I lo’e ye for those tresses, lassie, That i’ bright jetty masses flow; I lo’e ye for that bosom, lassie, As white an’ fair as driven snow; I lo’e ye for those cheeks, my lassie, O’ sweetest tinge o’ rosy hue; An’ O, I lo’e ye, dearest lassie, For those twa cannie e’en o’ blue. I lo’e ye for that form, my lassie, Like to the deer’s, sae fit’ o’ grace; I lo’e ye for that smile, my lassie, That plays across thy charming face. But what I lo’e still more, my lassie, Is that which is worth mair to gain: It is the bonnie min’, my lassie, Which i’ gude truth ye ca’ your ain. S. * * * * * AUZELLA. A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS. “Absolution, father, for breath is fleeting fast,” cried the dying man, in a scarce audible voice. As the monk approached the bed, the sick man started from his pillow, and, with clenched hands and straining eyes, uttered, in a low, sepulchral tone, “Avaunt! avaunt, thou damning fiend! thine hour is not yet come. Oh, mercy! mercy!” His bosom heaved convulsively, the dew of agony gathered thick upon his brow, and, with a beseeching look, he pointed to the crucifix on the wall. “Confession alone can save you, my son. While there is yet time, relieve your bosom of its load of sin, and seek for pardon.” “_Too late!_ oh, lost forever! The hour approaches; come near.” Drawing from under his pillow a parchment, he placed it in the hands of the monk. “My confession, father; _now_, now, sign me with the cross.” Uttering a wild cry of anguish, the dying man, with desperate energy, flung himself towards the monk, and attempted to grasp the symbol of salvation. . . . . . A vivid, lurid gleam, followed by an astounding crash, mingled with horrid yells and piercing screams! When the monk was found by a lay brother, he still breathed, but unconscious of external objects, from which state he never recovered; the bed was empty, and the bedclothes lay in wild disorder, as if torn by a mighty struggle. In the hand of the prostrate monk was found a manuscript: THE CONFESSION OF THE LOST.