for your lordship's kindness,-but do not urge me to die with a lie in my mouth. I AM guilty of this crime, and I now avow it!"

"There is then only one course for me to pursue," said the judge, placing on his head the black symbol of death. He addressed the prisoner briefly, but feelingly, and sentencing him to death, ordered his body to be afterwards delivered to the surgeons, to be anatomized. The trial occurred on a Friday, and the following Monday was fixed upon for the execution: on the Sunday the chaplain had spent a considerable portion of time with the prisoner; and had left him in the evening perfectly tranquil and resigned. When, however, the gaoler entered his cell at day-break on Monday morning, he found him a lifeless corpse, with an empty bottle, which had contained a virulent poison, clasped forcibly in his right hand.

J.

Where proudly once a palace reared its head,
The loved abode of honorable dead,
A ruined edifice, with shattered walls,
And towers tenantless, and roofless halls
Its site usurps; and phantom-like is seen,
A shadow of the glory that has been.
Behold yon wretched man with troubled brow,
That mouldering palace stands before you now.
Few years have passed since in his father land,
He sprang beneath a tender parent's hand,
As beautiful in mind, as form, and face,
Each fit the fairest heritage to grace;

And manhood found him generous and brave,

One who from earth would sweep the name of slave,

A friend of virtue, in whatever dress,

A bounteous benefactor to distress,

To vice, whose venom never reached his breast,
A foe that bravely fought, and bravely blest;
For not with man he war'd, he loved him still,

In vice or virtue, good report or ill.
His heart for that had pleasure, pity this,
Full of benevolence, his life was bliss.

And he is here, the virtuous and the brave,
Now bears that name of infamy—a slave!
It little recks that abject one to tell,
How from the height of happiness he fell,
How all the hopes his ardent mind had dreamed,
Upon a vivid fancy only gleamed,

Flow trenched in confidence, his generous heart,
By base ingratitude was torn apart;
And houseless on a world, before unknown,
Himself and hapless innocents were thrown ;

And how Despair and Guilt before him stood,
Like fabled giants on the bursting flood;
Oh! it is all a tale, in which the heart
Of innocence itself might bear a part.
It little recks that abject one to tell,
What bitter feelings in his bosom dwell;
How not the scorn of man alone he bears,
But that which time nor human hand repairs,
A wounded spirit-such as nature takes,
When Hope, like all the world beside, forsakes;
How with this load he is a very slave,

And drags his chain toward a bondsman's grave,

Ah no! the tenement that once returned

The voice that blandly soothed, the glance that burned,
Now echoes only to the mournful sigh

Of lasting, deep, and sunless misery.

Th' imprison'd bird, that in its native bower
Once breathed the rose, itself a winged flower,
No more desires to sip the gushing rill,
That softly woos that lovely bower still,
Nor sunward soar, till from the eye it fade,
Nor bask within the violet's purple shade,-
Ah! no, its prison has at length become

Its native bower, and stream, and sky, and home;
The captive spirit to its bondage flies,

And uncomplaining, pines, and pines,-and dies.

Yet, through the gloom which o'er this world is thrown,
He has a glimpse of glory not its own,

Like him, who fearing human scorn or sword,

In Israel's palaces denied his Lord,

One look from heaven has all his guilt reveal'd,
And all his soul in self-abasement seal'd;

But mercy, while it punishes forgives-
He, dead to this world, for another lives.

Oh! who would dash with gall the cup of woe,

Or give adversity another blow.

Or take away it's staff?-or rend the wound
That erst received, successive years have found
Unsiccatriced, unhealed?-or from the eyes
Of dying penitence exclude the skies,

And shew, instead, the course that crime has run,
The loathsome grave, the worm, the skeleton!

J.N.

O'CONNOR'S GRAVE.

There is something very beautiful and interesting in those ruined and neglected church-yards, in the south of Ireland, where the old Irish families still continue to bury their dead. They are to be found often in places far retired from the busy haunts of men, and seldom is their quiet disturbed save by the wailing of a funeral. On these

occasions the ullaloos of the attendant mourners, as they are heard from a great distance, rising clear and distinct amidst the silence of the surrounding wilderness are, to listeners, indescribably wild and touching. It is not uncommon to find these ancient resting-places at the side of some old road, which the improvement of the country has left to fall into decay. A road of this sort, totally unused for the purposes of traffic, and in many places overgrown with rank grass, adds greatly to the desolation of the scene, and forms a very appropriate avenue of approach to the neglected "place of tombs.' The one which was the locality of the following incident, is well known to me, from being the burying-place of the family with whom I resided for several years :

St. Johnstown, was situated nearly half-way between Kilboge and the principal town of the county. The old road to the latter place, which had fallen greatly into disuse, passes through their grounds, and divided from it only by a low stone-wall, covered with ivy, stands the ruined chapel of St. John. On the other side a slight railing separates it from the path, of which, indeed, it forms a part. The chapel itself is an extremely picturesque object: the gable with its gothic window, and a few solid pillar-like masses, still remain, whilst within and without the broken walls are tombs of every age and size, the inscriptions of some entirely filled up with mould and yellow lichens, others startling with the clearness and freshness of yesterday's chisel. I had lived for several years in the neighbourhood before I passed this place, as the new road had been completed, and, besides being the best, was also the shortest to the county town, the usual termination to our morning's excursions. I resided with an old man, my only relation, who treated me as his child, and whose mild and benevolent temper won the esteem of all who knew him. One wet spring, a torrent from the neighbouring hills had torn away part of the new road, and we were obliged, during the time of the repairs, to use the old one, which had now nearly lost the semblance of a highway from the profusion of its weeds and herbage. The first time we passed St. Johnstown, I ohserved that, at a particular part of the park, my old relation drew up the blind and threw himself into the corner of the carriage, shrinking as it were from some disagreeable object. I heedlessly demanded the reason for such a movement, and was answered, that to speak of the place, or even attempt to see it, would destroy his happiness as well as my own. There was something so determined, and at the same time so painful, in the expression of the old man's face, that I dared not pursue the subject, or venture to treat it as a jest. I loved mystery in those days, and was both surprised and delighted at this occurrence, though very curious to discover what there could be at the side of a road, and at open noon-day, to influence the destinies of an amiable old man and his adopted child. It must be something which applied to us alone, for neither coachman nor horses betrayed any symptoms of fear or disturbance.

The sun

shone brightly, the birds were singing in the hedges, the rooks in the tall trees noisily building their nests, and the air filled with the clear, glad spirit of the early spring. What could the prohibition mean? And the sudden change in the usually kind and benevolent countenance of my indulgent friend! I was bewildered, puzzled, and more than half frightened, when, on our return in the dusk of the evening, the same mysterious shuddering was repeated. We had frequent occasion, during the next three months, to go to the county town, and still, whenever we approached St. Johnstown, the blind was drawn up, and a sudden pause, as if of suffering and alarm, always succeeded. I could bear this no longer. The place, and the desire to discover its mystery, "haunted me like a passion :" -it was in my mind all the day, and at night my imagination, sleeping or waking, was in the forbidden chapelry of St. John. I devised all sorts of stratagems to find a clue to all the discovery, without sacrificing my obedience, and once I made an effort to lull the recollection of my friend, and nearly succeeded: but the consequences were too dreadful to hazard another attempt. I have already said that my relative was of a kind and benign nature: he was an enthusiastic admirer of poetry, particularly of that of a melancholy description, and he would soften into tears at a tale of imaginary distress.

A friend had sent me from England a volume of poems, at that time newly published, which I knew would interest him, and this I took in the carriage one day that we were to pass St. Johnstown, I continued, as adroitly as I could, to arrest his attention, and even tried to fix his thoughts by entering into a discussion of the merits of a particular passage, as we drew nearer and nearer to the enchanted ground, and I revelled in the thought that another turn of the road would bring us into the mysterious spot, and that the story of it would in some degree be explained. I leaned forward in expectation of seeing the object of my curiosity, and held in my breath till I could hear the quick beating of my heart. A sudden pause in the observations of my companion made me turn my head, and his eyes, so usually kind and gentle, were fixed upon me with such an expression of anger and distrust, that I turned blushing and detected away. In a moment the blind was up, and the old man, grasping my wrist till I almost screamed, spoke in a voice, deep, yet clear from the excess of passion: "Fool, did you think to deceive me? Hear me for the last time. If you ever try by any means, it matters not how apparently fair, to discover anything of this place, my bitterest curse shall follow you to the grave, and then-then you'll know all." An undefinable terror took possession of me at these words-a dread of some strange unknown evil, in which I was to be a principal actor; and, overcome with my terrible imaginings, I gasped and struggled for a few moments to preserve my self-possession, and then sobbed till I was almost hysterical. Poor child," said my old friend, in his usual tone of kindness, though his voice

was still trembling, "calm yourself, my little Mary,-forget this business-show me you forget it, and I'll forgive you." I thought then that the forgiveness, if it was due from any one, should come from me, and I pettishly repulsed the old man's hand. "What, Mary," he continued, are your tears those of disappointment? Girl, I tell you, that you may avoid such silly, nay wicked attempts for the future-I tell you, were I brought blindfold from the farthe most corner of the earth to this spot, I would know it by the shivering of my heart, and the burning of my brain! Mary, I have prayed for death often in my youth, when worldly cares and worldly passions maddened and polluted my soul; often have I wished to lie down in the dust, and be trodden into it, body and spirit, and have no more life, no more hope. But now I would not die; no, I dread the grave with an apprehension so keen that it almost defeats its purpose, and eats into my existence. I have calmed my temper that no feverish excitement might wear out my system. I have busied myself for thirty years in those frivolous occupations that are loathsome and wearisome to my nature, that my mind might not be overworked, and all this to put off what must come-I feel it herewhich must come soon." Affected by the old man's words, but more by his manner, I could only reply by an affectionate pressure of the no longer rejected hand, and we pursued our way in silence. When we got into the carriage on our return, I was relieved by hearing him tell the coachman to try the new road.

My interest was now fearfully excited in the mystery, and though things seemed to take their usual course, and my relative appeared to proceed in the same quiet routine as ever, still to me there was a change. I could not look without a mixture of anxiety and trembling upon a being whose pursuits and demeanor were so opposite to his nature; whose exterior was so gentle and so polished, yet with feelings so fearfully energetic, that it would seem to require more than mental strength to keep them in subjection. Vague recollections came into my mind of stories I had heard of some dark doings of my kinsman in his youth; of a wife young and beautiful, pining in solitude and neglect; but these did not long press upon my thoughts, for I had the elastic spirit of youth (I was then little more than fifteen), and his conduct to myself, his orphan kinswoman, had always been so kind and so fatherly that I could not bear to think of him for one moment save as the good O'Connor. This, indeed, was the name by which he was known among his neighbours, and if they still alluded to the transactions of earlier years, it was only to contrast them with the gentleness and serenity of his old age.

A letter from a sick friend called my relation suddenly from home, and I was left by myself for a fortnight. The temptation was too great: I resisted as long as I was able, and then gave myself up to the delicious conviction, that now was the time to unravel the mystery. The weather prevented the execution of my purpose till within a few days of the time appointed for O'Connor's return.