Twice, in the still hour of midnight, did I miss Auzella from my side. At first I heeded it not, but as thought pressed upon thought, my brain became maddened; horrible suspicions crept over me. Grasping my pistols, I fled from the castle, and, without one definite object, I strode hastily towards _that_ fatal spot. The same wild yells met my ear, and, by the clear blue flame, I beheld a scene of sickening horror!—while I think upon it, my brain becomes frenzied—but I must relieve the tortures of this breast by tracing my sum of misery. Aye! I beheld a motley group sitting around the fire, who, with shouts of laughter and demoniacal gestures, were tearing asunder a human frame, a fresh victim! There was a pause, when a voice arose upon the stillness that sent my blood curdling to my heart; I looked, and saw _my wife_, and by her side that stranger youth! Slowly I moved my hand towards my pistol, and, setting my teeth, grasped it firmly. Another voice rang through the air, and there sat Count Rudolph, the demon of the burning mountain; well did I remember, by that light, those unhallowed eyes and _that smile_. The glance was but momentary, for revenge was heaving my bosom almost to bursting. There sat the only object on earth that was dear to me; for _her_ I had bartered my _soul_, and there she was, in seeming fellowship with devils. Ages of misery were crowded in that moment. She turned, and smiled upon the beardless boy. Nature could endure no longer—I fired! Loud yells and horrid imprecations mingled with the thunder’s roar; one fierce scream was borne upon the blast, and, from the spot where sat Auzella, up rose a _vulture_! For a moment she hovered near me; I saw the crimson blood stream from its breast, and casting a look upon me, (which, by day and night, haunts the deepest spot in memory’s waste,) flapped her broad wings, and was soon lost in the impenetrable gloom. * * * * * Darkness fell upon me; reason was lost amid the breakers of despair. A wreck, deserted by Hope, within my heart is the torch of anguish, kindled at the funeral pile of Vice. E. * * * * * THOUGHTS IN SPRING. BY HENRY B. HIRST. It is the spring time. Varied flowers are sending Their new-born odors on the sighing breeze, The sun its brightness from the sky is lending, Flinging its kisses to the budding trees, And Nature, lovely Nature fair doth seem, As the creation of a poet’s dream. The robin’s mellow strain in wild notes gushes From the snow blossoms of the apple tree; The cat-bird’s scolding from the leafy bushes, The wren’s low music thrilling comes to me, Seeming the hymns of Nature freely given, As stainless offerings of its praise to Heaven.