Very different was the fate of the lovers, whom man could no more harm or separate. They were honored, under the sanction of Alphonso, with a gorgeous funeral procession. They were laid together, in the same tomb, before the church of Perpignan, and their names and cruel history were duly engraven upon the stone raised to their memory. According the Provençal historians, it was afterward a custom with the knights of Roussillon, of Cerdagne, and of Narbonnois, every year to join with the noble dames and ladies of the same places, in a solemn service, in memory of Marguerite of Roussillon, and William of Cabestaign. At the same time came lovers of both sexes, on a pilgrimage to their tomb, where they prayed for the repose of their souls. The anniversary of this service was instituted by Alphonso. We may add that romance has more than once seized upon this tragic history, out of which to weave her fictions. Boccaccio has found in it the material for one of the stories of the Decameron, in which, however, while perverting history, he has done but little to merit the gratulation of Art. He has failed equally to do justice to himself, and to his melancholy subject. * * * * * SONNET.—TO MARY M. R. W. Both when the morning and the evening dews Moisten the earth, I pray thee, lady, seek Some lofty hill, whence many a swelling peak May be descried far in the distance. Views Like these shall tune thy spirit, and infuse Thoughts worthy of immortal life: thy cheek Shall glow with rosier healthfulness; thy meek And dove-like eyes shall drink in tints and hues Like those of heaven; and when the magic play Of colors, shifting o’er the mountain-side, Has mingled with thy fancy; when the ray Of rising or of setting sun has dyed Thy inmost soul with splendor—come away— For then thou shalt be almost deified. T. E. V. B. * * * * * THE LAST TILT. BY HENRY B. HIRST. At twilight, through the shadow, fled An ancient, war-worn knight, Arrayed in steel, from head to heel, And on a steed of white; And, in the knight’s despite, The horse pursued his flight: For the old man’s cheek was pale, And his hands strove at the rein, With the clutch of frenzied pain; And his courser’s streaming mane Swept, disheveled, on the gale. _“Dong—dong!” And the sound of a bell_ _Went wailing away over meadow and mere—_“Seven!” _Counted aloud by the sentinel clock_ _On the turret of Time; and the regular beat_ _Of his echoing feet_ _Fell—like lead—on the ear—_ _As he left the dead Hour on its desolate bier._