A NORTHUMBRIAN LEGEND.
They told her, on this mystic eve,
How many a maid was wont to weave
A wreath of every fairest flower,
Cull'd at the dewy evening hour;
And, lit by day's last lingering smile,
To leave it in the ruined aisle
Of the lone abbey: who would dare,
At midnight hour, to seek it there,
Should see the bridal train sweep by,
And all love's shadowy pageantry;
The future bridegroom and his bride
(Her shadowy likeness) by his side;
As many bride's maids should be seen,
As future months should intervene
Before the wedding-day; for she,
Ere the twelvemonth, a bride should be.
But then, again, there ran a tale
Of fun'ral rites and corpses pale,
Of sable bier, and drooping pall,
And broken, blighted coronal.
Woe to the hapless maid, whose eye
Might meet these omens ;-she should die.
The tear half brighten'd Eveline's eye,
She scarce suppressed the rising sigh,
But a deep blush her cheek o'erspread,
"Yes, I will go," the bright smile said
That ting'd her lip
The breeze of night came floating by,
It is still a popular superstition in some parts of Northuinberland, that if a maiden leave a garland in the church aisle on St. Mark's Eve, and fetch it away at midnight, she will see a bridal procession; the bride and bridegroom, the shadowy likeness of herself and destined husband, followed by as many bride's maids as months will pass before the wedding day, which will assuredly happen within the year. Or she may behoid funeral rites, and in that case she will be buried before the following St. Mark's Eve.-Hone.
When Eveline crossed the lonely vale,
Lit by the glow-worm's taper, pale.
Her bounding step so light, so fleet,
Scarce gemm'd with dew her flying feet.
But fearfully she look'd around,
And started at each passing sound:
From the far village, e'en the breeze
That played among the rustling trees,
Or murmur of the crystal rill,
That rippled down the neighb'ring hill,
(Familiar sounds, from childhood dear,)
Now urg'd her flight with wings of fear.
At length she stopt, and gazed awhile
Upon the venerable pile,
That dim in shadowy beauty lay,
Lit by the soft and struggling ray
Of the cloud-captured moon, no light
But her's illumed the brow of night;
Save where the murky clouds were rent
That veiled the starry firmament,
And the pale scattered gems of night
Peep'd forth with dim and broken light.
Beside a cypress tree, whose gloom
O'er-canopied a stately tomb
Of richest marble, fearfully
Still Eveline lingered ;-suddenly,
Upon her startled ear, there fell
The deep tones of the abbey bell,
Which, from its ivy-mantled tower,
Toll'd forth the solemn, midnight hour:
Each stroke, that seemed the knell of death, Blanched Eveline's cheek, and stopt her breath; Shot like an ice-bolt to her heart,
And froze her powerless to start.
It ceas'd; she breath'd; the blood again
Mantled her cheek and throbb'd each vein :
She strove to nerve her trembling heart,
Too prone to act the woman's part.
One moment more,-the porch is past-
She stands within the aisle at last;
The silent mansions of the dead
Re-echoed to her hurried tread;
No sounds disturbed the silent night,
And the few scatter'd rays of light
But served to show the deeper gloom
That reigned within this living tomb.
But far the envious clouds were driven,
That veiled the bright expanse of heaven;
And from her throne the queen of night
Diffused her broad, unbroken light;
Her bright, far-searching beams illume
The long-drawn aisle, and fretted dome,
And arch, with carving ichly wrought,
And the tall graceful column; aught
That envious darkness had concealed
The soft and silvery light revealed.
But chief its trembling radiance shone
A gothic oriel full upon;
An arch of curious architrave
Was tripled over it, and gave
A sombre sadness to its light;
Its panes were diamonded, and dight
Innum'rously with splendid dyes
And quaintly blazoned heraldries.
An altar rose the arch beneath,
And on it lay the mystic wreath,
And Eveline's self was kneeling there :
'Scaped from her hat of straw, her hair
Fell richly o'er the snowy breast,
On which her clasped hands were prest,
As though to still its throb; her eye
Oft wandered round her fearfully.
Perchance 'twas night-wind's dewy sigh
Seal'd with a popied kiss her eye;
For 'neath its silken fringed lid
It droop'd; her cheek ieclined, half hid 'Mid auburn ringlets; slumber stole Resistless o'er her wearied soul;
Slumber, whose dreamy influence brought (So Fancy feign'd) her waking thought.
She heard wherein the cloisters meet,
The light approach of maiden feet,
She heard where rose the bridal song
Floating the lengthened aisles along :
The strain approached near and more near,
With choral swell, full, soft, and clear,
At length those accents met her ear.-
Twine myrtle with the evergreen,
Raise we now the bridal song,
While echoes thus the strain prolong
To Reuben and fair Eveline.
Thus we strew thy path with flowers,
Earnest of the future hours;
Love's snowy myrtle-buds hang o'er you,
And youth's bright evergreens before you;
While our blooming wreaths surround,
Let the choral strain resound;
And whispering echoes chaunt between
To Reuben and fair Eveline.
At once the maiden train divide-
She saw her lover, and for bride
A second self stood by his side,
Encircled in her Reuben's arms,
Who hung enamour'd o'er her charms.
""Tis he, 'tis he!" the slumberer cries,
And dreaming still, essayed to rise.
The effort her light slumbers broke,
And with a starting sigh she woke.
She threw a timid glance around,
She was alone, nor sight, nor sound
Disturb'd the death-like stillness round.
"And is it but a dream!"-she sighed,
An answering sigh to her's replied.
An arm was round her slender waist,
A hand the blooming chaplet placed
On her loose tresses; whisperingly
A voice said, "Eveline, 'us I."
L. 38. 1.
She turned, and Reuben stood before her,
His longing arms extended o'er her;
She sank upon her lover's breast,
He whispered, as her lip he press'd,
"'Tis ours, my Eveline, to achieve
The visions of this mystic eve."
A LEGEND OF THE SEVEN TOWERS.
On the declaration of war with Russia made by the Turks in 1786, Baron Bulhakoff, the Russian minister, despite his representation that the imprisonment of the Muscovite ambassadors on such occasions had been abolished by treaty, was, nevertheless, sent to the Seven Towers by order of Codza Youssouf Pasha, the grand vizier, with the assurance that treaties were very good things in time of peace, but mere waste paper in the event of war. The discomfited ambassador was, however, treated with great civility, and was even permitted to select such members of the legation as he desired should bear him company during his captivity; strict orders being given to the commandant of the castle to accede to every request of the prisoner which did not tend to compromise his safety; and upon his complaining of the accommodations of the tower, he was moreover permitted to erect a kiosk on the walls of the fortress, whence he had a magnificent view of the Sea of Marmora and its glittering islands, and to construct a spacious and handsome apartment within the tower itself.
The commandant was lodged beneath the same roof as his prisoner. He had an only daughter, so young, and so lovely that she might have taken her stand between the two houri who wait at the portal of Paradise to beckon the faithful across its threshold, without seeming less beautiful than they. Fifteen springs had with their delicate breathings opened the petals of the roses since the birth of Rechedi Hanoum, and she had far out-bloomed the brightest blossoms of the fairest of seasons. Her voice, when it was poured forth in song, came through the lattices of her casement like the tones of a distant mandolin sweeping over the waters of the
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