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veracity, and terrified by the dangers which she began to apprehend, Prascovia prayed inwardly to God to assist her, and strove to repress her tears. She had for her supper a few potatoes and, when she had eaten them, the woman advised her to go to sleep. Having begun to suspect the honesty of her hosts, she would gladly have given them all her money, if she could have left their house. She threw off a part of her garment, before she ascended the stove, where she was to spend the night, and left at the disposal of her room-mates her sack and pockets, expecting that they would count her money, without farther affronting her personally. When they supposed that she was asleep, they proceeded to the examination of her things. Prascovia could hear their half articulate conversation. "She has surely more money about her," said they-" perhaps bank-notes." I saw," answered the woman, a ribbon on her neck, supporting a small bag, where she probably keeps her money." This bag, of gummed silk, contained her passport, which she never parted with. The conversation between the hosts continued in a lower tone, and the few words, which Prascovia could hear, were ill calculated to lull her into sleep. "No one saw her come into the house; nobody knows even that she entered the village." The voices became then less audible, and soon they were entirely silent. Prascovia anticipating all the horrors which her alarmed imagination brought before her mind, felt, on a sudden, the head of the wretched old creature, who was mounting the stove. With anguish she prayed aloud for her life; she protested anew, gaspingly, that she had no money; but the hostess, instead of replying, examined her clothes, and took off her boots. The man brought a light-both searched the bag containing the passport; they obliged her to open her hands, and when they found all fruitless, they descended and left the poor girl more dead than alive.

This terrifying scene, and the dread of what might follow, prevented her for some time from closing her eyes; but when she became assured, by the snoring of her hosts, that they were asleep, she recovered by degrees her usual tranquillity of mind, and her lassitude being probably greater than the fears which still agitated her, she fell at last into a tranquil sleep. It was late in the morning when the hostess awoke her, Prascovia left the stove, and could not help being astonished

at the composure and seeming benevolence of both her hosts. Yet she would gladly have left them immediately; but they begged her to eat something, before she continued her journey. The woman set herself to work, and showed far more activity than on the preceding evening. She took out of the oven a pot of soup, with salt meat and cabbage, of which she presented to Prascovia a plentiful portion: her husband was not less prompt, and, descending into a sort of cellar, beneath the floor, and covered with a trap-door, brought up a bucket of kvas, (a liquor made of wheat-flour,) and offered her a full pitcher. Somewhat tranquillized by these attentions, she replied readily to their inquiries, and told them a part of her story. They seemed to take interest in her situation; and, anxious to apologise for their previous behaviour, they protested that they had no other reason for inquiring whether she had money, than because they suspected that she was a thief. She would see, added they, by examining her bag, that, as to themselves, there was no cause to doubt their honesty. Prascovia, on taking leave, was not quite sure what to think of them, but was glad to bid them farewell.

(To be continued.)

MY LUTE AND SONG FOR THEE.

BY JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA, ESQ.

Say--say if time can fling,

A brighter moment here,

Than when we wake the lute and sing,

The soul to woman's ear;

Than when we kneel before,

Her universal shrine,

And feel within the bosom's core

A bliss like this of mine.

Then come from lattice high,

And come from vigil-tower,

The wave is calm, the bark is nigh,

And silent is the hour,

Save, when around the lake,

Light lute and voices be;

Then come that I once more may wake
My lute and song for thee.

L. 29. 1.

I

THE FAIR THIEF.

BY THE EARL OF EGREMONT.

Before the urchin well could go,
She stole the whiteness of the snow;
And, more the whiteness to adorn,
She stole the blushes of the morn,-
Stole all the sweets that ether sheds
On primrose buds, or violet beds.
Still, to reveal her artful wiles,
She stole the graces' silken smiles;
She stole Aurora's balmy breath,
And pilfer'd Orient pearl for teeth;
The cherry, dipt in morning dew,
Gave moisture to her lips and hue.
These were her infant spoils,-a store
To which in time she added more:
At twelve, she stole from Cyprus' queen
Her air and love-commanding mien;
Stole Juno's dignity; and stole,
From Pallas, sense to charm the soul.

Apollo's wit was next her prey;
Her next, the beam that lights the day.
She sung;-amaz'd, the Syren's heard,
And, to assert their voice appeared.
She play'd;-the Muses from the hill,
Wonder'd who thus had stol'n their skill.
Great Jove approv'd her crimes and art,
And, t'other day, she stole my heart!
If lovers, Cupid, are thy care,
Exert thy vengeance on this fair;
To trial bring her stolen charms,
And let her prison be-my arms!

ON A LADY SLEEPING.

When for the world's repose, my Celia sleeps,
See Cupid hovers o'er the world,-and weeps.
Well may'st thou weep, fond boy, thy power dies,
Thou hast no darts, when Celia has no eyes.

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