Fair Emmeline listen'd until her eye glisten'd
With trembling, yet sweet surprise,

For the minstrel she knew was her Leoline true, Though shrouded in dim disguise.

Ere the pale moonbeam rose o'er the stream,

She stole from a postern tower;

Where the minstrel grey, clad in knight's array,

Long had told the lonely hour.

Now beneath the dark sky, o'er the heath they fly,
And, ere smiled the morning ray,

A bride was press'd to Sir Leoline's breast,
No longer a minstrel grey.

SONNET.

BY THE REV. ALEXANDER DYCE.

'Tis fervid noon, but there is coolness here,
Where red-stemm'd fir trees cluster thickly round,
A pillar'd shade, the wind with sea-like sound
Sweeping their spiry summits never sere:
Freshening their roots, a rivulet most clear

Meanders on, through moss of vivid green,

While, bending o'er its tiny waves, are seen Harebells of heaven's own tint; and scatter'd near, Tall tufts of fern nod slowly to the breeze,

Like plumes on beauty's jewell'd head that swing: No sound is heard but of the murmuring trees,

And of the brook, that quietly doth sing Its changeless tune :-here, Solitude, to thee Mother of Meditation, let an altar be!

LONG ENGAGEMENTS.

THE question as to the propriety of suffering young persons to enter into long engagements, and the doubt whether, if the lovers eventually marry, their lives will be equally happy with those whose affections have not been subjected to so severe a probation, still remains doubtful even to those who ought to be the most competent to decide-parents and guardians.

There are certainly many instances where these trials have ended satisfactorily; but there are also numerous cases in which, when circumstances have permitted the parties to marry, the fulfilment of the engagement has been produced much more by the man's sense of honour, so that she, who consecrated the summer of her charms to him alone, should not be deserted in her autumn, than from the ardency of that pure and disinterested passion which gave birth to his attachment. Whoever has a child of an age to marry, ought to be wise enough to know, that

the effect which a train of outward circumstances has on the formation of the character, is of more importance than the events themselves are. To have a girl forsaken, or unwillingly received, after she has devoted the brightest portion of her days to a faithless or a fickle-minded man, undoubtedly is trying; yet it is in the power of the woman, who possesses a sound judgment and a well regulated mind, so to act and think that she may be prepared for any change. Though the heroine of the following tale was not subjected to the bitterest of all human sufferings, that of witnessing

still, as she calculated upon the possibility of finding her hopes blasted, the mental discipline which she voluntarily underwent would, it is almost certain, have enabled her to bear her fate in a manner as honourable to herself as consoling to her parents; and deserves commemoration, as an example.

Several years ago, during a visit which I paid to a friend in the south-west of England, I became acquainted with a village called the Hatch. My Mary was then fifteen. In spite of my care she was growing thin and pale. I was a jest among my friends for my passion for making her robustly healthy, incited thereto by regard for public good as well as

maternal fondness; being desirous of proving that an only child, and she too the daughter of a widow, is not necessarily doomed to be sickly and feeble.

The situation of the Hatch, which is such that it cannot be easily got at in a carriage, did not frighten me. The freshness and purity of the air of the high downs, which stretch out for miles just above it, made me ample compensation for this disadvantage. Over the breezy top of these bare hills I resolved to let Mary scamper on her pony every day, in defiance of wind and of weather; unless the first were such as to blow her off her horse, or the latter to half drown her.

On very windy days we were compelled to relinquish the soft carpet, and the wide views of the downs for the road which wound round their bases. A good sized, well built house, at a little distance from this road attracted our attention, or rather, I should say, that the profusion of gay flowers which grew about it did so. The contrast which this decorated spot offered to the close turf of the downs, and the rough graces of our present residence, caused it to make the greater impression upon Mary. She took so much delight in looking at the mass of brilliant hues collected in this garden, that I think she sometimes proposed our taking this road only for the sake of seeing them.

Once or twice we saw the children of the family