"Pardon me, madam, if I disobey," said the intractable young man; and with one hand lifting in Lady Fleming, he began himself to push off the boat.

She was two fathoms' length from the shore, and the rowers were getting her head round, when Roland Græme, arriving, bounded from the beach and attained the boat, overturning Seyton, on whom he lighted. The youth swore a deep but suppressed oath, and stopping Græme as he stepped toward the stern, said, "Your place is not with high-born dameskeep to the head and trim the vessel. Now give way-give way. Row, for God and the Queen!"

The rowers obeyed, and began to pull vigorously.

"Why did you not muffle the oars?" said Roland Græme; "this dash must awaken the sentinel. Row, lads, and get out of reach of shot; for had not old Hildebrand, the warder, supped upon poppy-porridge, this whispering must have waked him." "It was all thine own delay," said Seyton; "thou shalt reckon with me hereafter for that and other matters."

But Roland's apprehension was verified too instantly to permit him to reply. The sentinel, whose slumbering had withstood the whispering, was alarmed by the dash of the oars. His challenge was instantly heard. "A boat-a boat !—bring to, or I shoot!" And as they continued to ply their oars, he called aloud, "Treason! treason!" rung the bell of the castle, and discharged his harquebuss at the boat. The ladies crowded on each other like startled wild-fowl, at the flash and report of the piece, while the men urged the rowers to the utmost speed. They heard more than one ball whiz along the surface of the lake, at no great distance from their little bark; and from the lights, which glanced like meteors from window to window, it was evident the whole castle was alarmed, and their escape discovered.

"Pull!" again exclaimed Seyton; "stretch to your oars, or I will spur you to the task with my dagger-they will launch a boat immediately."

"That is cared for," said Roland; I locked gate and wicket on them when I went back, and no boat will stir from the island this night, if doors of good oak and bolts of iron can keep men within stone walls. And now I resign my office of porter of Lochleven, and give the keys to the Kelpie's keeping."

As the heavy keys plunged in the lake, the Abbot, who till then had been repeating his prayers, exclaimed, "Now, bless thee my son! thy ready prudence puts shame on us all.”

"I knew," said Mary, drawing her breath more freely, as they were now out of reach of the musketry-"I knew my squire's truth, promptitude, and sagacity. I must have him dear friends with my no less true knights, Douglas and Seyton -but where, then, is Douglas?"

"Here, madam," answered the deep and melancholy voice of the boatman who sat next her, and who acted as steersman. "Alas! was it you who stretched your body before me," said the Queen, "when the balls were raining around us ?"

"Believe you," said he, in a low tone, "that Douglas would have resigned to any one the chance of protecting his Queen's life with his own?"

The dialogue was here interrupted by a shot or two from one of those small pieces of artillery called falconets, then used in defending castles. The shot was too vague to have any effect, but the broader flash, the deeper sound, the louder return which was made by the midnight echoes of Bennarty, terrified and imposed silence on the liberated prisoners. The boat was run alongside of a rude quay or landing-place, running out from a garden of considerable extent, ere any of them again attempted to speak. They landed, and while the Abbot returned thanks aloud to Heaven, which had thus far favored their enterprise, Douglas enjoyed the best reward of his desperate undertaking, in conducting the Queen to the house of the gardener.

THERE IS A SWEETNESS IN WOMAN'S DECAY.-JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

There is a sweetness in woman's decay,
When the light of beauty is fading away,
When the bright enchantment of youth is gone,
And the tint that glow'd, and the eye that shone,

And darted around its glance of power,

And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower
That ever in Pæstum's garden blew,

Or ever was steep'd in fragrant dew,
When all that was bright and fair is fled,
But the loveliness lingering round the dead.
O! there is a sweetness in beauty's close,
Like the perfume scenting the wither'd rose;
For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallowed rays;

And a veil of spotless purity

Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye,
Like a cloud whereon the queen of night
Has pour'd her softest tint of light;

And there is a blending of white and blue,
Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek;
And there are tones that sweetly speak
Of a spirit who longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing her flight away.

In the flush of youth, and the spring of feeling,
When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing
Its silent steps through a flowery path,
And all the endearments that pleasure hath
Are pour'd from her full, o'erflowing horn,
When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn,
In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song
The maiden may trip in the dance along,
And think of the passing moment, that lies,
Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes,
And yield to the present, that charms around
With all that is lovely in sight and sound;
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit,
With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit,
And the music that steals to the bosom's core,
And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er
With a few big drops, that are soon repress'd,
For short is the stay of grief in her breast:
In this enliven'd and gladsome hour

The spirit may burn with a brighter power;
But dearer the calm and quiet day,
When the heaven-sick soul is stealing away.
And when her sun is low declining,
And life wears out with no repining,
And the whisper that tells of early death,
Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath,
When it comes at the hour of still repose,
To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose;
And the lip, that swell'd with a living glow,
Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow;
And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair-
But the hectic spot that flushes there

When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling,
In a sudden gush is deeply swelling.
And giving a tinge to her icy lips,
Like the crimson rose's brightest tips,
As richly red, and as transient too
As the clouds in autumn's sky of blue,
That seem like a host of glory met
To honor the sun at his golden set;

O then, when the spirit is taking wing,

How fondly her thoughts to her dear ones cling;

So fondly the panting camel flies,
Where the glassy vapor cheats his eyes;

And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest,
And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast.
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow from her cheek be fled,
And her pale lips cold as the marble dead,
Her eye still beams unwonted fires,
With a woman's love and a saint's desires,
And her last, fond, lingering look is given
To the love she leaves, and then to heaven,
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world and a brighter day.

POETS AND POËSY.-LAMARTINE.

ONE of the most natural and universal faculties of man is that of reproducing, internally by imagination and thought, and externally by art and speech, the material and moral universe in the midst of which he has been placed by Providence. Man is the reflecting mirror of nature. Every thing is recreated by him, and, through poetry, every thing is reanimated and receives new life. It is another state of existence, which God has permitted man to make, by multiplying external being in his thoughts and in his words-an inferior power but not the less real-which truly creates, although it only does so from the elements, the images, and recollections of what nature has embodied before him-an imitation like the sport of a child, yet still the play of the mind upon the impressions which it receives from nature—a play in which we continually reiterate the fleeting image of the external and internal worlds, which expands, passes away, and renews itself unceasingly before us. Therefore doth poetry mean CREATION.

Memory is the first element of this creation, because it is by memory that we retrace upon our minds the image of things that have passed. The muses, symbols of inspiration, were said by the ancients to be the daughters of memory.

Imagination is the second; for imagination colors and animates the outline drawn by memory.

Sensitiveness is the third; because, on the sight or remembrance of past events presenting itself to the mind, sensitiveness causes us to receive physical or moral impressions almost as

strong and intense as would be the impression of the events themselves if actually occurring before our eyes.

Judgment is the fourth; for by it alone are we taught in what order, in what proportions, in what relations, and in what true harmony to combine and arrange these remembrances or phantasms-these historical or imaginary incidents or feelings

that we make them conform as much as possible to nature, to probability, and to truth, so that they may produce upon ourselves and upon others an impression as complete as if the fiction were reality.

The fifth element necessary to this creation or to this poësy is the gift of expressing by language what we observe and feel internally-of producing outwardly what stirs us from withinto paint with words, to give to words, as we may say, the color, the impression, the movement, the pulsation, the life, the joy, or the grief felt by our own hearts at the sight of the object which we imagine.

Lastly, the sixth element necessary to this creation, which we call poësy, is that the poet's ear should possess musical feeling; for he sings where others speak, and all song requires music to mark its melody, and to render it more sonorous and more voluptuous to our senses and to our mind.

But the poet, as I have described him, must not only be gifted with a vast memory, a copious imagination, a keen sensitiveness, a clear judgment, a strong power of expression, a musical feeling as well of time as of harmony-he must be a deep philosopher, for wisdom is the soul of his song; he must be a legislator, for he should understand the laws which control the relations of men to each other, which are to society and to nations what mortar is to buildings; he must have the warrior's spirit, for he has to sing of the battle-field and the storm of towns, the march and flight of armies; he must have the soul of a hero, for he relates the achievements and the devoted sacrifices of the great; he must be a historian, for his poems are narratives; he must be eloquent, for his characters must harangue and debate; he must have traveled, for he describes, earth, sea, and mountains, the productions of nature, the monuments of men, and the manners of people; he must know animated and inorganic matter, geography, astronomy, navigation, agriculture, the arts, and even the common trades of his time, for his songs extend over heaven, earth, and ocean, and he draws his metaphors, his illustrations, and his comparisons from the motion of the stars, the handling of vessels, the forms and habits of the