THE NEW MIRROR. A husband's power, with which he was going to be invested, appeared majestically to the imagination of Teissier. "If I show weakness," thought he, "perhaps it will be an irreparable precedent; a stroke of policy is necessary." To have equity on his side as well as right, he displayed his hand spotted with blood, and with the other repeated the correction he had just inflicted on Soliman. The dog howled and took refuge under the billiard-table. "Executioner!" said the young girl, lifting with fury her delicate hand. "Celestine," cried Madame Regnauld, at the same moment springing off her couch. By a heroic effort, the most irascible of badly brought-up children restrained the blow she was about to strike. The effect this constraint produced on her was so violent that tears flowed from her eyes. Seeing his mistress weep, Soli- | man resumed his courage, which had failed him on his own account, and with rage jumped out from under the table; but, at the moment he sprang at Aristide's throat, Francis seized him with both hands by the nape and croup, lifted him as if he had been a dowager griffin, flung him out of the window and shut it instantly. During this incident, rapid as lightning, Mademoiselle Simart, whom her cousin vainly sought to calm, had reached the door and opened it. Then, turning round and showing her rosy face, down which flowed some burning pearls "Know that I hate you," said she to her betrothed. "You seek only to displease me, and you have succeeded beyond your desires. To strike Soliman! I would rather you had beaten me. I detest you, do you hear? and I never will marry you." With these words, said with incomparable accent, Celestine pushed Madame Regnauld out of the saloon, followed her, and shut the door violently like angry children. thought he; "it is too much. Teissier could not make a more silly marriage. Since it is necessary to break it off, it is better to profit by this quarrel than to invoke the memory of the yellow rose, and lead to explanations that might compromise this young girl." Without taking into consideration the involuntary interest with which he was inspired by Celestine, Dramond turned to his friend. "Well, have you decided?" 66 Irrevocably!" replied Teissier, making every syllable of this majestic adverb ring. "In that case, let us go and find M. Simart." "Let us go-although this step may be embarrassing." "Not at all; but M. Simart is such an honest man. This alliance was so pleasing to him that to go and tell him abruptly, positively, I no longer wish your daughter-If this scene could be avoided-if this rupture could be managed by writing, instead of going face to face-I confess, I——” "Confess your irresolutions have seized you again. Hownothing is easier than to get rid of this difficulty. I will manage it all." ever, "How can you?" Francis, like all persons who reflect, was never at a loss for expedients. "See here; it is desirable to leave the house without any explanation, in order to spare the sensibility of M. SiYour uncle mart, then afterwards to break the matter to him by correspondence. Very well. Now listen to me. Marjolier has just had a dangerous attack of sickness, and you must instantly set off for Paris." My uncle Marjolier!" cried Teissier, changing colour. "No; he is as well as we are," said Dramond, laughing. At the sight of his friend, who remained motionless, lean-"You do not see that I kill your uncle to justify your ing against the billiard-table, his chin in his cravat, his hands hanging down and clasped, Francis burst into a fit of laughter. ""Tis very droll, indeed," said Teissier, in a bitter tone; "excessively pleasant, I assure you." "Pardon me; you have a physiognomy so dismayed-" "I do not see any reason why it should be very joyous. But what did I tell you? You have just seen a sample of her amiable disposition. What do you think of it?" "Youthful faults, which you can correct when you are once married," replied Dramond, ironically, repeating the words used a short time before by his interlocutor. "Her husband! Never!" exclaimed Teissier vehemently. "You have heard what she has just said, but I will not give her the trouble to refuse me. I will be the one who will not marry her; I will break off this marriage. Ah! ah! I will I am going to prove to her that I have a mind of my own. speak with her father, and then leave immediately. I will find at Paris twenty thousand ladies to marry, as handsome and more amiable than this little angelic demon. Did you see? She lifted her hand." departure." "I understand. But you have caused me an emotion." "The emotion of being his heir. We understand that." The friends then went up to the room where M. Simart was sitting. On learning the unexpected cause which called his future son-in-law to Paris, the ex-fur merchant, with a disappointed look, run his fingers through his hair. "Let us see, let us see," said he, afterwards, with conciliating good nature, "what all this is about. Madame Regnauld has just related your little altercation with Celestine; are you still thinking of it? Your uncle's illness has happened very suddenly." "Like all such attacks," said Francis, in a doctoral tone. "Come, come !" replied the old trader, "let us forget all that. You know the character of my daughter; she has the best heart in the world, so we ought to make some allowance for her little sallies of passion." "Little sallies of passion!" cried Teissier, on whom his confidant imposed silence by a glance. "I assure you, M. Dramond," said the kind-hearted Simart," that one is as much of a child as the other. Celes "She lifted her hand!" replied Francis, pouting his under tine is a little spoiled, I confess; but your friend, on his part, lip and shaking his head gravely. "And I feared an instant-" is sometimes hot-headed. They, however, love each other like two young turtle-doves, although they spend the time "I, too, that you would be treated like Merville at the in disputing about trifles. Come, Teissier, no grudge; Ceopera." lestine is in the saloon, go and make your peace with her." Seeing his friend already wavering in his resolution, and ready to follow M. Simart, Francis felt the necessity of in "A demon! I tell you, a demon!" cried the disenchanted young man, giving the billiard-table a blow with his fist. Aristide's confidant was as ready-minded and decided interfering. his character as he was wavering and irresolute. In two seconds his course was taken. "I can assure you, sir," said he to Celestine's father, "that Aristide thinks nothing of what has passed, and at "Light to all appearance, and wicked without any doubt," this moment is concerned only for the accident of his uncle." "So, then, it is not a story?" demanded the merchant. "A story!" repeated Dramond, apparently wounded at this doubt. "It is I, sir, who brought this sad news to my friend. I thought it useless to tell him of it before dinner; for the Paris diligence does not pass until evening, and he has yet time to leave to-day." "M. Marjolier! I used to know him," replied M. Simart, "A tall, thin man; taller and thinner than my nephew Regnauld! Where the deuse, with such a temperament, did he go to fish up such an attack as you speak of. Well, well, I can't understand that." "Allow me, sir," resumed Francis, with an insinuating smile; "here I am on my own ground, for I have studied medicine. It is an errour generally adopted, that dry and nervous temperaments are more secure from sudden attack than sanguine and plethoric constitutions; the neck more or less short, the face more or less coloured, have nothing to do with it, and I can relate to you--but there is no question of it; we must think of the good, the excellent Marjolier, perhaps at this moment expiring in the arms of rapacious mercenaries. Consider that Teissier is his nephew, his heir," he continued, bending over to the ear of M. Simart, to manage his sensibility;" and, above all, do not forget that M. Marjolier has a housekeeper and a father-confessor." "Two pests instead of one!" cried the old merchant, whose hatred of priests awoke instantly at that last skilful insinuation. "A confessor! a Jesuit! Yes, I remember, Marjolier was an old bigot; he is a fit subject to be twisted about by black cassocks, and to give all his wealth to some seminary. Go, Teissier, go immediately; with such fellows you must deal sharply. I have known your uncle a long time; weak-spirited, narrow-minded, in compact with the Quotidienne! Ah! suprebleu! leave instantly; there is not a moment to lose." Aristide stood staring about stupidly instead of replying. Alarmed at this symptom as much he was secretly rejoiced at the panic-fear of the furrier, Francis took his friend's arm, and addressing his host: "Do you give me full power?" "Without any restriction." Mademoiselle Simart had gone to the saloon, where she tortured her piano in such a way as to awaken all the echoes of the mansion. On learning her intended was going to leave, she shut herself up, still pouting, to avoid bidding him adieu. Aristide was, therefore, obliged to set off without seeing her. His friend accompanied him to the relay, where he was to wait for the diligence, and did not leave him until he had seated him in it. It has been said of Albert Pike that his "Hymns to the Gods" and other poetry were too far out of reach for human sympathy-too cold and abstract. Here is an imagination we are happy to say, only an imagination, for he has an admirable wife living and well-which shows tenderness and depth of feeling as they are not often shown. It is a delicious and most affecting effusion of true poetry, and we wish we could, for the improvement as well as delight of our readers, give them more such. We do not understand why we should not tell what we chance to know that these lines were written after sitting up late at study, the thought of losing her who slept near him at his toil having suddenly crossed his mind in the stillness of midnight. It was never revised after, which will account for here and there a roughness. ISADORE. N. P. W. Thou art lost to me forever, I have lost thee, Isadore,— and cold, And I at one stride have become most comfortless and old. The vines and flowers we planted, love, I tend with anxious care, "We shall soon return," said he, "for I regard myself They cannot live without thine eyes, to glad them with their And yet they droop and fade away, as tho' they wanted air; still invited." M. Simart looked as if considering. "Do better," said he, with a frank and open air; "nothing requires your presence at Paris; and, to prove to me that this so unexpected departure is not to conceal some sinister project, remain here; besides, as you are Teissier's witness, it will be no inconvenience. We will keep you as a hostage until his return. Is it accepted?" 'Accepted!" replied Francis, with a vivacity one might have taken for joy, and he cordially shook the fat hand the ex-fur merchant held out to him. "Above all, Teissier, lose no time," resumed the latter, completely re-assured by the engagement he had made. "I have that devil of a confessor before my eyes all the time. I am going to order the horse put to the carriage to carry you to the road." || light, Since thy hands ceased to train them, love, they cannot grow aright. Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore. Our little ones inquire of me, where is their mother gone,What answer can I make to them, except with tears alone; How far is it, and where, and when their mother will return. For if I say, to heaven-then the poor things wish to learn, Thou art lost to them forever, Isadore. Our happy home has now become a lonely, silent place; Like heaven without its stars it is, without thy blessed face. Except their mother's spirit, which I feel is always nigh. Our little ones are still and sad-none love them now but 1, Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. Their merry laugh is heard no more-they neither run nor play, "Very well! now this terrible affair is arranged," said My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlore; Francis, when he was alone with his friend. "So," replied the latter, "you would have me depart, while you remain! But that was not in our agreement." "If it displeases you the least, I will go with you," said the confidant; "I only accepted M. Simart's proposition to render you a service. I did not think you would be sorry to leave here a mandatory, who would spare you the unpleasantness of terminating this rupture." "Indeed you are right," replied Aristide, frightened at the idea of a personal altercation; "remain, then, and arrange everything for the best." The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor; Alas! how changed is all, dear wife, from that sweet eve in to mine, In that old arbour, dear, beneath the overarching vine. The moonlight struggled through the vines, and fell upon thy face, Which thou didst lovingly upturn with pure and trustful gaze. THE NEW MIRROR. The southern breezes murmured through the dark cloud of As like a sleeping infant thou didst lean upon me there. The love and faith thou plighted'st then, with smile and min- Was never broken, sweetest one, while thou didst linger here. Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter in health; Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore. Thou art gone from me forever, I have lost thee, Isadore ! If it were not for our children's sake, I would not wish to stay, REVENGE OF LEONARD ROSIER. Ir was late on a summer afternoon that Leonard Rosier, a student of the most famous school of surgery in Paris, was returning to his home in the Rue St. Honoré. The merry populace thronged the street, and many acquaintances accosted him; but he stopped not to converse with any one, nor turned aside with the crowd to follow any splendid equipage. His face was handsome, but pale, apparently with study; and it was singular that in one so young, and especially a Frenchman, the expression should have been so uniformly melancholy. He went up the steps of a small house and knocked gently. The door was opened by an elderly woman, whose face beamed with joy. ful surprise on seeing him. I "I am so happy-so glad you are come-M. Rosier. would have gone myself for you, had I known where to find you. Mademoiselle Eulalie-" "What of her-is she worse?" demanded the youth impatiently; but without waiting the old woman's reply he pushed past her, and went hastily up stairs. The woman looked after him, and shook her head sadly. Leonard entered a small front chamber just then lighted On a couch with the last crimson rays of the setting sun. near the window reclined the pale and emaciated form of a young girl, apparently in the last stage of a decline. Ill. ness, though it had wasted her figure to almost ethereal thinness, had not destroyed the exquisite symmetry of her features. They were still perfect in their delicate outline; and the beautifully.chiselled lips wore a tinge of rose which, like the faint spot of colour on each cheek in contrast with her otherwise dazzling paleness, was evidently the effect of disease. Her eyes were large, dark, and supernaturally bright. She held in her almost transparent fingers a rose partly faded. Leonard came softly to her bedside, and, bending over her, said in a low tone of deep and anxious love, "Eulalie!" The lovely invalid turned quickly, and her eyes beamed "Oh, brother," she mur. with joy as they rested on him. mured, you are come at last!" 46 The young man turned away his face, and wept for a minute in silence. At length, looking up, and addressing the nurse, who had followed him into the room, he asked, "When did this fearful change take place?" "About two hours since," replied the woman. "Mademoiselle, while sitting on the fauteuil at the window, was seized with a violent fit of coughing, and ruptured a bloodvessel. The bleeding was inconsiderable, yet it reduced her to this weakness." "Brother!" said the invalid faintly, and clasping his "Do not suffer her to speak," said the nurse. "Beloved Eulalie !" repeated Leonard, again bending over his sister. "Brother!" exclaimed she, with an energy that startled him; "brother, I have seen him!" "Him! whom ?-Oh, heaven!" sobbed the youth. Eu- "I saw him-the Marquis de Verneuil." "To "His life shall pay for it," said Leonard, in a voice of "Not so!" cried Eulalie. "Would such a revenge prome, and, ere I die, I have a boon to ask. But, before I fit me? Hear me, Leonard. The hand of death is upon name it, you must promise-promise me solemnly, on your knees, Leonard, and before God, that you will never attempt his life. Leave to the Almighty Judge the punishment of my wrong. Leonard, promise me. It is Eulalie's Leonard hesitated, but, adjured again and again, he knelt last prayer but one." "for my strength is "Now hear me," said his sister, down and took the required oath. failing, and the moments are numbered in which I can dow. He drove past in his chariot, and beside him was speak at all. I saw the Marquis de Verneuil from yon winseated a beauteous lady, whom I judged, from the fond look with which he regarded her, he means to make his bride. Leonard, I do not envy her, but is it wrong to wish that I tress of him who once loved me? Of the rights of a wife I could leave the world as the wife, not as the outcast misme for a few moments? I should not live to delay his sehave been cruelly defrauded-would he not give them to Icond nuptials. Oh, brother, would he not ?" The emotion that accompanied these words showed how near her heart lay the request. Leonard answered not till she had again urged it, and besought him to make her death happy by bearing her petition to the marquis. The shades of evening were falling-there was no time to be lost. "Speed, brother," said the low pleading voice of Eulalie, "for, sure I am, that to-morrow's sun will not behold me living. Bring him to my bedside, that I may forgive him— and be, for but the closing moment of my life-his bride Go, Leonard; but, whatever may happen, remember your oath!" And, summoning the nurse to watch by the couch of the dying girl, the young man left his sister on his strange errand to the Chateau de Verneuil, some miles distant from Paris. To the burning impatience of his spirit, the fleet evening, it seemed to him that hours passed before he horse he rode went slowly; and, though yet early in the reached the chateau. His horse was wet with foam as he dismounted at the gates. Those gates were not solitary; a group of gallant steeds were led to and fro by gaily-dressed menials, and one or two lately-arrived guests, with rustling plumes and broidered mantles, were admitted as he approached. Light streamed from the diamond-shaped panes of the castle, and rich music floated on the air. The young tocracy of Paris. For an instant there was a pause in the marquis held a sumptuous feast, and entertained the arismusic; some toast was proposed; then there was a burst of applause, presently drowned in the rejoicing clamour of cymbal, and bugle, and kettledrum. It was a splendid banquet, in truth, not only in the viands and choice wines, but in the wit and courtly gaiety of that presiding genius of the revelry, was the marquis himself. festive company. The soul of their mirth, the inspirer and The humour of his jests was the most exquisite part of the entertainment. There was not a shade on his face to show that aught of sadness had ever marred the flash of his laughing eye; it was not in natures like his to feel any portion The revelry was at its height, and the gay host about to of the wo his recklessness inflicted upon others. challenge fresh admiration by some new brilliant speech, when a servant whispered in his ear, and informed him a to see him instantly. The marquis sent his valet to quesyoung man had arrived express from Paris, and demanded tion the stranger, and finding that his business was not of a political but a private nature, and probably such as did not particularly concern De Verneuil's interests-this was an inference of the valet's on observing the humble exterior of the young student-the marquis returned answer that he could not now be disturbed, and directed the stranger to communicate his errand to the confidential servant. Leonard bit his lip till the blood came, as the man delivered his reply;-then taking a pencil and paper from his pocket, he wrote a few hurried lines to the marquis-informing him of the dying prayer of Eulalie Rosier, and im. Years had passed. The revolution was at its height. Its ploring him (for his sister's sake Leonard stooped to en-horrours were enacted daily-hourly; and the guillotine treaty) to lose not a moment, as she could not survive the streamed with the blood of noble victims. night, in doing justice to his victim. No man could resist such an appeal! thought Leonard, as he gave his note to the valet. The man at first refused to disturb his master again; but moved by the youth's evident distress, he at last consented once more to fulfil his request. disturbance became so great that it was thought expedient to let the offender escape. De Verneuil stepped into his carriage and took his seat by his bride, with his face glowing with rage and shame, and muttering curses and threats. The bridal cortège was pursued as it departed by execrations and taunts from the multitude, glad of any opportunity to give vent to the fire that had so long burned secretly and sullenly, and was soon to burst forth and amaze the world with its dreadful devastation. It was a stormy winter night in 1793. The door of a house in the Rue Nicaise was besieged by a party of sansculottes, who were dragging along with them a prisoner, whom they had seized coming out of the house of the Prince V They knocked loudly at the door. "Open, Citizen Rozier! open the door! we have a new subject for you!" "By St. Denys! but the modesty of this transcends belief!" cried De Verneuil, as he read the billet; and after giving orders to his servant to conduct the young stranger A window above was thrown open, and the figure of a without the gates, and inform him that he might consider man with a lamp in his hand, was visible. He wore a himself fortunate that he received no chastisement for his dressing-gown, which the wind blew back from his meagre daring folly, the marquis laughingly asked his guests "what limbs; and a soiled velvet cap, decorated with a tri-coloured they thought of the sang froid of a surgeon's apprentice, cockade. who had the impudence to demand that he should on the "A subject!" repeated he with a hoarse voice. "A subinstant leave his courtly guests, to ride post-haste to Paris,ject! and his head not off!" and marry his sick sister!" The shout of merriment that "Not yet!" cried one of the men. "You must give him followed this question fell like a thunderbolt on the ears of quarters for an hour or two-till morning; for the guillotine Leonard as he quitted the gates of the Chateau de Verneuil. has had hard work to-day. His turn comes earliest in the The young student returned to his sister's deathbed-with || morning,-unless he goes off first by an extra post, for he is what tidings? To tell her that her last prayer had been half dead with fright already. See what you can do towards mocked that her name had been scoffed at by the author reviving him; and for a fee you shall have him to-morrow of her sufferings-had served to point a jest for his heart-warm from the axe." less companions! Leonard rejoiced that when he again saw Eulalie, she was beyond the consciousness of wrong or of She did not even know her brother as he knelt beside her, weeping bitter tears; and long before sunrise Eulalie had sunk into the arms of death. woe. It was high noon upon a bright day in October, when a brilliant bridal company was issuing from the church of St. Roch. It consisted of many of the nobles of Paris, and dames whose beauty was dazzling even amid the splendour of their attire; who possessed the gift more rare even than loveliness, the aristocratic mien, the high-bred delicacy of air, that compelled the crowd about the church-doors to fall back involuntarily as they advanced. In the rear of the gorgeous train came the Marquis de Verneuil and his bride, the most admired beauty in the fashionable circles of Paris. The magnificence of her dress, and the proud bearing of the marquis, excited expressions of delight and homage as they moved. He bowed gracefully to the salutations of his friends more distantly to mere acquaintances, and took the hand of his fair bride to assist her into the carriage in waiting. Just then there was a sudden movement in the crowd, and a young man, his face pale as death, and his eyes glaring like those of a maniac, sprang into the space sacred to the approach of aristocracy, and confronted the bridegroom. He had a drawn sword in his hand. "Marquis de Verneuil!" cried he, as the noble stopped, alarmed at this wild apparition, "I do not seek your life! I have sworn an oath to the dead, aye, the dead Eulalie, to do you no harm, and well is it for you that I hold my vows more sacred than you do yours! But you shall not pass without a memorial from me. Take this-and remember Leonard Rosier!" As he spoke he struck the marquis on the face with the flat of his sword, then turning away, rushed into the throng. Stung by the insult, De Verneuil shouted to his friends to cut him down, or secure him; but in vain. There was little affection at that time among the populace for the corrupt and selfish aristocracy. The discontent which preceded the days of the revolution, had been long at work; and on the first flash of a quarrel between a noble and one of their own order, most of the inferior class were ready, without inquiry, to espouse the cause of the latter. The young surgeon had insulted one of the hated class of the nobility; he was borne off in triumph by the crowd. When some of his acquaintances recognized him, and proclaimed his wrong, shouts of defiance were flung by the. incensed people in the faces of Leonard's pursuers, and the Bring him in, then," replied the surgeon, and he descended to open the door. The sans-culottes dragged in their prisoner, who seemed, in truth, more dead than alive. "Keep the bird well caged!" cried they. "We took him from an aristocratic nest; a band leagued for the destruction of the republic." "Come in, and guard him." "Not so, citizen doctor! We know you well, and can trust you. We leave the prisoner in your charge, for we have much business before us to-night. At dawn we will take him away-if you have not in the meantime dosed him to death. Come, lads!" And shaking the doctor by the hand, and beckoning to his companions, the sans-culotte departed. You deserve the guillotine, all of you!" muttered the doctor, then turning to the prisoner, said encouragingly— "Do not despair, it may be in my power to save you. I have saved more than one victim from those bloodhounds. Troth! if they had the least suspicion of me, 'twere as much as my head is worth,-but let us hope for the best." 66 While speaking he lighted the lamp, which had been extinguished by the wind as he opened the door. He turned to the stranger, and stood as if struck by a thunderbolt. For a minute's space the two gazed upon one another: the surgeon's pale face grew paler, and his eyes glared fixedly, as on some hideous apparition. At length, recovering his self-possession by a strong effort, he said with a sneer, "I have the honour of seeing the Marquis de Verneuil ?" "Mercy, mercy!" gasped the prisoner. He was trembling violently, and drops of cold sweat stood on his forehead. "Monsieur le Marquis does not recognise me?" asked the doctor. The prisoner looked at him earnestly, and shook his head; reiterating his entreaties for compassion. "Monsieur le Marquis does not know me!" repeated the surgeon in the same bitter ironical tone. "The great and noble find it hard to recollect the poor; it is the canaille that always have such inveterate memories." "For heaven's sake, do not mock my misery!" implored the fallen noble. "You have said you could save me—” The surgeon rang a small bell, and a servant appeared, when he ordered him to bring wine and refreshments. They were set on the table, the doctor drew up chairs, and invited his guest to sit down. The agony of the prisoner increased every moment. "For God's sake, have pity upon me!" "All in good time. Eat-you have need of refreshment." "Let me fly. The darkness of the night will favour my escape." "Impossible! There are spies about the door. My own servants would betray you. You cannot stir hence till morning. You had better eat something." was on the spot; a female servant implored my protection for an infant boy-for your son! I saved him from the knives of the soldiers; I brought him here; he is now asleep in an adjoining apartment. One victim must be delivered up-you or he. Will you give up your son? Decide this instant-your captors are at the door!" A loud knocking at the same instant was heard, and cries of "Open, Citizen Rosier!" "Decide!" thundered Rosier. "Will you give up your son to the sans-culottes ?" "Oh, I cannot-cannot die!" shrieked the miserable suppliant. And the marquis fell prostrate on the floor in the agony of his fear. "Contemptible wretch!" cried the surgeon. "Take the life for which you have yielded everything-honour, vir. tue-the dignity of a man! I will stand surety with Marat that so base a foe can never harm the republic! Hopatience there, my good friends!" And, going to the door, he spoke a few moments to the sans-culottes, who retired soon after. The life of the Marquis de Verneuil was safe for the present. "Leave this house!" he said, on his return to the dissecting-room;" and I counsel you to leave Paris also. Your son shall be restored to his friends, or protected till they claim him. For years," he added, "I have longed for revenge; but you are not a man-and I cannot feel anger toward you. Begone! If you are in Paris in six hours from this, you may fall into the hands of those who may not have so true an appreciation of your soldierly qualities, Monsieur le Marquis, as the surgeon Leonard Rosier."-GIFT, 1844. Through every flower to match thy beauteous cheek. Raining a silken flood upon thy neck so fair; To liken such luxuriance would be most absurd. Thy breast in dazzling whiteness doth remain |