His false alarms remember'd still. Love, now in earnest, fared but ill; For Leila in her heart could swear, As still he knock'd, "There's no one there." A single god, he then essay'd With single knocks to lure the maid-- With his single knock. Each passer-by, who watch'd the wight, Cried "Love, you won't lodge there to-night!" And love, while listening, half confess'd That all was dead in Leila's breast. Yet, lest that light heart only slept, Bold Love up to the casement crept-- With his tip, tap, tap. No answer;--"Well," cried Love, "I'll wait, And keep off Envy, Fear, and Hate; No other passion there shall dwell, If I'm shut out--why, here's a bell!" He rang; the ring made Leila start, And Love found lodgings in her heart-- With his magic ring. L. B. [Illustration: Designed Etched & Published by George Cruikshank May 1st 1841.] FRANK HEARTWELL; OR FIFTY YEARS AGO. BY BOWMAN TILLER. CHAPTER I. It was about half a century ago in the closing twilight of an autumnal evening at that period of the season when the falling of the sear and yellow leaves indicated the near approach of winter, that a lady was seated at work in one of those comfortable parlours which, as far as the memory of living man can go back, were at all times considered essential to an Englishman's ideas of enjoyment, and which certainly were not and are not to be found, approaching to the same degree of commodious perfection, in any other part of the world. By her side sat a beautiful boy some seven or eight years of age, whose dark glossy ringlets hung clustering down his shoulders over the broad and open white cambric collar of his shirt. His full and fair face bore the ripened bloom of ruddy health, and his large blue eyes, even though a child, were strongly expressive of tenderness and love. The lady herself was fair to look upon, possessing a placid cast of countenance which, whilst it invited esteem and confidence, calmly repelled impertinence or disrespect; her eyes, like those of her son, were mild and full, and meltingly blue, and through the shades of long dark lashes discoursed most eloquently the language of affectionate solicitude and fond regard; and it was impossible to look upon them, or be looked upon by them, without experiencing a glow of pleasure, warming and nourishing all the better feelings and purposes of the heart. In age she was twenty-six, but matronly anxiety gave her the appearance of being some two or three years older; her figure was faultless, and the tight sleeve of her gown fitting closely to her arm, and confined with a bracelet of black velvet at the wrist, displayed the form of a finely moulded limb; and the painter or the sculptor would have been proud to copy from so admirable a model.