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"Were all in Malwood Vale so blest?
Were such light hearts, and tranquil rest,
As filled that night the peasant's cot,
Of all in Malwood Vale the lot?
No-there was one, for whom the Sun

Went down in clouds and sadness,
For whom no heart, when day was done,
Looked out with smiles of gladness;
For whose return no eye was gazing,
For whom no cheerful hearth was blazing,
Whose dreary and forsaken home
Was dark and silent as the tomb."

This desolate and mournful being is the venerable Pastor of the Valley, whose only child, Ellen, the heroine of the tale, has forsaken him :

"She whose young life's first clouded ray
Beamed on a dark and troubled day,
The guiltless messenger of death,
Bequeathed with love's expiring breath-
She who in smiling infancy

Had clasped his neck, and climbed his knee,
Whose first imperfect words, dispelling
The silence of his widowed dwelling,
Had wakened in his heart the tone,
That vibrates to that sound alone.

Oh, moment of parental pride!
When first those lisping accents tried
The purest bymn which earth can raise,
An infant's, to its Maker's praise."

We pass over the details of Ellen's infancy and early youth, though beautifully touched, and select the following passage, descriptive of the blameless enjoyments of domestic life :

"When rain without is pelting fast,
And bitter blows the Northern blast,
When puss i' th' chimney nook is dozing,
Calmly her humdrum song composing;
When Carlo on the hearth is dreaming

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Disturbed percliance by ruthless thought
Of prowling rat, pursued and caught;
Or, if a gust of rushing wind
Roars, in the chimney's shaft confin'd,
He starts-th' imagined danger eyes
With ears erect in keen surprise;
Half rises, from the sound to fly;
But as its fitful murmurs die,
Lulled as they lull, his terrors cease,
And down he sinks, outstretched in peace.

"When by that hearth, so brightly blazing,
The father on his child was gazing,
While she, the wintry hours to cheer
With native woodnotes charmed his ear,
(Notes to that partial ear excelling
The loftiest strains from science swelling,)
Or light of heart, in youthful glee
With converse innocent and free
Beguiled the time, or turned the page
Of holy writ, or learning sage,
Or caught, inspired, the glowing theme
Of lofty bard, or minstrel's dream,
Till in her eyes a kindling fire
Sparkled reflected from the lyre-
Oh! then, whilst gazing on her face,
He watched each wildly varying grace,
Till silent rapture's tender tear
Dimmed on his eyes, a sight so dear;
With grateful love, his heart o'erflowing,
To Heav'n with pious transport glowing,

Poured out its speechless tribute there,
In praise no language could declare.
"If there is happiness below,

In such a home she's shrined -
The human heart can never know
Enjoyment more refined,

Than where that sacred band is twined
Of filial and parental ties,
That tender union, all combined
Of Nature's holiest sympathies !
"Tis friendship in its loveliest dress !
'Tis love's most perfect tenderness !
All other friendships may decay,
All other loves may fade away;
Our faults or follies may disgust
The friend in whom we fondly trust,
Or selfish views may intervene,
From us his changeful heart to wean;
Or we ourselves may change, and find
Faults to which once our love was blind;
Or ling'ring pain, or pining care,
At length may weary friendship's ear,
And love may gaze with altered eye,
When beauty's young attractions fly.
But in that union, firm and mild,
That binds a parent to his child,
Such jarring chords can never sound,
Such painful doubts can never wound.
Tho' health and fortune may decay,
And fleeting beauty pass away-
Tho' grief may blight, or sin deface
Our youth's fair promise, or disgrace
May brand with infamy and shame,
And public scorn, our blasted name-
Tho' all the fell contagion fly
Of guilt, reproach, and misery;
When love rejects, and friends forsake,
A parent, tho' his heart may break,
From that fond heart will never tear
The child whose last retreat is there!
Oh union, purest, most sublime !
The grave itself, but for a time

Thy holy bond shall sever;
His hand who rent, shall bind again
With firmer links thy broken chain,
To be complete for ever!"

Nothing can be more happily described than the effect upon the dog of the roaring gust in the chimney. It is a picture which must bring back the reality to every reader's mind; and of which it may most justly be said, that it has oft been seen, though ne'er so well expressed.'

One rough and stormy night, when

"The sun had set

In many a wintry cloud,

And round their dwelling, cold and wet, The wintry wind blew loud, a sound Of voices in the blast half drowned, Approached; and, nearer as it came, Called loudly on Fitzarthur's name; Distress and haste were in the tones Of that loud cry; and feeble moans, As the old Pastor turned to hear, Struck indirectly on his car, Confus'dly mingled with the wail That sobbed in the subsiding gale. And soon th' unclosing door displayed A rugged group, whose vent'rous trade

Daily with boat and net was plied On the near ocean's foaming tide, One in their sinewy arms they bore, Whose eyes seemed closed to wake no more, But for his low and feeble plaint, That murmured faintly, and more faint." The stranger thus committed to the hospitality of the good Pastor, has been wrecked that night on the adjacent coast. He only, of all the " hapless band" sailing in the "gallant vessel," has escaped destruction :

"Close round a floating spar he clung, Till the returning billows flung Their living burthen on the beach." Some friendly fishermen were near, who rescued him from the surge,

"Ere the next fast retreating wave
Should sweep him to a wat'ry grave;

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nothing delays the marriage but the necessity of waiting till, by suing for it in person, the lover is able to obtain the consent of a

"Grasping uncle, cold and proud," on whom, as he asserts," his fortunes hang;" but, ere long, he acknowledges to Ellen a thousand doubts and fears respecting this meditated application to his unfeeling kinsman; and succeeds in persuading her, at least, that it would be folly to defer a union which might be privately solemnized, and kept concealed

"Till happier times should clear away
The clouds of caution and delay,
And to the world he might proclaim
The sharer of his heart and name."

Fitzarthur, however, is not so easily to

and, after "short debate," agreed to be influenced. He rejects with firm

convey him to their Pastor's,

"Where entrance and relief was free To every child of misery."

Here, by " days and weeks of tender care," he was restored to health and strength. He had been a soldier, one

"Whose harassed frame

From foreign fields of conflict came."

The consequence, as might be anticipated, of De Morton's introduction at the parsonage, is his falling in love with Ellen, and Ellen with him. He lingers around her throughout the whole ensuing spring and summer; gains upon the good Pastor's heart,

"Adapting to the spirit there,

Words, looks, and taste with cautious care.
Companion of the old man's walk,

Or studious hours, in serious talk,
Oft would he pour, with seeming truth,
The feelings of ingenuous youth;

Oft would he speak, with seeming awe,
Of truths divine, and moral law,
With such a sense of heav'nly grace,
As beamed reflected in his face;
Till tears of wonder and delight
Obscured the good old Pastor's sight,

And then he thought, Heaven's will be done!
Yet, were I bless'd with such a son !'-

"His simple and ingenuous mind,
Deep read in books, in taste refin'd,
Had studied ill that painful art,
Discernment of the human heart;
Had never its dark lab'rinths traced,
By worldly intercourse debased;
That baneful influence, coldly stealing
O'er every warm and noble feeling,
That with torpedo touch benumbs
Where'er its withering contact comes.
Cast in a purer mould had been
Those hearts the rustic sire had seen:
Such was his own, and by its light
He deemed to read De Morton's right,
And saw, unchecked, the lover's art,
That sought and won his Ellen's heart."
Giving, therefore, his sanction to the
mutual attachment of the young pair,

ness the proposal of a clandestine marriage; and, though with reluctance and pain, bids the young man depart, and prohibits his re-appearance till the obstacle is removed which opposes itself to the public disposal of his hand. The venerable monitor is obeyed; the longcherished guest quits Malwood; and Ellen, sad, yet submissive-clinging to hope, and lingering in every spot, dearer by remembrance made," in which she had heretofore wandered with her lover, sees the winter elapse

now

"When overhead, the lark no more Was heard her summer song to pour, But in her stead, the red-breast nigh, Hopped noiseless, with enquiring eye," without forfeiting her dependence on his honour.

The return of summer, however, brings with it the keenest apprehensions, caused by De Morton's protracted and unexplained delay. Poor Ellen's health becomes affected; her spirits and activity wholly give way, except when in the presence of her father, to avert from whose observation the full amount of her anguish she exerts herself with a sweetness, which, at so trying a season, renders her peculiarly interesting. The beautiful eulogium, which follows, of the female character when adorned with its appropriate virtues, "Long-suffering, mild, meek tenderness," we have not space to insert entire: but we cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of presenting to our readers its admirable concluding lines:

"Behold her tears in secret flow,
While by the careless world is seen
An aspect cheerful and serene.
To words unkind, and taunting eye,
Mark ye, her soothing, meek reply:
The gentle look, whose timid ray
Imploring soft, turns wrath away;

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For those she loves, how fond her cares
From those she loves, how much she bears na
Not wrongs, unkindness, scorn, or hate, seit 30
Her heart can change, or alienate to A
Hers is "the love that knows no chill,"
Thro' want and woe, surviving still,,d noor beA
That ev'ry ill of life partakes,
Still cleaving, when the world forsakes.
alb alay evol A
For guilty man, to Heaven she pleads;
Repentant man, to Heaven she leads
Spies out the moment, in his heart
To waken virtue's latent seed,
And fosters it with patient art,
Till flowers of sweet perfume succeed."
De Morton, too soon, alas! for the
weal of the guileless inhabitants of the
valley,
y does return: but not with the
honourable openness of an authorized
suitor; he comes with the stealthy cau-
tion of a premeditated betrayer; sur-
prises Ellen at night-fall in the garden;
and unmoved by the innocent persua
sion she is under, and fondly expresses,
that his long absence had been involun-
tary, and had cost him as much sorrow
as she had herself endured-he delibe-
rately tells her, that she must take flight
with him that very hour, or resign her-
self to parting from him for ever!-His
uncle, he avers, has been deaf to his
most impassioned pleadings; her fa-
ther, she knows, will, from henceforth,
be inexorably adverse to his suit; they
have no alternative: they must either
become fugitives together, or separate,
never more to meet. Ellen refuses to
pursue so desperate a course: he terri-
fies her by throwing out dark menaces
against his own life: she sees, in the
moon-beam, his face pale as death, and
nearly convulsed with agony: a brief
interval (he allows her no time for deli-
beration) then decides her fate:

"In agony she gazed around;
No foot approached, no blessed sound-
Unheard, alas! her father's name
Dies on her lips no succour came-
Oh! for a moment's pause to think-
To breathe to gasp on ruin's brink!-
Oh! for some saving hand!-too late-
Behind her swung the closing gate:
Cold on her heart, as 'twere the knell
Of peace and hope, its echo fell."

The developement of De Morton's character, and the consequent punishment of the remorseful Ellen, now rapidly succeed. He deserts her ere the first twelvemonth has elapsed after their clopement; she is a mother, and believes herself to be a wife;a longer period, however, than usual, of neglect and avoidance on his part, had rendered her a prey to dejection and wretched-.. ness, when a letter arrives that nearly annihilates her:

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"De Morton's last farewell it bore, v
The veil was rent the dream was o'er-
De Morton would return no more!
A dream, indeed a mockery,
All he had said, and seemed to be
A dream, indeed! his very name
No wedded right had she to claim—
Assumed t' elude the holy rite.
That he had seemed with hers to plight.
"Twas vain,' he said, with vows to bind
The roving heart, the free-born mind;"
And then he spoke of love, that flies
Far off at sight of human ties;'
All arts, all hope, all effort vain
(Once fled) to lure him back again;
And when 'twas so, 'twas best to part,
To seek some more congenial heart;
Hers was too pure, too saintly cold,
To match with one of mortal mould
So earthly, so unlike her own→
And she might seek, when he was gone,
The home her peevish fancy yet
Haunted with lingering fond regret :
Question of him would be in vain, a
She ne'er would see his face again."

T

A dreadful species of calm, though intense despair, assails her on the perusal of this infamous scroll, from which it is, weeks, nay months, ere she recovers. Her slender store of money begins to fail; her health declines; she remains utterly bereft of friends, of reputation, of means to exist, except such as she needle's skill," to provide a scanty susobtains by mechanically plying the that her father has irrevocably renounced tenance for her infant, She believes: letter which she had addressed to him her: De Morton had suppressed every since her flight; and dead to hopestunned by the tremendous penalty which her fault had brought upon her, she neither dared to renew her filial supplications, nor had sufficient energy left to retain even a wish that they might be heard. The progressive and touching manner in which her conversion from this state of unnatural and moody apathy is effected, cannot be too highly commended. We shall select, for the conclusion of this article, the passage, though somewhat long, to which we allude, persuaded that it must excite in desire to know how the sorrows of poor every reader of sensibility, an anxious Ellen terminate.

1

"The Sabbath day, the day of
Still bade her weekly labours cease;
peace,
Still, by instinctive reverence swayed,
And long observance, she obeyed
The ordinance of rest-in vain-
Her rest was weariness and pain;
For o'er her soul, devotion's balm,
Diffused no more its holy calm,
And never since that fatal day
When feeling fled with hope away,
Had Ellen's hands been raised to pray,

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Nor ever had her footsteps trodata du. Misch
The pavement of the house of God.
Yet when the Sabbath bells around
Rung out their sweet inviting sound,
Almost with thoughts of other times,
She started at the well-known chimes,
And hastened, as in other days,

To seek the house of prayer and praise.
But tho' its portals opened wide

To entering crowds, they seemed denied
To her, as if a barrier rose

Unseen, her entrance to oppose→→→→
Unseen, but felt-for care half-crazed
Th' appalling interdiction raised,
And fancy's wildly-roving eye,

From the gay crowds that passed her by,
Caught many a glance of insult proud;
And many a taunt more deep than loud,
Breathed scoffingly in fancy's ear,
'Presumptuous! dost thou venture here?
The timid wanderer shrunk dismayed,
Yet, round the holy walls she strayed,
Like restless spirit, lingering long
To catch the swell of sacred song:
Then far, far onward would she roam,
Till long fatigue recalled her home.

A Sabbath's summer-noon was o'er,
And tempered was the fervid ray,
When Ellen from her humble door
With head declined came forth to stray,
Reckless, regardless of her way.
Soon had she passed the noisy town,
And soon attained the upland down,
And soon beyond its open plain
She roved in sheltered glades again.
It was an evening calm and mild,
As the first evening nature smiled;
Beauteous, as if the guilt of man

Had ne'er defaced his Maker's plan;'
And pain, the penalty of sin,
And death, had never entered in,
No living sound, no motion stirred
In earth or air, save song of bird,
Or ham of insect on the wing,
Or trickling flow of pebbly spring.
Athwart the hollow lane's deep glade
Tall elm-trees flung their dark broad shade,
And sun-beams glancing bright between,
Touched the soft turf with emerald green.

"Een Ellen's heart half felt the power,
The influence of that tranquil hour,
So deep, so soothing, so serene
The lovely stillness of the scene.
Or memory's long-benighted waste,
A ray of former feelings past,
A feeble light, like morning grey,
Thro' clouds just struggling into day→→→
The babe slept sweetly in her arms;
She gazed upon its peaceful charms :
Yes, peace was there, as calm, profound,
As that all nature breathed around.
But whence that drop that glistens bright
On its soft cheek with liquid light?
Oh precious tear! for many a day
The first, from Ellen's eyes to stray;
It fell, as on the burning plain
Fall the large drops of summer-rain;
Heavy and slow at first, they break
The surface smooth of pool or lake,
Till thicker, smaller drops descend,
And circles into circles blend,
And the low clouds, their garnered store
In one long plenteous deluge pour.

A

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Loitering and musing as she past, Ellen approached the end at last Of that deep glade; when on her ear A chime of bells came pealing clear, Borne sweetly on the swelling breeze; And soon between the parting trees, A lovely vale disclosed to sight Its hamlet group of dwellings white, And its grey steeple's ivied fane, Where the long window's latticed Reflected in effulgence bright The warm red beams of evening light, From that grey spire, the sacred sound Of Sabbath bells was ringing round, And many a group, with faces glad, In pride of Sunday raiment clad,

pane

Stood clustering round the church-yard gate, Their pastor's near approach to wait.

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"He came, a man with silver hair,; 10JJIIS? And eyes that beamed paternal care, When on his little flock they cast Their silent blessing-as he past, A word, a look, a smile to gain,

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"The bell had ceased; the rustic throng With silent reverence moved along, And some, as close they passed her by, Lingered with kind enquiring eye, And proffered low, with courteous look, Welcome within to seat and book:The voice of welcome, kind and new, Fell on her heart like balmy dew, It seemed to say, Poor wanderer! come, A father's house invites thee home; Approach; his promised rest is sweet; Cast down thy burthen at his feet.” She entered, and the closing door Shut out the troublous world once more, And all its cares-a fearful host Were soon in holier feelings lost.

"But when the reverend preacher rose, How touching was the text he chose! How did her heart within her burn! It was the prodigal's returnUpon that mild persuasive tongue, In breathless eagerness she hung; To her to her! each precious word Seemed strongly, feelingly referred : The Lord had promised to forgive The sinner who would turn and live;

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And as he spoke, with hands outspread,
And lifted eyes, around his head
A beam of western glory bright
Played like a crown of living light."

It would be unfair both to our author, and to those who, we trust, will become desirous of reading this poem, to proceed any further either in our exposition of the story, or our extracts. All we shall add is, that a very elegant and modest introduction in verse is prefixed to the volume, which, we think, will go far towards awakening a favourable disposition in behalf of the writer : and that the catastrophe of the tale is one of the best imagined, and the most impressive, that we have ever met with.

CONJECTURES ON THE POLITICAL SITUATION OF THE TURKS, IN
GREECE AND EGYPT.

OUR readers will have observed in our pages lately, many notices relating to endeavours of several of the better informed and more public-spirited Greeks to diffuse the actuating impulse of knowledge among their countrymen; nor have we been backward to consider this as the first power of a series, intended to issue in important consequences. Greece, undoubtedly, for ages, was singularly illustrious in arts and arms. Science and literature were honoured, both in public and in private, among her communities; and so much of our own science and literature is to this day derived from Grecian sources, that scarcely any country on earth is allowed claims to superior interest. We study the language, as well as the arts, of our ancient masters; and it may safely be said, that Britain never saw a period at which an acquaintance with it was more honourable, or more general-a period when so extensive a subscription for a costly work of the kind could have been obtained, as that which now distinguishes Mr. Valpy's edition of Stephens's Greek Thesaurus.

Greece has long suffered under the most barbarous despotism; but Greece has supported the misfortune with a certain kind of sullen perseverance; and nearly four centuries have seen her sons, for the most part, retain their national characteristics, notwithstanding the allurements held out by their oppressors to effect a substitution of their own; and the indignities perpetrated towards those who sternly refuse compliance. We may say, that the language, the the local usages, differ little

manners,

from those found by the Turks when first they took possession of the country. We know of nations which have coalesced with their conquerors, and even have taken their name; but a Greek cannot be more injuriously or more dishonourably aspersed, than by being called a Turk or a Mahometan. A Greek may be supple from policy, he may cringe under the pressure of necessity; but at liberty to shew himself, he is another man. This observation, it must be understood, applies rather, in its favourable sense, to the inhabitants of the country, than to Greeks resident in towns; and hence it is that travellers, who mostly see the citizen Greeks, form very inadequate conceptions of the body of the people, with whom they have no intercourse but in passing. Notwithstanding the lapse of nearly four centuries, during which the Ottoman banner has waved triumphant over the country, there were till very lately many parts, and some of them of considerable extent, which retained their liberty, where no Turk dared to shew himself, and where a slight acknowledgment of the Sultan's supremacy was all the obedience he could exact from them. This was remarkable in the Mainiotes, the Spahiotes, the inhabitants of the town and fastnesses of Sulli, who long and valiantly defended their liberty; and if they ultimately fell victims to corruption and treachery, not a few of them still preserve a strong recollection of their former state. Even the Albanians, undoubtedly the best soldiers in the Turkish service, are no longer loyal than while engaged in that service; and

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