Daring, reckless of the future,
        Conscience, shame, remorse.
      Earth despising, Heaven defying,
         I pursued my course.

      By my guileful arts sure working,
        Treachery, cold deceit,
      Soon I brought my sister's suitors
        Vanquish'd to my feet:

      Victims but to grace my triumph,
        On their necks to tread;
      What to me was love or rapture?
        I who scorn'd to wed!

      Till at length he came.  0! Nature,
        What a skill was thine,
      Out of worthless clay to fashion
        Creature so divine!

      Dower'd with grace and every virtue,
        Noble, gentle, grand,
      All my pulses thrill'd and quiver'd
        When he touch'd my hand.

      O what rage, disdain, and anguish
        In my bosom strove,
      When I knew he loved my sister,
        Answering to her love!

      Sleep forsook my bursting eyeballs.
        Tortures rack'd my brain;
      Nought remain'd 'twixt death and madness,
        Save his love to gain.

      Then the deadliest powers of evil
        To my call obey'd,
      Envy, hate, and malice, forging
        Slanders for mine aid.

      Demons in my bosom wrestling,
        Scheming night and day;
      Iron will at length prevailing,
        Iron fate gave way.

      In my bride-robes, at the altar,
        On my finger shone
      Golden circlet that betoken'd
        Me his chosen one.

      While my cup of dizzy transport
        Brimm'd and sparkled o'er,
      Ere I drain'd the draught delirious,
        Death stood at the door.

      Death, to claim my hapless sister;
        Happier she than I!
      Happy when the broken-hearted
        When despair, can die!

      White as lilies, cold as marble,
        In her shroud she lay;
      Blest oblivion!  how I envied
        The unconscious clay!

      Yet my impious soul, unbaffled,
        Stifled nature's cry;
      Bought at such a price, I dared not
        Let the prize go by.

      While earth's crown of love and glory
        Circled my vain head,
      I must live among the living.
        Let the dead be dead.

      Nothing to my selfish cravings
        To my matchless pride,
      To my never-resting, fretting
        Fancy, was denied.

      On from change to change I hurried,
        On from land to land,
      Till at length an arrow struck me
        From an unseen hand.

      Ay, and with an aim so secret,
        Subtle, sure, and dread,
      Scarce I knew the point had touch'd me
        Till the poison spread.

      Then upon my heart and spirits
        Fell an icy weight;
      'Mid the crowds that once adored me
        I stood desolate.

      Evermore a long black shadow
        On my pathway lay;
      Wheresoe'er I moved, the sunbeams
        Seem'd to slant away.

      Every hand I sought, shrank from me,
        As from touch of death;
      If I pluck'd a flower, it wither'd,
        Tainted by my breath.

      Through the festive crowds, ungreeted,
        Like the plague I pass'd,
      And with sudden gloom and terror
        Every soul o'ercast.

      Loved no more—and how unlovely!
        Speak! my soul's despair!
      Where were now the lips that praised me?
        Hearts that worshipp'd—where?

      Ev'n that one, for whose brief favour,
        Fond mad dream of bliss,
      I had plunged, past all forgiveness,
        Into guilt's abyss—

      When, with bitter cries, I sought him.
        Comfort, help, to crave,
      Even him I found lamenting
        On my sister's grave!

              GENII OF THE RING.

THE ring is a prize ring, and the genii are
pugilists.  The cabalistic signs and words used
by the latter; the magical effects produced and
the rapid changes effected on the human face
by the weird mysteries they practise; the strange
rites observed by them, their laws, penalties, and
rewards, have always had a painful fascination
for me.  I am pained that I can never hope to
be affiliated, and fascinated because the
fortunate beings whose attributes I covet are, by
virtue of their magic, endowed with strange
strength, skill, and hardihood, and are apparently
impervious to blows and shocks which would
stretch ordinary mortals lifeless on the ground.
As unlawful magicians they would be worth
studying, but it is as professors of a more or less
recognised art we have to consider them now.
Their hopes and fears, emotions, pleasures,
sorrows, cares—how far do they differ in these
from you and me, from the tradesman who sells
us beef and mutton, from the inventor of a new
piece of mechanism, from the painters of
pictures and the writers and readers of books?
Bent upon gauging this, I sought and obtained
an introduction to the editor of a journal (and let