his solicitude, and at her feet were the mask and 

 domino ! He thought she slept, and in the low tender accent with 

 which he first won her young heart, he breathed her name ; but there 

 was no response. He took her hand it was cold, and fell from his 

 nerveless grasp. He gazed stedfastly on her countenance it was pale 

 as, when lifting her mask, she met his astonished gaze. But this was 

 no trance her eyes were now closed for ever her heart had ceased to 

 beat she was beautiful, though in death ! Her arms were crossed upon 

 her bosom, and on the fingers of her right-hand was entwined a chain 

 of gold with a signet ring ! None could see the scalding tears that 

 were shed, or knew the bitter and agonizing remorse that tore the 

 bosom of the emperor as he gazed for the last time on the pallid features 

 of one, perhaps the only one, who had ever loved him for himself alone. 

 Forgetful of his state forgetful of all but his own heart he knelt by 

 the side of the dead, and never were accents of contrition more sin- 

 cerely breathed by human being than by that monarch in his hour of 

 humiliation. 



Years rolled on. The old baron and his daughter sleep side by side 

 in the cemetery of St. Augustine's monastery. They left no kindred ; 

 he was the last of his race j and the old castle on the Danube soon fell 

 into decay, and became an outlaw's den. The emperor recovered in time 

 his gaiety amidst the blandishments of his court ; but as often as the 

 season of the chase returned, his nobles remarked that he was never 

 more the same light-hearted and reckless sportsman. Few knew 

 why ; but the associations were too strong he could never banish 

 from his mind the parting look of her who he had first met in the dark 

 forests of Hungary. j ni arnxms 







SONNET, 



WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE RHONE. 



BRIGHT river ! seated on the vine-clad banks, 



And looking in the depth of thy clear stream, 



Of former happiness we fondly dream ; 



Giving to God the bosom's silent thanks. 



The snow- clad Alps, in graduating ranks, 



Rise bold, and pure as heavenly mansions seem, 



Beneath, the vales with ripening fruitage teem, 



The margin soft thy winding current flanks. 



Nor is it idleness to pass the day 



'Mid soothing scenes like these, where neither care 



'Nor pain intrude on the creations gay 



Which fancy builds like palaces in air, 



In hours which glide without a tear away 



Hours, which pure thought and deep contentment share. 



