And think you, indeed, we so cheerfully part With hopes that give wings to the o’erwearied heart, And throw round the future a promise so bright That life seems a glory, and time a delight? From our pathway forlorn can we banish the dove, And yield, without pain, the enchantments of love? You know not how chill and relentless a wave Reflection will cast o’er the soul of the brave— How keenly the clear rays of duty will beam, And startle the heart from its passionate dream, To tear the fresh rose from the garland of youth, And lay it, with tears, on the altar of truth! We pass from the presence of beauty, to think— As the hunter will pause on the precipice brink— “For _me_ shall the bloom of the gladsome and fair Be wasted away by the fetters of care? Shall the old, peaceful nest, for my sake, be forgot, And the gentle and free know a wearisome lot? “By the tender appeal of that beauty, beware How you woo her thy desolate fortunes to share. O pluck not a lily so sheltered and sweet, And bear it not off from its genial retreat. Enriched with the boon thy existence would be, But hapless the fate that unites her to thee!” Thus, dearest, the spell that thy graces entwined, No fickle heart breaks, but a resolute mind; The pilgrim may turn from the shrine with a smile, Yet, believe me, his bosom is wrung all the while, And one thought alone lends a charm to the past— That his love conquered selfishness nobly at last. * * * * * DE PONTIS. A TALE OF RICHELIEU. BY THE AUTHOR OF “HENRI QUATRE; OR THE DAYS OF THE LEAGUE.” (Continued from page 68.) CHAPTER II. De Pontis was now despairing—it was evident Richelieu was in the highest displeasure at the disposal of the _droit d’aubaine_ without his knowledge—the cardinal’s seal was affixed to the ware-rooms, from which there had been removed only the royal present, and a few articles of minor value; and the king had at best but a negative power in protecting his old servant. The minister returned to Paris, and the veteran made two ineffectual attempts to gain another audience. “Ah! my old friend the Sieur De Pontis!” or the ominous “_serviteur très-humble!_” was all he gained by placing himself in the path of a man before whom the bravest quailed. An old campaigner, he would not abandon the contest; the royal word had been pledged that it would stand by the royal act; so Monsieur merely changed his tactics, acting on the defensive, and awaiting the issue with calmness; whilst Marguerite trembled and wept the day long, expecting each hour to see her father dragged to the Bastille.