I am going to the cottage, with its windows small and low, Where the sweetbrier twines its roses and the Guelder rose its snow. I will climb the thymy mountains where the pines in sturdy might Follow nature's holy bidding, growing ever to the light; Tracking down the leaping streamlet till the willows on it rise, Watch its broad and faithful bosom strive to mirror back the skies. Through the wicker gate at evening with my mother I will come, With a little book, the Poet's, to read low at set of sun. 'Tis a gloomy, broken record of a love poured forth in death, Generous, holy, and devoted, sung with panting, dying breath. By the grassy mound we'll read it where he calmly sleeps in God,-- My gushing tears may stream above--they cannot pierce the sod! Hand in hand we'll sit together by the lowly mossy grave-- Oh, God! I blazed with jewels, but the noble dared not save! I am going to the cottage, there to sculpture my own soul, Till it fill the high ideal of the Poet's glowing roll. * * * * * Stay, lovely dream! I waken! hear the clanking of my chain! Feel a hopeless vow is on me--I can ne'er be free again! His wife! I've sworn it truly! I must bear his freezing eye, Feel his blighting breath upon me while all nobler instincts die! Feel the Evil gain upon me as the weary moments glide, Till I hiss, a jewelled serpent, fit companion, at his side. Vain is struggle--vain is writhing--vain are sobs and stifled gasps-- I must wear my brilliant fetters though my life-blood stain their clasps! Hark! he calls! tear out the violets! quick! the diamonds in my hair! There's a ball to-night at Travers'--'tis his will I should be there. Splendid victim in his pageant, though my tortured head should ache, Yet I must be brilliant, joyous, if my throbbing heart should break! I shudder! quick! my dress of rose, my tunic of point lace-- If fine enough, he will not read the anguish in my face! I know one place he dare not look--it is so still and deep-- He dare not lift the winding sheet that veils my last, long sleep! He dreads the dead! the coffin lid will shield me from his breath-- His eye no more will torture----Joy! I shall be free in death! Free to rest beside the Poet. He will shun the lowly grave: There my mother soon will join us, and the violets o'er us wave. THE SKEPTICS OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS.