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of the court of France, and secretary of the Marechal D'Anville-Oh! that name !-Yes, even he, my benefactor and my friend, awakens every pang: for he dares look on thee-and looking, dares to love.

'Twas then, enchanting queen! my eyes first gazed upon those charms I since have learned to reverence, with all the fervour of matchless truth. Whene'er I saw you, my pulse beat with an unwonted motion, and the throbbings of my heart spoke to my soul a language it had never known before-my brain became on fire, and ere I knew the term, I knew what constituted love.-To look in speechless rapture on your beaming eye, to mark the symmetry of that angelic form, and contemplate the graceful motion of your step, were then my height of bliss.-Love had not taught me what presumption was, I rather stood the awe-struck victim of his all-puissant will.

You left the court of France-Yes-Mary left it, and with her all the rays of beauty and of grace fled Gallia's shores for ever.-Never shall I forget the hour when the Marechal D'Anville gained your acquiescence with his wish; for that blessed hour made me too the partner of his voyage hither. We embarked, and the

The Marechal D'Anville, to whom Chatelar was secretary, though a married man, was passionately enamoured

white surge, as if obedient to the queen of love, retired at her approach-Oh, that night!fond recollection!-how my entranc'd soul catches at every thought that pictures Mary to my fever'd mind---Yes; that dear enchanting night was spent in bliss unspeakable!—I lay upon my pallet, watchful as the party-coloured lynx, for my mind told me that Mary's form reposed within the cabin which adjoined to mine. The mariner, ever and anon, sung to the breeze a ditty to his love.-I left my couch -Oh sleep! thou wast not there-in vain thy leaden pinions, steeped in second death, lay heavy on the lids of all around me; I was alone invulnerable, nor felt thy potent influ

ence.

I arose-yes; I dared approach the hallowed entrance of thy cabin-my knees trembled, and I sought support:-love's faintness drew its curtain o'er my senses, and 1 lay ensteeped in bliss

of Mary Queen of Scots; and when she determined on quitting France for Scotland, he obtained her permission to escort her thither. The Marechal was a nobleman of the most refined manners, very accomplished, and remarkably handsome. Some historians have even thought that Mary suffered him to indulge his headstrong passion too far; but this may have arisen from her predilection in his favour, as she was by no means blind to his shining quali ications.

immortal. I awoke, and on my knees implored sweet slumbers to attend thy couch-1 did more; it was the first bold impulse with which love nerved me--I dared to wish that dreams might conjure to thy brain the form of him who burned with extacy.-Perhaps it was illusion, but methought my prayers were heard.

A silence of the grave ensued-I scarcely suffered the feverish breath to pass the portal of my lips. Again the sailor from above sang to the winds his tale.-A something inexpressible swelled my heart, and though, perhaps, the utterer of those sounds was not so exquisitely framed as me to feel the thrill of love, yet still he seemed to love; and that was in itself sufficient to excite the tenderest sympathy in the bo som of Chatelar.

Quitting my cabin, I ascended to the deck, and hailed the pilot of the night; at my approach he bowed respectfully.

"Friend," said I," that ditty once again, I "do entreat thee; for it hath charms to lull " me into quiet."

He sang the melancholy strain, which so vibrated on the thrilling chords of my soul, that never have the words escaped me; they ran as follows, and the ditty in responsive sadness breathed what the poet told.—

THE SAILOR'S DITTY.

TELL ye winds, that bleakly blow,
All the damsel's tale of woe;
Tell, thou deadly yawning main,
All the love sick sailor's pain;
Let each plaintive accent prove
Marg❜ret's truth and Henry's love.
Myrtles blighted,

Loves benighted,

For the willow

Shades their pillow,

Sadly moans the turtle-dove.

Hush, I hear the hollow wind
Breathe the truth of Marg'ret's mind;
Hark, the dashing waves impart
Henry's fervent, faithful heart:
Winds and waves in union prove
Matchless truth and ardent love.

Myrtles blighted,
Loves benighted,

For the willow

Shades their pillow,

Sadly moans the turtle-dove,

Sailor-youth the main you cross'd,

Oft by raging billows toss'd;
Gentle maid unseen you sigh'd,

Languish'd, pin'd, and love-sick died;

While thy Henry's struggling breath
Bless'd thee in a watʼry death.

Myrtles blighted,

Loves benighted,

For the willow

Shades their pillow,

Sadly moans the turtle-dove.

The moon in pale majesty rode through the dark ethereous expanse, and the stars in glittering lustre bespangled the firmament around; it seemed, indeed, as if the elements combined to rock the slumbers of bright beauty's queen, and sooth her into sweet forgetfulness.

The last sad note of the seaman's strain faded on the breeze of night, while still entranc'd I wished for more.-There is in music, to the soul of love, a stealing softness, that preying on the senses lulls them into melancholy.-The tear was in my eye; thy name, Oh Mary! trembled on my tongue.

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"Friend," said I, "where learnedst thou "that little soothing ditty, and who attuned thy voice to keep such exquisite harmony; "thy trade is rugged, and ill seasoned to such "notes of tenderness and love?"

"A Norman youth am I," replied the sea" and the air is one of those well known

man,

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