Velasque did die. Foiled in his chief design, his spirits sunk, and he had not sufficient energy to counteract the effects of his wounds, which soon terminated his existence. Velasque being the only witness against the outlaw, and no one appearing to prosecute the case farther, he might have been discharged; but a new suit was instituted by those who had accompanied Velasque, charging him with the murder of the Mexican. He possessed no evidence to countervail the accusation. A stranger in a strange land, a condemned pirate immured in a prison, he had not heard that his daughter was yet alive. The popular feeling was against him. Clermont, who, being busy and remote, and also too fearful of the guilt of Herraras in respect to piracy, had not interested himself to learn what was transpiring, did not arrive at the court, till the evidence on the part of the state had been received. He was admitted to manage the defense. He called only one witness, the lovely daughter of the prisoner. As the hard-visaged outlaw met his child, the living from the dead, and held her in his embrace, his iron soul seemed to melt, and flow out at his eyes; a sight that turned the sympathies of the spectators in his favor. Almirena’s story was simple, and touching, in manifestation of the villainy of Velasque. Clermont conducted the case, to him, and all, now most intensely interesting, by an ingenious and manly argument in point of the prisoner’s having acted in defense of himself, and of the honor of his daughter. The outlaw was acquitted. Herraras cheerfully yielded his daughter to his noble deliverer, her devoted lover; stipulating only that he might love her yet, for the sake of her mother. In tranquillity, and penitence for early misdeeds, the outlaw passed his days. Clermont, under another name, has arisen to distinction; but yearly does he revisit with his still beautiful Mexican wife, the lake of their romantic loves. I WOULD NOT FLATTER THEE. Lady, I would not flatter thee--oh no! For ’tis unkind to foster earth-born vanity, And he doth err that wishes to bestow An extra share of it on weak humanity. Yet, on reflection, sure I do not know That I should be suspected of insanity, Were I to call thee--as I truly might-- Beautiful, aye, beautiful as a form of light. Beautiful--and saying it, I tell no lie, Though tried by Madam Opie’s strict ordeal-- Beautiful--if soft, soul-beaming eye, And form as graceful as the beau-ideal The sculptor carved his Cnidian Venus by, And features blooming, not with cochineal, But with such hues as Fancy would fain cull From Angel’s cheeks--if such as these be beautiful.