He dares not seek the spot where first they met, Too dangerous for his only hope of rest, His strong, but fruitless effort to forget Those scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast; And yet the quiet beauty of the grove All plainly to his restless mind appears, Where, as the sun declined, he lov’d to rove With her, the first fond dream of early years. He sees the stream, beside whose brink they strayed, Engross’d in converse sweet of coming hours, And watch’d the rippling currents as they played, In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers: And the old willow, ’neath whose spreading shade She own’d her love—again her voice he hears, He starts—alas! the vision only fades To leave regretful pangs for early years. It was his idle vanity that changed The pure, deep feelings of her trusting heart, Whose faithful love, not even in thought had ranged, But worship’d him, from all the world apart; Now cold and altered is her beaming eye, And no fond hope his aching bosom cheers That she will shed one tear or breathe one sigh For him she lov’d so well in early years. He feels she scorns him with a bitter scorn, He questions not the justice of his fate, For long had she his selfish caprice borne, And wounded pride first taught her how to hate. Oh! ye who cast away a heart’s deep love, Remember, ere affection disappears, That keen reproachful throbs your soul may move Like his who lives to mourn life’s early years. * * * * * SHAKSPEARE. BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC. NO. VII.—MACBETH. A few more words on Macbeth as a work of art. There is a scene so trifling that, to such as are not prepared to look for meaning in our poet’s lightest word, it might seem almost superfluous. The “noble Macbeth” has returned from the battle where his victorious arm has saved his king and country. His heart is opened by the dangerous influence of prosperity, amid the high-beating joys of which the enemy of mankind has insinuated hopes of a deeper, more audacious, and guilty nature; but as yet they are but as hidden serpents beneath the flowers. The two scenes of the witches have been thrown in—like sublime strains of music from which an opera is to take its character, chilling the mind with vague and startling apprehensions. All this is done with a few strokes from the terrible master-hand.