d the blue eyes so heavenly dear,
Darkness swept o'er me like a wave,
And time has nothing that I fear.

The golden wings of summer hours
Make to my heart a dirge-like sound,
The spring's sweet boughs of bridal flowers
Lie bright across a smooth-heaped mound.
What care I that I sing to-day
Where sound not the old plaintive hymns,
And where the mountains hide away
The sunset maple's yellow limbs?

From Blackwood's Magazine.

MY NOVEL:

OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[M]

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.

BOOK VIII.--CHAPTER IV.

With his hands behind him, and his head drooping on his breast--slow,
stealthy, noiseless, Randal Leslie glided along the streets on leaving
the Italian's house. Across the scheme he had before revolved, there
glanced another yet more glittering, for its gain might be more sure and
immediate. If the exile's daughter were heiress to such wealth, might he
himself hope--He stopped short even in his own soliloquy, and his breath
came quick. Now in his last visit to Hazeldean, he had come in contact
with Riccabocca, and been struck by the beauty of Violante. A vague
suspicion had crossed him that these might be the persons of whom the
Marchesa was in search, and the suspicion had been confirmed by
Beatrice's description of the refugee she desired to discover. But as he
had not then learned the reason for her inquiries, nor conceived the
possibility that he could have any personal interest in ascertaining the
truth, he had only classed the secret in question among those the
farther research into which might be left to time and occasion.
Certainly the reader will not do the unscrupulous intellect of Randal
Leslie the injustice to suppose that he was deterred from confiding to
his fair friend all that he knew of Riccabocca, by the refinement of
honor to which he had so chivalrously alluded. He had correctly stated
Audley Egerton's warning against any indiscreet confidence, though he
had forborne to mention a more recent and direct renewal of the same
caution. His first visit to Hazeldean had been paid without consulting
Egerton. He had been passing some days at his father's house, and had
gone over thence to the Squire's. On his return to London, he had,
however, mentioned this visit to Audley, who had seemed annoyed and even
displeased at it, though Randal well knew sufficient of Egerton's
character to know that such feeling could scarce be occa