“Be candid, Henry; whatever faults you have been guilty of, these last three years have expiated——”
“You know not the half of my rash acts,” passionately interrupted the young man; “you would both loathe and spurn me, were I to tell all; but I _will_ perform one just act. Miss Archer,” taking the miniature from his bosom, “here is the deity that has preserved me from sin, and before you stands the—robber!”
Both Mr. Archer and Emily were mute with surprise and amazement at this confession; but when they eagerly questioned him, and learned what he had to offer in extenuation, it is needless to say he was freely forgiven.
It is sufficient to add that Bradley recovered the major portion of his property, and as he gazes upon the generous and forgiving girl, who is now his bride, he invokes blessings on the being who, by the interposition of a Divine Providence, was the means of preserving him from the “gambler’s fate.”
“Oh! thou, that once was wedded to the sea— Queen of the Adriatic—where are thy glories now?”
Oh Death! thy palaces are here, Thy footsteps echo round, And chills the heart with nameless fear At that unearthly sound— And Venice, at thy outer gate, Sits widowed, bowed and desolate, A queen, yet all discrowned, With ashes heaped upon her head— A mother wailing for her dead!
It was not thus in ages past Oh! mistress of the sea, When to the wind thy banner cast Would rally forth the free— It was not thus when ev’ry shore From farthest Ind to Scylla bore Its richest gifts for thee— Nor thus when at Lepanti fell The fiery hordes of Ishmaël.
Thou saw’st proconsuls on the Rhone, The Gaul beyond the Rhine, The Cæsar on his eastern throne, The English Alfred’s line— Thou saw’st the first and last crusade And Florence in her shackles laid, And Rome all drunk with wine, And haughty Stamboul’s overthrow Before the blind old Dandolo.
Thou wast when Moslems ravaged Spain, Thou saw’st Grenada fall,— Thou wast when France received the Dane, When murder reigned in Gaul,— Thou wast before the Turk was known, When Huns were on the Roman throne, And England yet in thrall,— And still, as nations rose and died, Thy Titan front the world defied!
But now thou art all desolate, The very mock of fame, With nothing save thy fallen state, Thy ruins, and—a name. And silent are thy songs of mirth, Thy form is prostrate on the earth, Thy brow is white with shame— Oh God! a harlot in her woe! Did ever grandeur fall so low?