of polite observance; but we mean that general cheerfulness which, like sunshine, lights up whatever it touches; that attention to others which discovers what subject is most likely to interest them; and that information which, ready for use, is easily laid under contribution by the habit of turning all resources to immediate employ. In short, a really pleasant manner grows out of benevolence, which can be as much shown in a small courtesy as in a great service.

EXTRACTS FROM MISS LANDON'S POEMS. From "A History of the Lyre."

WOMAN'S DESTINY.

"I am a woman:-tell me not of fame!

The eagle's wing may sweep the stormy path,
And fling back arrows, where the dove would die.
Look on those flowers near you acacia tree-
The lily of the valley-mark how pure
The snowy blossoms, and how soft a breath
Is almost hidden by the large dark leaves.
Not only have those delicate flowers a gift
Of sweetness and of beauty, but the root-
A healing power dwells there; fragrant and fair,
But dwelling still in some beloved shade.

Is not this woman's emblem? - she whose smile
Should only make the loveliness of home-
Who seeks support and shelter from man's heart,
And pays it with affection quiet, deep,-
And in his sickness-sorrow with an aid
He did not deem in aught so fragile dwelt.
Alas! this has not been my destiny.
Again I'll borrow Summer's eloquence.
Yon Eastern tulip that is emblem mine;
Ay! it has radiant colours -
every leaf
Is as a gem from its own country's mines.
'Tis redolent with sunshine; but with noon
It has begun to wither:-look within,
It has a wasted bloom, a burning heart;
It has dwelt too much in the open day,
And so have I; and both must droop and die!

I did not choose my gift: - too soon my heart,
Watch-like, had pointed to a later hour

Than time had reached; and as my years passed on,
Shadows and floating visions grew to thoughts,
And thoughts found words, the passionate words of song,
And all to me was poetry.

THE POET'S POWER.

Oh, never had the poet's lute a hope,

An aim so glorious as it now may have,
In this our social state, where petty cares
And mercenary interests only lock
Upon the present's littleness, and shrink
From the bold future, and the stately past,-
Where the smooth surface of society
Is polished by deceit, and the warm heart
With all its kind affections' early flow,
Flung back upon itself, forgets to beat,
At least for others: - 't is the poet's gift
To melt these frozen waters into tears,
By sympathy with sorrows not our own,
By wakening memory with those mournful notes,
Whose music is the thoughts of early years,
When truth was on the lip, and feelings wore
The sweetness and the freshness of their morn.
Young poet, if thy dreams have not such hope
To purify, refine, exalt, subdue,

To touch the selfish, and to shame the vain
Out of themselves, by gentle mournfulness,
Or chords that rouse some aim of enterprise.
Lofty and pure, and meant for general good;
If thou hast not some power that may direct
The mind from the mean round of daily life,
Waking affections that might else have slept,
Or high resolves, the petrified before,
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense

Z

Of inward and external loveliness,
Making imagination serve as guide
To all of heaven that yet remains on earth-
Thine is a useless lute: break it, and die

MUSINGS.

Methinks we must have known some former state
More glorious than our present, and the heart
Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left
By past magnificence; and hence we pine
With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes
With bitter tears for their own vanity.
Remembrance makes the poet; 't is the past
Lingering within him, with a keener sense
Than is upon the thoughts of common men,
Of what has been, that fills the actual world
With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes,
That were and are not; and the fairer they,
The more their contrast with existing things;
The more his power, the greater is his grief.
-Are we then fallen from some noble star,
Whose consciousness is as an unknown curse,
And we feel capable of happiness
Only to know it is not of our sphere?

I have sung passionate songs of beating hearts;
Perhaps it had been better they had drawn
Their inspiration from an inward source.
Had I known even an unhappy love,
It would have flung an interest round life
Mine never knew. This is an empty wish;
Our feelings are not fires to light at will
Our nature's fine and subtle mysteries;
We may control them, but may not create,
And love less than its fellows. I have fed
Perhaps too much upon the lotus fruits
Imagination yields, -fruits which unfit
The palate for the more substantial food
Of our own land-reality. I made
My heart too like a temple for a home;
My thoughts were birds of paradise, that breathed
The airs of heaven, but died on touching earth.
-The knight whose deeds were stainless as his crest,
Who made my name his watchword in the field;
The poet with immortal words, whose heart
I shared with beauty; or the patriot,
Whose eloquence was power, who made my smile
His recompense amid the toil which shaped
A nation's destiny: these, such as these,
The glorified-the passionate the brave-
In these I might have found the head and heart
I could have worshipped. Where are such as these?
-Not 'mid gay cavaliers who make the dance
Pleasant with graceful flatteries; whose words
A passing moment might light up my cheek,
But haunted not my solitude. The fault
Has been my own; perhaps I asked too much:-
Yet let me say, what firmly I believe,
Love can be-ay, and is. I held that Love
Which chooseth from a thousand only one,
To be the object of that tenderness
Natural to every heart; which can resign
Its own best happiness for one dear sake;
Can bear with absence; hath no part in Hope,-
For Hope is somewhat selfish,-Love is not --
And doth prefer another to itself.
Unchangeable and generous, what, like Love,
Can melt away the dross of worldliness,
Can elevate, refine and make the heart
Of that pure gold which is the fitting shrine
For fire, as sacred as e'er came from heaven?

From "Poems," &c.

LINES OF LIFE.

Orphan in my first years, I early learnt To make my heart suffice itself, and seek Support and sympathy in its own depths.

Well, read my cheek, and watch my eye,-
Too strictly schooled are they,
One secret of my soul to show,
One hidden thought betray.

Oh, sweet was the dream that came to me then!

I dreamt of a lonely and lovely glen,
There was a clear and beautiful sky,
Such as is seen in the blue July:

To the north was a forest of darkling pine;
To the south were hills all green with the vine,
Where the ruby clusters sparkled like gems
Seen upon princely diadems;

On the rocks were goats as white as snow,
And the sheep-bell was heard in the valley below;
And like a nest in the chestnut's shade,
As just for love and contentment made,
A little cottage stood, and the tree
Shadowed it over most gracefully;
A white rose grew up beside the door,

The porch with the blossoms was covered o'er;
Methought it was yours-you were standing by:
You welcomed me, and I felt your sigh
Warm on my cheek, and our lips met,--
On mine the touch is thrilling yet!
But alas! I awakened, and all I can do

Is to tell the sweet dream, my own love, to you!

LOVE.

She prest her slight hand to her brow, or pain

Or bitter thoughts were passing there. The room
Had no light but that from the fireside,
Which showed, then hid her face. How very pale
It looked, when over it the glimmer shone!
Is not the rose companion of the spring?

Then wherefore has the red-leaved flower forgotten Her cheek? The tears stood in her large dark eyesHer beautiful dark eyes-like hyacinth stars, When shines their shadowy glory through the dew That summer nights have wept :-she felt them not, Her heart was far away! Her fragile form, Like the young willow when for the first time The wind sweeps o'er it rudely, had not lost Its own peculiar grace; but it was bowed By sickness, or by worse than sickness-sorrow! And this is love! Oh! why should woman love: Wasting her dearest feelings, till health, hope, Happiness, are but things of which henceforth She'll only know the name? Her heart is seared: A sweet light has been thrown upon its life, To make its darkness the more terrible. And this is Love!

LAST VERSES OF L. E. L.

In allusion to the Pole Star, during her voyage to Africa.

A star has left the kindling sky-
A lovely northern light;
How many planets are on high!
But that has left the night.

I miss its bright familiar face, It was a friend to me; Associate with my native place, And those beyond the sea.

It rose upon our English sky,
Shone o'er our English land,

And brought back many a loving eye,
And many a gentle hand.

It seemed to answer to my thought.
It called the past to mind,

And with its welcome presence brought
All 1 had left behind.

The voyage it lights no longer, ends
Soon on a foreign shore;

How can I but recall the friends
That I may see no more?

Fresh from the pain it was to partHow could I bear the pain?

Yet strong the omen in my heart That says-We meet again.

Meet with a deeper, dearer love;
For absence shows the worth
Of all from which we then remove,
Friends, home, and native earth.

Thou lovely polar star, mine eyes Still turned the first on thee, Till I have felt a sad surprise, That none looked up with me.

But thou hast sunk upon the wave,
Thy radiant place unknown;

I seem to stand beside a grave,
And stand by it alone.

Farewell! ah, would to me were given
A power upon thy light!
What words upon our English heaven
Thy roving rays should write!

Kind messages of love and hope
Upon thy rays should be;

Thy shining orbit should have scope
Scarcely enough for me.

Oh, fancy vain, as it is fond,

And little needed too;

My friends! I need not look beyond My heart to look for you.

LANNOY, THE COUNTESS OF, By birth, countess of Loos Coswaren. She was born at the castle of Gray, in Brabant, in 1767. In 1788 she espoused the count de Lannoy, and emigrated with him, when the Low Countries were overrun by the French armies of the republic. Having lost all their property by confiscation, like many other families of rank, they were reduced to the utmost need in a strange land. All their resources lay in the energy and ability of the countess. She had always devoted herself to music for the gratification of her taste, and had even attempted composition; she now made it a profession, and gave instructions with success in the city of Berlin. She published several trios for the piano, violin, and violoncello; several songs, with an accompaniment for the harp and the piano; with other pieces of music for those instruments. In 1801 she was permitted to return to Belgium with her family, but was obliged to go through with a tedious lawsuit, which involved all her fortune. After several anxious years, the suit was lost, and she was obliged to take refuge at Paris, with her daughters, where, by resuming her musical labours, she obtained a scanty living. She died in 1822.

LAPIERRE, SOPHIE,

A PRETTY Parisian singer, was a member of the conspiracy, which was formed in 1795, to overthrow the Directory, and replace the authority in the hands of the people. Sophie, and several other women, were taken prisoners with the conspirators, and she confronted her judges with the greatest composure, and even levity. As, however, she could only be accused of singing republican songs, she was acquitted.

LASHFORD, JOAN,

DAUGHTER of Elizabeth Warne, by a former husband, was burned as a heretic by the Roman Catholics, during the reign of Mary of England, in the year 1556. A number of other women, about the same time, sealed their faith with their blood. Joan Lashford was about twenty years of age when she thus suffered and died a martyr.

LAVALETTE, EMILIE, COUNTESS DE, NIECE of the empress Josephine, married Marie Chamans Lavalette, aid-de-camp to Bonaparte. Her maiden name was Emilie Beauharnais. The manner in which the marriage was brought about is well described in the 66 Memoirs of Lavalette."

General Bonaparte, wishing to reward the bravery of his aid-de-camp, and being then restricted in his power, determined he should marry this niece of Madame Bonaparte. "I cannot make you a major," said Bonaparte, "I must therefore give you a wife. You shall marry Emilie Beauharnais. She is very handsome, and well educated."

Lavalette raised objections: he had no fortune, and was immediately to depart for Egypt with his chief; he urged that he might be killed there, or, which was perhaps his strongest objection, that the lady might not him. Bonaparte overruled all these objections, telling him that, if he, Lavalette, was killed, his widow would have a pension, and might marry again advantageously; and concluded by saying, "The wedding shall take place in eight days. I will

allow you a fortnight for the honeymoon. You must then come and join us at Toulon. Come, come, the thing is all settled. Tell the coachman to drive home."

Lavalette continues the story thus:

"In the evening I went to see Madame Bonaparte. She knew what was going forward, and was kind enough to show some satisfaction, and call me her nephew. "To-morrow," she said,

66

Iwe shall go to St. Germains-I will introduce you to my niece: you will be delighted with her -she is a charming girl." Accordingly, next day, the General, Madame Bonaparte, Eugene, and I, went in an open carriage to St. Germains, and stopped at Madame Campan's. The visit was a great event at the boarding-school; all the young girls were at the windows, in the parlours, or in the court-yard, for they had obtained a holiday. We soon entered the gardens. Among the forty young ladies I anxiously sought for her who was to be my wife. Her cousin, Hortense, led her to us, that she might salute the General and embrace her aunt. She was, in truth, the prettiest of them all. Her stature was tall, and most gracefully elegant, her features were charming, and the glow of her beautiful complexion was heightened by her confusion. Her bashfulness was so great, that the General could not help laughing at her, but he went no further. It was decided that we should breakfast in the garden. In the mean time I felt extremely uneasy. Would she like me? Would she obey without reluctance? This abrupt marriage, and this speedy departure grieved me. When we got up, and the circle was broken, I begged Eugene to conduct his cousin into a solitary walk. I joined them, and he left us; I then entered on the delicate subject. I made no secret of my birth, or of my want of fortune; and added

"I possess nothing in the world but my sword, and the good-will of the General-and I must leave you in a fortnight. Open your heart to me. I feel myself disposed to love you with all my soul -but that is not sufficient. If this marriage does not please you, repose a full confidence in me; it will not be difficult to find a pretext to break it off-I shall depart: you will not be tormented, for I will keep your secret." While I was speaking, she kept her eyes fixed on the ground; her only answer was a smile, and she gave me the nosegay she held in her hand; I embraced her. We returned slowly to the company, and eight days afterwards went to the municipality. The following day, a poor priest, who had not taken the oaths, married us in a small convent of the Conception, in the Rue St. Honore. This was in some manner forbidden, but Emilie set a great importance on that point; her piety was gentle and sincere."

In a fortnight after the marriage, Lavalette left his bride, and joined the expedition to Egypt. In eighteen months he returned, and was most affectionately welcomed by his wife, who presented to him their infant daughter; the happiness of the married pair was complete, and their affection for each other continued faithful and true during years of prosperity.

On the restoration of the Bourbons, the Count