s our evening
happily together, and shake off all these presentiments, which I pray to
God may never be realized."

"Yes, come," and attempting to look gay, she said, "Madness! we will
see."

During the next week, a letter from the mother of Ireneus informed them
that the young officer had died on the very day of Ebba's dream, of a
wound received at the siege of the Castle of Penissiere.

Ebba soon died, pronouncing the names of her father and sister, who wept
at her bedside. Her last breath uttered one other name, that of Ireneus.

* * * * *

POEMS BY THE AUTHOR OF LILLIAN.

The following pieces by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, have never before, we
believe, been printed in this country.

THE LEGEND OF THE TEUFEL-HAUS.

The way was lone, and the hour was late,
And Sir Rudolph was far from his castle gate.
The night came down, by slow degrees,
On the river stream, and the forest-trees;
And by the heat of the heavy air,
And by the lightning's distant glare,
And by the rustling of the woods,
And by the roaring of the floods,
In half an hour, a man might say,
The Spirit of Storm would ride that way.
But little he cared, that stripling pale,
For the sinking sun, or the rising gale;
For he, as he rode, was dreaming now,
Poor youth, of a woman's broken vow,
Of the cup dashed down, ere the wine was tasted,
Of eloquent speeches sadly wasted,
Of a gallant heart all burnt to ashes.
And the Baron of Katzberg's long mustaches,
So the earth below, and the heaven above,
He saw them not;--those dreams of love,
As some have found, and some will find,
Make men extremely deaf and blind.
At last he opened his great blue eyes,
And looking about in vast surprise,
Found that his hunter had turned his back,
An hour ago on the beaten track,
And now was threading a forest hoar,
Where steed had never stepped before.

"By Caesar's head," Sir Rudolph said,
"It were a sorry joke.
If I to-night should make my bed
On the turf, beneath an oak!
Poor Roland reeks from head to hoof;--
Now, for thy sake, good roan,
I would we were beneath a roof,
Were it the foul fiend's own!"

Ere the tongue could rest, ere the lips could close
The sound of a listener's laughter rose.
It was not the scream of a merry boy
When harlequin waves his wand of joy;
Nor the shout from a serious curate, won
By a bending bish