am,
As from the peace of love's sweet rest
She starts!--O God! what horrid dream
Swells her bound eyeballs? From her breast
Fall off the garments of the night,--
A red hand strikes her bosom's white!

She knew no more that passed; her ear
Caught not the hurried cries,--the rush
Of the scared household,--nor could hear
The voice that broke the after-hush:--
"There with her paramour she lay!
He lies here!--carry her away!"

The evening after I was born
No roses on the bier were spread,
As when for maids or mothers mourn
Pure-hearted ones who love the dead;
They buried her, so young, so fair,
With hasty hands and scarce a prayer.

Count Bernard gained the lands, while I,
Cast forth, forgotten, thus have grown
To manhood; for I could not die--
I cannot die--till I atone
For her great shame; and so you see
I track him, and he flies from me.

And one day soon my hand I'll lay
Upon his arm, with lighter touch
Than ladies use when in their play
They tap you with their fans; yet such
A thrill will freeze his every limb
As if the dead were clutching him!

I think that it would make you smile
To see him kneel and hear him plead,--
I leaning on my sword the while,
With a half-laugh, to watch his need:--
At last my good blade finds his heart,
And then this red stain will depart.

RAMBLES IN AQUIDNECK.

I.

NEWPORT BEACH.

Newport has many beaches, each bearing a distinctive appellation. To
the one of which we are speaking rightfully belongs the name of
Easton; but it is more widely known by that of the town itself, and
still more familiarly to the residents as "The Beach." It lies east of
the city, a mile from the harbor, and is about half a mile in length.
Its form is that of the new moon, the horns pointing southward.

Let us go there now. No better time could be chosen by the naturalist,
for the tide will be at its lowest ebb. Descending Bath Road, the
beautiful crescent lies before us on the right,--Easton's Pond, with
its back-ground of farms, upon the left. There is no wind to-day to
break the surface of the standing water, and it gives back the dwarf
willows upon its banks and the houses on the hill-side with more than
Daguerrian fidelity. The broad ocean lies rocking in the sunshine, not
as one a-weary, but resting at his master's bidding, waiting to begin
anew the work he loves. In the horizon, the