Chapter 4

'T is Halloween midnight. Through the tall windows of the venerable church streamed in the broad moonlight, in bright silver floods, that lost themselves in the profound recesses of the distant aisles, or fell like many-colored snow-flakes upon the marble floor. Entering without sound, came up the middle aisle the royal wedding-procession. First walked the father, the royal Paterflor, looking stern and determined, yet, it must be confessed, a little roguish about the crowsfeet. Upon his arm leaned his pale and stricken daughter, the once proud, joyous and imperious Princess Dewbell. She was pale as a lily's cup, and drooping as its stem. She never raised her head from her bosom, and her eyes, once sparkling like fountains of light, were hidden beneath their willowy lids. Next comes the "red-haired prince," as the lady Dewbell had scornfully denominated him, (his head _was_ a little inclined to flame, dear reader, between you and me,) respectfully conducting the ever sweet and placid Queen Woodbine; and after them a troop of merry and gayly-dressed fairies, both ladies and gentlemen, but very demure and solemn; while Puck, in the united capacity of Hymen and Grand Usher, was dodging about with his flaming torch, now in front, now in rear, now here, now there, and every where imparting an air of grotesqueness to the whole affair.

At the altar the party stopped, and ranging themselves in the approved order for such occasions, the priest--a grave and reverend bullfrog, whose surplice was scrupulously neat and tidy--proceeded with the ceremony. When he came to the question, "dost thou, my daughter, freely and voluntarily bestow thy hand and thy affections upon this man, Paudeen O'Rafferty, commonly called Pat?"

The pale and shrinking lady raised her head and opened her great ox-like eyes; the bridegroom looked sheepish and hung his head; King Paterflor seemed suddenly troubled with a severe fit of coughing, and the priest could scarcely forbear a chuckle.

"Father, dear father, what is the meaning of this cruel joke?" exclaimed the poor lady Dewbell, running to her father and catching hold of his arm. But the old king's cough was still very troublesome. She then appealed to the priest, but he seemed deaf, and only made a grum kind of noise in his throat, that sounded a good deal like "Pat O'Rafferty."

"Who, then, are you, sir?" demanded she, at last, of the groom, turning suddenly and imperiously upon him her piercing gaze.

"So plaze yer ladyship, I am Paudeen O'Rafferty, the son of the forester--at yer ladyship's sarvice."

The fairy princess was about to faint, in the most approved manner, and had already selected a convenient cushion upon which to fall, when a tall and noble form crossed the moon-ray, and Sir Timothy Lawn stood before her.

"Beloved princess," said he, kneeling, and respectfully taking her hand, "I hope my presence is not disagreeable to the queen of my heart, for whose love I have so long pined. Speak to me frankly, sweet lady Dewbell, tell me, can you love me? Will you permit me to call you mine forever?"

The lady Dewbell changed her intention respecting the cushion upon which she had intended to faint, and, somehow, found herself before she was half conscious of it, in her lover's arms. An explanation ensued; the prince Paudeen gave up his post of honor to Sir Timothy; the ceremony was concluded on the spot; and as the gay and joyous party left the church, Puck was seen sitting at the organ accompanying himself in a sort of wild yet sweet chant, of which the lady Dewbell easily distinguished--

"Oh, a merry tale will the gossips tell, Of the happy mishap of the proud lady Bell."

A NIGHT THOUGHT.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Long have I gazed upon all lovely things, Until my soul was melted into song, Melted with love till from its thousand springs The stream of adoration, swift and strong, Swept in its ardor, drowning brain and tongue, Till what I most would say was borne away unsung.

The brook is silent when it mirrors most Whate'er is grand or beautiful above; The billow which would woo the flowery coast Dies in the first expression of its love; And could the bard consign to living breath Feelings too deep for thought, the utterance were death!

The starless heavens at noon are a delight; The clouds a wonder in their varying play, And beautiful when from their mountainous height The lightning's hand illumes the wall of day:-- The noisy storm bursts down--and passing brings The rainbow poised in air on unsubstantial wings.

But most I love the melancholy night-- When with fixed gaze I single out a star A feeling floods me with a tender light-- A sense of an existence from afar, A life in other spheres of love and bliss, Communion of true souls--a loneliness in this!

There is a sadness in the midnight sky-- An answering fullness in the heart and brain, Which tells the spirit's vain attempt to fly And occupy those distant worlds again. At such an hour Death's were a loving trust, If life could then depart in its contempt of dust.

It may be that this deep and longing sense Is but the prophecy of life to come; It may be that the soul in going hence May find in some bright star its promised home; And that the Eden lost forever here Smiles welcome to me now from yon suspended sphere.

There is a wisdom in the light of stars, A wordless lore which summons me away-- This ignorance belongs to earth which bars The spirit in these darkened walls of clay, And stifles all the soul's aspiring breath;-- True knowledge only dawns within the gales of Death.

Imprisoned thus, why fear we then to meet The angel who shall ope the dungeon-door, And break these galling fetters from our feet, To lead us up from Time's benighted shore? Is it for love of this dark cell of dust, Which, tenantless, awakes but horror and disgust?

Long have I mused upon all lovely things; But thou, oh Death! art lovelier than all; Thou sheddest from thy recompensing wings A glory which is hidden by the pall-- The excess of radiance falling from thy plume Throws from the gates of Time a shadow on the tomb.

THE BARD.

BY S. ANNA LEWIS.

Why should my anxious heart repine That Wealth and Power can ne'er be mine, And Love has flown-- That Friendship changes as the breeze? Mine is a joy unknown to these; In Song's bright zone, To sit by Helicon serene, And hear the waves of Hippocrene Lave Phoebus' throne.

Here deathless lyres the strains prolong, That gush from living founts of song, Without a cross; Here spirits never feel the weight Of Wrong, or Envy, or of Hate, Or earthly loss; The pomp of Pelf--the pride of Birth-- The gilded trappings of this earth Return to dross.

Oh, ye! who would forget the ills Of earth, and all the bosom fills With agony! Come dwell with me in Fancy's dream, Beside this lovely fabled stream Of minstrelsy; And let its draughts celestial roll Into the deep wells of thy soul Eternally.

God always sets along the way Of weary souls some beacon ray Of light divine; And only when my spirit's wings Are weary in the quest of springs Of Song, I pine; If I could always heavenward fly, And never earthward turn mine eye, Bliss would be mine.

THE WILL.

BY MISS E. A. DUPUY