passion of jealousy possesses me to such a degree, that notwithstanding all her merits, the bare idea of a rival makes me wretched. Every effort on my part, joined to the voice of reason, has never been able to eradicate this dreadful poison from my heart, and which I fear is incurable. If I yield to my penchant for her, and become her husband, instead of being a tender lover, of which she is so worthy, I should be a tyrant, whose frenzy would render her more miserable than myself. They press me to bring our union to a conclusion, they threaten me also with a rival, who without doubt deserves her more than I. How can I, miserable wretch that I am, how can I ward off the blow which threatens me? I flatter myself, at least, to have succeeded in my endeavours to conceal the vice of a heart which, although entirely her own, can never exterminate the miserable passion which possesses it. The time approaches with rapid strides when I must make up my mind. Good Heaven direct me! shall I risk making her unhappy? Can I resolve to see her the wife of another? Never, no never! rather let me die a hundred deaths...." This unfortunate youth had written no more, but it was sufficient to prove that he had sacrificed himself for the happiness of his mistress. _Album of Love_. * * * * * THE CRUSADER'S SONG. "Remember the Holy Sepulchre." Forget the land which gave ye birth-- Forget the womb that bore ye-- Forget each much-loved spot of earth-- Forget each dream of glory-- Forget the friends that by your side Stood firm as rocks unbroken-- Forget the late affianced bride, And every dear love token-- Forget the hope that in each breast Glow'd like a smould'ring ember-- But still the Holy Sepulchre, Remember! oh remember! Remember all the vows ye've sworn At holy Becket's altar-- Remember all the ills ye've borne, And scorn'd to shrink or falter-- Remember every laurel'd field, Which saw the Crescent waving-- Remember when compell'd to yield, Uncounted numbers braving: Remember these, remember too The cause ye strive for, ever; The Cross! the Holy Sepulchre! Forget--forget them never! By Him who in that Sepulchre Was laid in Death's cold keeping-- By Her who bore, who rear'd him. Her Who by that Cross sat weeping-- By those, whose blood so oft has cried Revenge for souls unshriven!-- By those, whose sacred precepts guide The path to yonder Heaven! From youth to age, from morn to eve From Spring-tide to December, The Holy Sepulchre of Christ Remember! oh remember! _Literary Remains of Henry Neele_. * * * * * A SERENADE.