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WRITTEN AT ROUEN.

The city of Rouen (formerly the capital of Normandy, the land of chivalry,) is one of the most extraordinary-looking old towns, in Europe. The extreme narrowness of its streets, and great elevation of its houses, with their overhanging upper-stories, give an appearance of heaviness and gloom to the town, that contrasts finely with the beauty of its situation. It is surrounded, on all sides, by heights, laid out in Boulevards; receiving first, and retaining last, the rays of the rising and setting sun; and affording magnificent panoramic views of the windings of the Seine. Its squares and streets are ornamented with fountains.

THE Seine is like a belt of gold,—

Beneath an autumn sky,

That floats, in many a crimson fold,

Like a banner hung on high!

The town sleeps, darkly, on the stream,—

Where lights and shadows play,

While wave on wave-like dream on dream

Smile, as they glide away!

And here I stand-as here I stood,

How many years ago!

When life danced onward, like the flood,

With music in its flow!

But now, my breast, like yonder dome,
Where sleeps the Lion-heart,

Is half a temple-half a tomb,

But has no earthly part!

My spirit keeps the trace - like thee,—

Of many a lost parade,—

Dreams of the soul's young chivalry,
Of many a wild crusade!

-Like thee, dark town!-like thee, in all

But thy many gushing fountains,

Yet, brightened, still, by lights that fall

From heaven,-like thy blue mountains!

* The heart of Richard, of England, is deposited in the Cathedral, at Rouen.

THE ASTROLOGER.

BY THE RIGHT HON. LORD PORCHESTER.

'Twas the still midnight hour!—from his cavern of dread,

The Astrologer watched o'er the vaults of the dead!
-That cavern so peopled with horrors,-that time
So dear to the children of wonder and crime !
Before the dark stranger, unbending, he stood,
And his gaze chilled the youthful adventurer's
blood!

Deep sunk were his eyes, yet shone piercing and bright,

With a lurid, and wild, and unnatural light!

His black, shaggy locks floated down to the floor!-
His years, they were numbered a hundred or more!
His garment was traced, both without and within,
With strange figures of anguish, contortion, and
sin!

-It sure was a gift from the rulers who dwell
In perdition, and worked by the demons in hell!-
A branch of the deadly yew-tree in his hand
He held, as a badge of unearthly command;

And slowly he lifted it thrice to the sky,
And enchanted the planets, revolving on high!
Then, that mystical sign o'er the pavement he drew,
That were impious to name, and was dreadful to
view!

"Speak! why hast thou sought the astrologer's cave?"

And his hollow voice rang like a call from the grave! "I know, dreadful spirit of darkness! to thee

The future is clear-as the past is to me ;

Am I doomed the stern cares of ambition to prove?— Shall I drink-as I drank-from the fountain of love ?"

"Can the fountain of love be renewed ?-Where is

she

Who roamed, at thy side, by the bright southern

sea,

Whose eye was as sparkling-whose spirit as freeWhose step was most blithe 'mid the light-hearted

throng,

And who charmed the mute group with her innocent song ?

And where is that loved one,-who, once, to thy

breast,

With the transport of wildest affection, was prest? How many long months on her lone couch she lay, In tears and in solitude wasting the day!

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