arms, thank me with her own voice. How delicious the thought, to weep the full reward of her bosom !"

In rapturous expectation she counted the slow minutes, till the arrival of the dearly anticipated being was announced. When the hour did approach how high her heart beat-when the noise of a carriage pronounced the expected arrival. Macfarlane was present, and although she did not perceive that overwhelming expression of delight in his features, she thought he seemed restless and impatient. At length the door opened-she looked forward expecting to behold an aged matron, when a young and lovely female rushed into the room, and exclaiming Edward, threw herself in the arms of the young soldier. "It is his sister-his own sister-how I long to clasp her to my heart." The young lady had disengaged herself from the colonel's embrace, and as the happy enthusiast sprung forward to embrace her, with a firm and graceful spring, he in the same deep and tender tone that first won her heart, exclaimed, "Miss Flora Macdonald, my wife." "His wife !" she uttered with a piercing shriek. "His wife!" and gazing on him with a look fraught with love, astonishment, and despair, she fell on her face. He raised her up, but she was of a death-like chill and whiteness: the blue veins of her neck seemed as if starting from her skin; he called immediately for assistance, and in another moment she was covered with a crimson dye. Her father rushed in, and, calling for his child, was just in time to see the last ebb

of life departing-she had broken a blood vessel. For a moment her eyes beamed a brilliancy almost superhuman; she moved her lips, and at length feebly uttered, "Your forgiveness, dearest lady-one kiss, 'tis the first and the last. I have not wronged you." The agonized wife parted the clustering ringlets from the forehead of the dying girl; and as her lips pressed the chilly surface, she shrieked aloud. The father rushed forward, but the spirit of the injured one had filed to that home where the selfishness and insensibility of this cold earth cannot enter, and where purity of thought and goodness of heart will bloom, free from the withering blights of deceit and disappointed hope!

THE PIRATES OF ITHACA.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks---
They have a king who buys and sells ;
In native swords, in native ranks,

The only hope of courage dwells.

---------He was the mildest manner'd man
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat.
Vates irritabilis!

MY DEAR VLANTI!

PANHELLENIUS is no more! and Greece mourns the loss of one of the best and bravest of her patriotic sons. The worshippers of the prophet have indeed shed his blood, but the unquenchable spirit of liberty which he contributed so essentially to diffuse, will survive him; his brilliant example will fire, with irrepressible energy, the minds of the Greeks; his spirit will yet live to guide the councils and animate the exertions of his countrymen in their pious struggle to shake off the iron yoke of an intolerable bondage; and death, which has put a period to his splendid and auspicious career on earth, will encircle his memory with a bright halo of posthumous renown, and enregister his name in the roll of heroes, patriots,