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From The St. James' Magazine,

PROPERZIA ROSSI.

Properzia Rossi, a femalo artist, celebrated for her misfortunes, though more for her proficiency in sculpture, painting, and music, dicd of a broken heart, just ay Pope Clement VII. had invited her to Rome, to show his admiration for her masterpiece in the church of San Petronio at Bologna.

Too late-oh, far too late! Praise comes in vain
To lull the fever'd agonies of pain.
I am no more the artist idly proud,
But the gaunt mortal waiting for a shroud.
No more the songstress, whose impassioned lay
O'er taste and feeling held unrivalld sway ;
But a weak woman, desolate and worn,
Her pulses throbbing, and ber heart-strings torn,
Looking above-sad, humbled, and alone-
Where mercy dwells with Jesus on his throne-
Ay, fondly hoping for one smile of light
From the meek Man of sorrows and of might,
Who from sin's thrall is powerful to save,
Died on the cross, and triumph'd o'er the grave !

What though the light of genius fired mine eye,
That radiant meteor leaves us when we die,
And conscience whispers that the gifts of heaven
Were oft misused. I thirst to be forgiven,
Panting I turn from streams once deeply quaff d,
And crave the Rock's sole vivifying draught !
Ay, as I kneel and supplicate for grace,
I veil in lowliness my tear-bathed face ;
Implore for pardon with intense distress,
And spurn the gauds of earthly happiness!
Oh, what avails it that aerial forms,
And colors vivid as the bow of storms,
Hang o'er my fancy with bewitching spell ?
Say, have I used these varied talents well ?
Oh, what avails it that my hands would mould
Beautiful models from the marble cold ?
Have the rich sculptures in the hallow'd fane
Brought one soil'd spirit to her God again ?-
Recalsd a virtuous feeling to the heart,
And by religion consecrated art?
Have the fair features and bright hues I wove
In one dark breast illumed the spark of love ?
Or lured the soul from sin's deceptious toys
To pure devotion's memorable joys ?
Oh, have the gifts of music and of song
Soothed one sad being of the human throng ?--
Angelic thoughts-submissive, hopeful, kind
Breathed o'er a mournful or a shatter'd mind ?
And has my genius, with a potent sway,
Gilded the road to heaven--that straight and narrow way?

God has been very bounteous ; he has given
Much to enhance the blessedness of heaven.
The threefold cords* of talismanic power
Were meant to yield employment for the hour-
Life's potent hour of labor, want, and pain-
Brief as the April drops of sunny rain ;
And yet by mercy recompensed above,
If well improved in hope, and faith, and love.
But conscience whispers, and in these dark days
That voice grows louder as my strength decay8,-
Of wasted talents, of forgotten crime,
And of a judgment awfully sublime!
Of duties unfulfilld, of gifts misspent,
Of future pangs, of fitting punishment!
I muse no longer on the present-no-

My life is with the future or the past,
And both are mingling in a magic flow,

Like turbid waters in a fountain cast.
The past-oh, whether fair, or dark, or both,

Is but a picture mirror'd on the wave.
The moral sicknesses—guile, anger, sloth-

Arise as spectres from a yawning grave; What boots it that misfortune paled my cheek,

That penury and pain obscured my way?
Sorrow is voiceless ; 'tis remorse that speaks

In awful tones of merited decay,
And of the worm that dieth not-the vale

Of never-ending, stil-beginning death.
Methinks I hear the harsh, continuous wail,

The sobs and catchings of convulsive breath. Guilt unatoned for—thoughts and words of sin

How do they rise up, burning as on glass ! The evil pent the wishful heart within

Asking for rengeance ! O the hideous mass Of wickedness heap'd up, long, long conceald! But now as by a lightning flash reveald.

Woe! woe! the Eternal Judge's fiery dart

Hath pierced the labyrinthine cells within, Where underneath the pulses of my heart

Dwells the mysterious forın of crouching sin. Thoughts, banetul wishes,ay, as well as deeds,

Against me in strong phalanx are arrava.
In vain these tears—in vain this bosom bleeds :

I look upon myself, and am dismay'd,
Powerless, and weak, and agonized I cry,
And hear the worls, “ Lost sinner, thou must die ! *
Clouds roll around me, and from an abras

Drear, dark, profound, behold a hii. was forin! Closer and closer serpents coiling hiss And thunders bow along a sty of storm.

• Xusle, palatins, seeptar

There is no deed to offer thee of good,

Thou mocking fiend! laugh on without restraint !
I seem as borne along a sulphurous flood,

Too meteorically wild to paint.
The couch heares under me, my sight is gone,
I am with the accuser, and alone !

Alone ! alone! O tell me not ’tis so, .
That I must grapple powerless with the foe.
Jesus, thou Lamb of God, arise! arise!
Arrest these doubts, these daring blasphemies.
It was for sinners thou didst shed thy blood,
For guilty mortals, not for angels' good.
Listen! attend ! a sinner asks for aid,
For me that blood was spilt, for me thou wast betrayed.

As when a night of storms has sped away,
And robed in florid hues appears the day,
Stealingly, gently lighting up the skies
With gleams, as from a seraph's smiling eyes,
Thus o'er my spirit breeds a gracious calm,
O'er my deep wounds is pour'd a healing balm.
Methinks the mild Redeemer stands above,
And pleads his righteousness, his cross, his love ;
While angels' voices wafted straight from heaven
Proclaim, “ Thy Savior calls ! thou art forgiven!”

From The Hibernian Magazine.

THE CAPUCHIN OF BRUGES.

* Three monks,sat by a bogwood fire

Bare were their crowns, and their garments grey,
Close sat they by that bogwood fire,
Watching the wicket till break of day."

BALLAD POETRY.

SAVING the color of their garments, the days of Cæsar, were shaded by which, instead of grey, were of a dark the dense forests of Flanders, three brown, and the omission of any allu- lay-brothers of the order kept watch sion to their long flowing beards, the for any wayfarer that inight require above lines convey as accurate an idea hospitality or information on the as any words could of the parties that evening in question. Their content occupied the spacious guest-chamber stood—and a portion of it still stands of the Capuchin convent of Bruges on at the southern extremity or in the last night of October, 1708. town, close beside the present railway

Seated round the capacious hearth, station. But Bruges was not, a cenon which, without aid of grate, cheer- tury and a half ago, what it is tofully blazed a pile of dark gnarled day. War, and the recent decline of logs dug up from the fens, which, in its ancient commerce, rendered it, at the period of which we write, any- followed quickly by the ringing of the thing but a safe or attractive locality stranger's bell, at length announced for either tourist or commercial tray- the arrival of some guest. In an ineller to visit. There was no “ Hotel stant, the old man let his beads fall to de Flandre,” or “Fleur de Blé," or their accustomed place by his sideeven “ Singe d'Or," for the weary for the rule of St. Francis gave charitinerant to seek refreshment or lodg- ity toward the neighbor a first place ing. Neither were there gens-d'armes among its spiritual observances and in the streets, nor affable shopkeepers hastened, as eagerly as his younger in their gas-lit magasins, as at pres- brothers, to admit the poor traveller, ent, to whom the benighted stranger who must be sore distrait, on such an might apply for information regarding awful night. the locality in which his friends resid- Lighting a lantern, they proceeded ed. The convents and monasteries, through the court to the outer porch, however, with which Belgium was and drawing back the slide that corthen, as now, studded, were ever open ered a small grated aperture in the to the traveller, be his rank or condi- wicket, demanded who the wayfarer tion what it might, and pre-eminent might be. The gleam of the lamp for their hospitality were the Capu- fell upon the uniforms of two military chin fathers.

men, who seemed engaged in supportThe night was a wild one; and the ing a third between them, while their dying blasts of October seemed bent horses stood neighing in terror, and on a vigorous struggle ere they ex- pawing the ground beside them. In pired.

a second the gate was unbarred, and “What an awful storm !” exclaim- three of Vendome's troopers entered ed Brother Anselm, rising to secure the court-yard; two of them still supthe huge oak window shutters that porting their comrade, who had been seemed, as if in terror, every moment badly wounded in a skirmish with ready to start from their strong iron Marlborough’s troops, near Audenfastenings.

arde, that morning. Leaving Anselm “ God preserve us ! but 'tis fearful,” with the two other soldiers to look replied one of his companions, Brother after the horses, brothers Francis and Bonaventure, “and what dreadful Bonaventure led the wounded man lightning!”

into the convent. He seemed weak Peal after peal of thunder resound- and faint; but the cheerful blaze of ed through the spacious hall and ad- the fire, and the refreshment speedily joining corridors; and then, again, administered by the good brothers, came the wind beating the rain, in tor- soon restored him somewhat, though rents, against door and casement, and he still suffered acutely from his completely drowning the chimes of the wound, and was utterly unable to Carillon, though the market-place, stand without the aid of support where the belfry stood, was close For the first time Brother Francis beside them. Still not a word es- broke silence. From the moment he caped their third companion, Brother caught a distinct view of the stranFrancis, a venerable old man who sat ger's face, as he sat in the light of the nearer than his younger brethren to fire, his gaze seemed riveted upon the ample fireplace. He continued him; and an observer might have nosilently reciting “ Ave” after “ Ave” ticed the old man's lip quiver and his on the beads of the large rosary at face grow paler, might have even obtached to his girdle, and seemed, in served a tear steal down his cheek, as the excess of his devotion, utterly un- he continued for a while to gaze in conscious of the storm that howled silence on the pallid features of the without.

young soldier. At length he adA loud knocking at the outer gate, dressed him, not in French or Flem

ish, but in a language which to Broth- Toward midnight the old man ree er Bonaventure was foreign.

vived, and his first inquiry was for the The stranger's face brightened at young soldier. He now embraced the sound of his own tongue, and he him, and, as he pressed him again and readily made answer to the few hur- again to his heart, with tears and ried questions put him by the old blessings called him “ his son,” “ his monk. Their conversation was of dear child.” Brothers Anselm and very brief duration; but its result Bonaventure looked at each other in seemed astounding. For when An- mute astonishment. They feared that selm returned with the soldiers, he their dear old friend, the patriarch of found Bonaventure and the stranger the lay-brothers, was losing his reachating the old man's temples as he lay son. They knew that, for thirty in a swoon on the bench before them. years at least, he had been an inmate

To their inquiries as to the cause of of the cloister, while the party whom this strange occurrence, Anselm could he thus lovingly called his son could give no definite answer. All he knew at furthest number twenty birthdays, was, that although he could not under- if indeed he could count so many. stand what passed between Brother Still greater, however, was their surFrancis and their comrade, the con- prise, when, on a closer scrutiny, they versation seemed to produce a won could not fail to observe a marked famderful effect on the former. He trem- ily likeness between their aged brothbled from head to foot, and then er and the individual on whom all his smiled, and seemed about to grasp the affections seemed now centred. stranger in his arms, when he sud- But this was no time for the induldenly fell back on the bench as they gence of curiosity. The two troopers, now saw him. The young soldier drenched and travel-stained, must be he was almost a boy, and strikingly attended to, and the wound of their handsome — was equally puzzled. comrade looked after. Fortunately Brother Francis had merely asked their convent numbered among its inhim if he were Irish; and when he mates one of the best leeches in all answered “Yes ;"—if his name was West Flanders. He had been Herbert, and if it was Gerald Her- already summoned to the aid of bert, and if his father and grandfather Brother Francis, and now that he no were Irish ;-and when he replied longer required his services, he dithat his name was Gerald Walter rected his attention to the other invaHerbert, and that his grandfather was lid, whose case seemed the less urgent not Irish, but English, the old man of the two. In a short time his skilmattered something which he could ful hand extracted a spent ball from not catch, and fainted. That was all the sufferer's knee, and, by the applihe could tell them ; but what that had cation of a soothing poultice, restored to do with Brother Francis's fit still him to comparative ease. Nor were remained a mystery

Brothers Anselm and Bonaventure For a considerable time the aged idle meanwhile. Piles of well-butmonk lay senseless and almost motion- tered tartines made of wholemeal less, the only symptoms of animation bread baked in the convent, with plenhe presented being those afforded by tiful dishes of rashers and omelets, the convulsive throbbing of his heart, and a flagon or two of foaming Louand an occasional deep-drawn sigh. vain beer, soon covered the table. His brothers seemed deeply afflicted, Cold meats, too, of various kinds, and sought by every means in their were served up in abundance ; and power to restore him; for Francis, the two dragoons were soon busily enthough few knew anything of his his. gaged in satisfying appetites good at tory, was, notwithstanding, the favor- all times, but now considerably sharpite of the whole community.

ened by a hard ride and a long fast.

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