50 THE BRIDAL OF MAWORTH. 



He made his escape to Ireland, and had only been in that country 

 a few days when he fell into company of the most profligate descrip- 

 tion. By these companions he was led on from one stage of crimi- 

 nality]to another, until he and another individual committed the mur- 

 der for which he was tried, convicted, and executed. 



Such, I learnt on my return front America, was the fate of the 

 three companions and bosom friends of my early life. I shall not 

 attempt to describe the effect which the melancholy statement of their 

 late history produced in my mind. Suffice it to say that, though a 

 considerable period has elapsed since the occurrences in question 

 took place, I have not yet recovered and I fear never shall recover 

 from the shock my feelings have received. 



J. G. 



THE BRIDAL OF MAWORTH. 



[We are enabled to present our readers with the following extracts from an unpub- 

 lished poem under the name of " The Bridal of Maworth." When the work makes its 

 appearance we shall call attention to its merits. The story is founded on historical 

 truth, to which, however, the author had no regard in his catastrophe.. ED.] 



THE chase is o'er, the stately hart lies low, 

 And far in silence weeps the widow'd doe ; 

 Loudly, and long, triumphant bugles ring, 

 Hills call to hills, and woods to valleys sing ; 

 The merry huntsmen, clad in sylvan garb, 

 Wind up the glade, and each on wearied barb. 

 All glorious to the west, declining day, 

 Effulgent rolls the tide of light away ; 

 The flood of radiance on all nature breaks, 

 On streams, and mountains, towers, and craggy peaks, 

 Gilds the brown forests, beautifies the waste, 

 Tints the gray rock, and lingers there the last. 

 Thrice happy man ! for whom all beauties shine, 

 Attun'd in mystic harmony divine : 

 Whose kindling spirit, with externals finds 

 Perfected concord, in harmonious minds : 

 The filmy cloud which floats in azure space, 

 Pure as a spirit, with a spirit's grace ; 

 The varying blush of eve, the mountain's glow, 

 The long perspective sweetly spread below ; 

 The songs of vocal groves, the peace which flows 

 From sounds of falling waves, and whisp'ring boughs, 

 Soft as the notes which murmuring caves prolong, 

 When gentle gales sigh forth their evening song ; 

 These touch the soul ; responsive to the hand, 

 Joy o'er its chords extends her magic wand ; 

 To Nature's hand responsive ; she alone 

 Thrills with a charm peculiarly her own, 

 Whose hand with chords melodious fill'd the breast, 

 She best can sound them, for she knows them best. 

 Is there, whose harsh, unorganized mind, 

 Acts but in discords ? Such, alas ! we find : 

 From earth's primordial, to the now which is, 

 The crimes of man have cancell'd half his bliss. 



