“Strike _him_ dead!—aye! but wait——” and her eyes flashed and her whole form seemed convulsed with demoniac passion—“wait till he enfolds her to his heart, as he has done _me_ so often—and kisses her—hell and furies! as he has kissed _me_ so many thousand times—_then_ strike him, mother—let him wither in her arms, like a dead viper, until they shall both sink in base, earthly corruption together. Mother! mother! grant me this, as you love your child!” On went the marriage feast—and never had Rhine’s blue waters wafted gayer notes or wilder revelry than echoed from the old baronial castle, where our young knight was immolating the beauteous dove that had nestled in his bosom on the altar of worldly pride and miscalled duty. But when the feast was over, and the bride was led blushing to her chamber, a strange thrill shot through the bosom of the knight as he was about to follow, and he almost staggered into the room. The bride, frightened at his convulsive motions, ran and put her naked arms about him, and he unconsciously leaned his head upon her bosom—when suddenly a terrific burst of thunder shook the castle to its foundation, and the face of the knight became livid and distorted—and, even as Undine had prayed, he withered away ghastily in his bride’s arms, and they both fell shrieking to the earth. The morning sun rose clear and beautiful over the old ivy crowned castle—but there were mourning and tears beneath that venerable roof; and when the sun slanted across the sighing forest tops at evening, they bore the young and noble knight to his peaceful home, and laid him to rest among the flowers of the green valley—and when all had departed with sorrowful footsteps from the spot, and the stealthy moon came with her bright limbs scantily clad in gauzy clouds, to meet her lover on the hill, she looked upon the celestial form of Undine, bending in sorrow and repentance o’er her lover’s grave—and the dew and the star-light mingling together, dissolved her frail and beautiful outline, until it mixed with the invisible odors that played above the flowers—and the next day there was bubbling a bright spring at the knight’s head, the waters of which, diverging into two graceful channels, clasped like loving arms the form of him Undine so fatally had loved. And now, thou beautiful spirit, farewell forever! In thy companionship have we found solace from the weight of mortality’s burthen—and while sympathising with thy unhappy and yet blissful fate, have learned to feel that to preserve an immortal nature, it is necessary to forget that we have mortal passions. * * * * * LINES TO A PORTRAIT. BY A. C. AINSWORTH.