the wind through the trees precluded the idea of sleep, and the thoughts of that stern man as he lay awake were aught but enviable. Within his bosom raged a storm, wild as that which howled without. The sins of his youth--the crimes of his manlier years--like fiends "no exorcism can bind," all flocked to his remembrance at that awful hour, and as his room shook, like Felix he, too, trembled, but like the Roman governor he bade conscience go its way this time, and at a more convenient season he would listen. Just then occurred one of those fitful pauses, as if the wind rested a moment to take breath, and regathered its strength for a still sterner effort. In that hush the moon broke forth from a gap in the flying clouds; and, looking calmly on the scene of terror, her beams kissed the raging waves of the flood that hurried by, and lit up the soldier's rough, weather-beaten features. It was then that the Earl first became aware he was not alone. Beside his couch stood a form in white--was it the vision of a troubled mind? was it some horrid dream? He rubbed his eyes--the figure still stood there, motionless as a statue! In an instant he recognized Augusta: he tried to speak--the words froze on his lips, and in speechless terror he gazed on the apparition. Hunger and distress had not robbed her eye of its light, nor her face of its strange beauty; but there was something weird in her glance,--something ghostly in her pale brow,--something unearthly in her whole appearance. Her hair was dishevelled by the wind, and dripping with the rain; her mantle torn and soiled; her small white foot bleeding and cut by the rough paths she had trod. She raised her hand to heaven, and her look was one of intense earnestness and beseeching woe, strangely blended with proud hauteur and offended majesty. She beheld him earnestly till another pause in the storm, and, in the hush that followed the blast, sung mournfully these lines:-- Unhappy! you deem you are safe; Secure in your ill-gotten towers, And the storms which around thee now chafe Shall sink with life's evening hours! You deem that in guerdon for this High mansions above shall be given, That yours is a lifetime of bliss, An endless rejoicing in heaven. You err, oh! how deeply you err! This night hath your dark doom been spoken; And vainly you strive to deter Heaven's vengeance, whose laws you have broken. And the portals of heaven are closed, And vain are the hopes that you cherish, Hopes in which you too long have reposed-- Your soul shall eternally perish! And not only this, but your sons Shall suffer in you, and your daughters, Their lives shall be desolate ones, Acquainted with suffering and slaughters; Cut off in the bloom of their youth, In the beautiful hour of life's morning, Oh! hearken--these tidings are truth, Oh! listen--and heed my dread warning.