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Then memory's pencil still shall paint,
In colours neither cold nor faint,

The wishes of a friend-
That through the various change of life,
Its pleasure, sorrow, care, or strife,

Her bliss may never end !


BY F. P. DELME RADCLIFFE, ESQ. Some love to ride on the ocean tide,

There are charms in “ the dark blue sea ;" But nerve at need, a gallant steed,

And the life of a hunter for me.

We plough the deep, or climb the steep,

With a heart and a hand as brave As those who steer their bold career

Far o'er the foaming wave.

There is that in the sound, of horn and hound

Which leaves all care behind,
And the huntsman's cheer delights the ear,

Borne merrily on the wind.

Oh! give me a place in the stirring chace,

A dull sky and a southern breeze, You may rove in vain o’er the mighty main, Ere you

find any joys like these.



Let the waves sweep over them! Better the dark, silent, and fated waves of ocean, than the troubled waves of life."


The union of the kingdoms of the Heptarchy had advanced England, as a country, to a condition of force and dignity; but, as yet, the English themselves, a mixture at once of Celts, Saxons, Danes, and Normans, remained without a king capable of taking advantage of their united strength, their spirit, and their prowess. Harold, indeed, who fell in the celebrated battle of Hastings, had proved a prince of ability, while the mildness of his government had endeared him to the people. But his right of succession to the crown was defective; and though the title of William of Normandy, surnamed the Conqueror, might, in justice, be esteemed as still more so, yet success in arms overbalanced that defect; and William kept firm possession of the kingdom, supported by a fresh accession of nobility, who took care to establish their power by the depression, and in some cases, the extinction, of the native inhabitants. Nevertheless, William of Normandy must always be considered more in the light of a successful, adventurous conqueror, than as a legitimate king; and the Anglo-Saxons might have betrayed, in the event of a foreign war, the prince who had so unscrupulously placed over their heads the adventurers who had rushed to his standard from almost every quarter of Europe. His son, and successor, William Rufus, the avaricious offspring of a tyrannical father, did little to heal the wounds occasioned by the violence and rapacity of William I. But, on the accession of Prince Henry, whose military achievements had awakened the interests and affections of his countrymen, the chivalry of the English character burst forth in its splendor.”

The immediate commencement of King Henry's reign, the first of a long line of successful monarchs of the name, was hailed by the final conquest of Jerusalem, after a century of wars, the waste of millions of lives, and an expense to support which, whole provinces, if not kingdoms, were occasionally sacrificed. But the bright stream of glory flowed from afar: the more important, and more nationally illustrious transaction, was the conquest, by Henry himself, of that same Normandy which had, within sixty years, given so many masters to the English ; and, after a short campaign against the united kingdoms and principalities of France, Henry's forces occupied the towns, and his nobles the castles ; while his daughter, now the widowed Countess of Perche, was established in the vast baronies of Perche, in the vicinity of Brenneville.

Success, however, had aroused the valour of Lewis, the bravest and the most accomplished of the French princes; and the chivalry of France had now, at the opening of this our story, advanced towards Brenneville, in order to wrest from Henry and his valorous son, Prince William, the territory of Normandy, so lately acquired by the English. But another motive prevailed with Lewis; he was enamoured, by report, of a maid of honour, or, rather, the favourite friend and confidante of the Countess of Perche, rescued, it was said, from the horrors and convulsions of the holy war, and simply called the Orphan of Palestine. Her real name was n, the quality of her birth still less understood, and her origin itself remained a mystery, which time, all powerful as it is, was not very likely to unravel. Her beauty had been reported to him ; and, though in most respects an amiable and a generous prince, Lewis, agreeably to the spirit and gallantry of the age, coveted, though it might be for a mere ornament of his court, the beautiful, the surpassingly beautiful, Orphan of Palestine. But the Orphan of Palestine and her affections were already betrothed to the Count Arnulf de Arnulf, the brave and handsome companion in arms of the chivalrous Prince William.

It was on the morning of the day of the battle of Brenneville that the fair Jerusha, the Orphan of Palestine, passed, thoughtful, from the castle of Perche, towards a pavillion in the garden, her heart fixed upon the final termination of the combat. The Count Arnulf, her friend, her affianced, might be slain, might be sacrificed to the intemperate resentment of his enemies—might be torn for ever from her tenderness, her fidelity, and her care. she breathed an inward prayer for his safety, the shouts of victory broke upon her ear. The chateau rang with the sounds of joy and triumph; and the accidental arrival of an attendant announced a victory to England, the flight of Lewis, the total overthrow of his power, and the return of Henry, William, and Arnulf to the chateau.

Affected by a succession of happy events, dazzling, as they were, yet in some manner unexpected, the beautiful Jerusha drew towards a jutting abutment of the marbled


pavilion which looked out upon the plains leading towards the field of battle. The sun had just declined after a bright noon of light and heat, a few autumnal clouds alone appeared to rest upon the verge of the horizon, as golden islets on the stilf surface of a far ether sea. The view embraced the distant waters of the ocean, which had now caught the last reflecting rays of the sun's departing glory; while, in another direction, the still more distant mountains threw their purple shadows over the vallies.

The tumult which had resounded through the castle was now hushed, and all nature seemed to harmonise in the placid emotions of her heart.

“ And he,” she murmured,“ once more restored to me, and to part no more; he who holds with my heart the secret of my birth, my preservation; and now that the perils of the war are ended, that secret he has promised to confide to me. Would he were come, and that hope, all joyful though it be, were changed to certainty.”

As if the open esplanade of the pavilion were too public a witness to the tenderness of her emotion, she was about to descend the trelliced steps, festooned and garlanded on either side, with the still blooming and luxuriant roses of Provence, when the tread of an armed man suddenly met

She paused to listen, but the sound was not repeated. “ 'Twas but the echo of my fears;” she murmured to herself, “nevertheless, the perils of the times, my hopes -alas! now seldom disentangled from my sorrows—but too often awaken in my mind phantasms that take the place of more serious superstitions.”

The circumstance passed from her mind, and summoning to her aid that courage which had for a moment deserted

her ear.

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