And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart,—
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worms,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With scripture-stories from the life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor;-
That by the way, -it may be true or false,
But don't forget the picture; and you will not
When you have heard the tale they old me there.
She was an only child, - her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety.

Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
"T is but to make a trial of our love!"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'T was but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing, and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger,
But now, alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed,
But that she was not!

Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Donati lived, and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find,he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless, then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten,
When, on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 't was said

By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,

"Why not remove it from its lurking-place?' 'T was done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo! a skeleton

With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,

A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished, - -save a wedding ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both-
"Ginevra "

1

There then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever!

Conversion of the preceding Story into Prose.

THE LEGEND OF MODENA.*

In an elegant apartment of a palace overlooking the Reggio gate in Modena, which, about fifty years before, belonged to the noble family of Donati, but which now was occupied by a very distant branch of that illustrious race, sat the loveliest of its descendants- the beautiful Beatrice, the flower of Modena. Upon the marble table and embroidered ottomans before her, lay a variety of rich costumes, which her favorite attendant, Laura, was arranging where their rich folds fell most gracefully, and their bright tints mocked the rainbows hues of colored light; for the fair Beatrice was selecting a becoming attire for a masquerade ball, which was to be given during the gay season of the approaching Carnival. But a shadow of discontent rested on her brow, as she surveyed the splendid dresses-they were too common-place- and she turned from them with disdain. Suddenly her eye rested upon an antique picture, hanging on the tapestried wall, which represented a young and beautiful figure in the attitude of

"Inclining forward, as to speak,

Her lips half open and her finger up,

As though she said 'Beware! her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers and clapsed from head to foot,

An emerald stone in every golden clasp,

And on her brow a coronet of pearls.

Pushing aside the costly silks and velvets, she ran to look at the picture more closely. The lady's dress was perfect, she thought; it just suited her capricious taste, and one like it she determined to have and wear, at the approaching festival. In vain Laura expostulated, and the difficulty of obtaining such an antiquated costume was brought to her mind, and finally, the legend connected with the portrait was begun. But the wilful Beatrice would not listen, although a destiny, sad as that of the ill-fated lady of the portrait was predicted, if she persevered in her whim. Regardless of remonstrance, Beatrice proceeded to search among the finery of her ancestors for something to correspond with the dress which she determined to have, spite of all their old legends, which she

*This "Legend" was written by a young lady of about thirteen years of age, and presented as an exercise at the public school in this city, under the charge of the author.

did not believe. But she searched in vain, and she was returning through the gallery almost in despair, when her attention was attracted by an old

"Oaken chest half eaten by the worms,
And richly carved,"

which she thought might contain something suitable. Impatiently she waited, while her attendants lifted the mouldering cover, and then bent eagerly forward to look at its contents - - she shrieked and fell into the arms of Laura, a skeleton met her eye,

"With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,

A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.''

The legend of the unfortunate lady of the portrait was indeed true these were her remains. Beatrice was carried to her room, and a month passed before she recovered from a fever occasioned by the fright and excitement she experienced; and never again did she mingle in the dissipated circle of her native city. These scenes had lost their charms for the skeleton and its history continually presented themselves to her mind, reminding her, that "in the midst of life we are in death," and warning her to prepare for that change which must occur in the course of our existence. After a while, Beatrice lost these gloomy sensations, and became cheerful and happy in the performance of duty, and participated in those innocent amusements of life, which she enjoyed far better than those absorbing pleasures, which she used to admire. The old chest and portrait were placed carefully together, and Beatrice ever after wore the wedding ring and the seal inscribed with the name," Ginevra," which had been found among the other relics of the chest. She also wrote, for the perusal of her friends, the following story connected with the picture and its mouldering companion.

GINEVRA.

"And she indeed was beautiful,

A creature to behold with trembling 'midst our joy,
Lest ought unseen should waft the vision from us,
Leaving earth too dim without its brightness."

"The deep gold of eventide burned in the Italian sky," and the wind, passing through the orange groves and over the terraces which surrounded the palace of the Donati, mingled its soft, sweet sighs with the murmuring of the fountains, which sparkled in the moonbeams, occasionally sending a shower of spray over the waving foliage that shadowed them. At a window, overlooking this moon-lit scene, stood Ginevra, the only child of Donati, "the joy, the pride of an indulgent father." Indeed, her gentleness and sportiveness made her loved by all, and

"Her pranks, the favorite theme of every tongue."

She had seen but fifteen summers, and these had glided away like a fairy dream, and then

"Her face so lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart."

And there she stood, looking at those old familiar scenes, till a tear glit tered in her dark eye, and a shade of sadness rested on her fair brow, like a cloud shadowing her "sunny skies";-for, on the morrow, she was to part from her childhood's home, she was " to give her hand, with her heart in it," to Francesco Doria, a brave and handsome son of that noble family, whose name often occurs in the annals of Italy. Long did Ginevra linger at the window. "My only one." The voice was her father's, who, accompanied by Francesco, came to seek her; and there they remained, looking out on that lovely scene; and many were the joyous anticipations, the bright hopes, the dreams of happiness which mingled in their conversation, while Francesco plucked the white flowers from a vine which hung across the casement, and wreathed them in Ginevra's long dark curls. But a neighboring convent bell warned them to seek repose, and reluctantly they parted to dream of the morrow, which they fondly thought would bring with it the realization of their bright hopes.

The morn is up again, the dewy morn," and sunlight and dewdrops were weaving bright rainbow webs over shrub and flower, and the fresh morning breeze blew the vines across the marble pillars of the colonnade, which echoed with the merry voices, the gay laugh, and the light step of the proud and beautiful assemblage, collected to grace the wedding of Donati's lovely daughter. And lovely, indeed, did she appear among Italy's fairest children. Her dress of rich green velvet, clasped with emeralds, set in gold, the pearls shining among her dark curls, added to her loveliness, and made her appear the star of that bright company. Proudly and fondly her father and husband watched her graceful form, as she glided among the gay throng, receiving their congratulations as the bride of Francesco Doria. Nothing seemed wanting to complete their happiness. Mirth and festivity, the song and the dance, all lent their attractions and added to their felicity. Ah! did not that happy father and fond husband know that such happiness is not for earth?

"Fear ye the festal hour;

Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows!
Tame down the swelling heart! The bridal rose
And the rich myrtle's flower

Have veiled thee, Death!"'

Gaily the hours passed by; Genevra was all gaiety, half wild with excitement. As she passed Francesco, she whispered her intention of hiding, and challenged him and her gay associates to find her. Soon were they all in search of the fair bride, and merrily they proceeded through the lofty halls, the dark closets, and secret apartments of that spacious palace, which resounded with merry voices and laughter. Long they looked, but vainly; and, as the shades of evening stole over the scene, wearied and alarmed, nearly all the now dismayed guests retired to their homes, for Genevra was nowhere to be found. Donati and Francesco, half frantic, continued the search, which grew hourly more hopeless. Week after week, months passed away, but nothing was heard of the lost one. Francesco, weary of that life which was now deprived of all that endeared it to earth, joined the army of his countrymen,

66 And flung it away in battle with the Turk."

Donati still lingered around that home, so connected with the memory of her whom he idolized, who was now lost to him for ever;

"And long might you have seen,

An old man wandering, as in quest of something,
Something he could not find he knew not what."

And where was Ginevra? Half breathless with haste, she ran to an old gallery in the upper part of the palace, fancying her pursuers had almost overtaken her. As she hastily glanced round the dimly lighted gallery, in search of a hiding place, her eye rested on an oaken chest, beautifully carved and ornamented by a celebrated sculptor of Venice, which once held the robes of a prince of her illustrious race. Quick as thought, Ginevra exerted her strength to raise the cover. The chest easily held her fragile form. Trembling with joy and excitement, she heard the loved and well-known tones of Francesco's voice, who was foremost in pursuing her; when her hand, which held the cover ajar to admit the air, slipped and it fell, "fastening her down for ever." The chest was constructed, for greater security, with a spring, which locked as it was shut, and could only be opened by one outside touching a particular part of the curious workmanship. But, before Francesco reached the gallery, the lovely and unfortunate girl had ceased to breathe in that closely shut chest. Many times they passed the gallery, but they heeded not the hiding-place of the lost bride; which, alas! was destined to be her grave. No flowers could shed their perfumes over her grave, watered by the tears of those that loved her. Her fate was a mystery, and soon her memory passed away, like all the fleeting things of earth. And Donati, what had he to live for? In the beautiful language of Mrs. Hemans, he might have said,

"It is enough! mine eye no more of joy or splendor sees!

I go, since earth its flower hath lost, to join the bright and fair,

And call the grave a lovely place, for thou, my child, art there."

Examples for practice may be taken from any source which the teacher or the student may select.

XXV.

ANAGRAMS.

An anagram is the transposition of the letters of a word, or short sentence, so as to form another word, or phrase, with a different meaning. Thus, the letters which compose the word stone, may be arranged so as to form the words tones, notes, or seton; and, (taking j and v as duplicates of i and u,) the letters of the alphabet may be arranged so as to form the words Styx, Phlegm, quiz, frown'd and back.*

* Pilate's question to Jesus, "Quid est veritas?" (What is truth ?) has