1828.) The Durrenstein. 273 
grand exit. The plunder of the company on St. Michael’s night, was a 
grand prize in the lottery, and with it the signior and I took our leave of 
the Durrenstein.” 
«« But where is the signior now ?” 
« He robbed me as we were passing the frontier. I swore I would 
give him up to justice. He knew that I was a man to make my words 
good, and, accordingly, he lost no time, but brought a pair of police 
officers to my bed-side ; I saw him receive the reward for my caption, 
and walk off free as air, while I was sent to dig in these ditches. The 
last I heard of the signior was, that he had set up a rouge et noir table, a 
coach, and an opera box in Paris; though which of us will be hanged 
_ before the other, not even the Red Woman would be able to tell. But 
here comes the guard—and now for clean straw, horse-bean soup, and 
duck-weed water.” 
THE FORSAKEN HEARTH. 
© And still the green is bright with flowers ; 
And dancing through the sunny hours, 
Like blossoms from enchanted bowers ? 
On a sudden waited by, 
Obedient to the changeful air, 
And proudly feeling they are fair, 
Glide bird and butterfly : 
But where is the tiny hunter-rout, 
That revelled on with dance and shout, 
Against their airy prey?” ——WILsoN. 
Tur Hearth, the Hearth is desolate—the fire is quenched and gone, 
That into happy children’s eyes once brightly laughing shone ; 
The place where mirth and music met is hushed through day and night ; 
Oh! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that here made light ! 
But scattered are those pleasant smiles afar by mount and shore, 
Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to meet no more ; 
Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other’s grief or mirth, 
Unbound is that sweet wreath of home—alas! the lonely Hearth! 
The voices that have mingled here now speak another tongue, 
Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their mother sung ; 
Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound each household tone— 
The Hearth, the Hearth is desolate—the bright fire quenched and gone! 
But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days of glee ? 
Those voices, are they lovely still? still sweet on land or sea? 
Oh! some are hushed, and some are changed—and never shall one strain 
Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again! 
And of the hearts that here were linked by long-remembered years, 
Alas! the brother knows not now where fall the sister’s tears ! 
One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop alone ; 
For broken is the household chain—the bright fire quenched and gone! 
Not so !—'tis not a broken chain—thy memory binds them still, 
Thou holy Hearth of other days, though silent now and chill! 
The smiles, the tears, the rites beheld by thine attesting stone, 
Have yet a living power to mark thy children for thine own. 
The father’s voice—the mother’s prayer—though called from earth away— 
With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet shall sway ; 
And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet are one, 
Though the loved Hearth be desolate, the bright fire quenched and gone. 
M.M. New Series.—Vou. V. No. 33. 2N ee 
