Sad were the daughters of Allan Fitz-Henry—daughters whom not a peer in England but would have regarded as the brightest gems of his coronets, as the pride and ornament of his house; but whom, by a strange anomaly, their own father, full as he was of warm affections, and kindly inclinations, never looked upon but with a secret feeling of discontent and disappointment, that they were not other than they were: and with a half confessed conviction, that fair as they were, tender, and loving, graceful, accomplished, delicate and noble-minded, he could have borne to lay them both in the cold grave, so that a son could be given to the house, in exchange for their lost loveliness.
In outward demeanor, however, he was to his children all that a father should be; a little querulous at times, perhaps, and irritable, but fond, though not doting, and considerate; and I have wandered greatly from my intention, if any thing that I have said has been construed to signify that there existed the slightest estrangement between the father and his children—for had Allan Fitz-Henry but suspected the possibility of such a thing, he had torn the false pride, like a venomous weed, from his heart, and had been a wiser and a happier man. In his case it was the blindness of the heart that caused its partial hardness; but events were at hand, that should flood it with the clearest light, and melt it to more than woman's tenderness.
[To be continued.
SONNET TO GRAHAM.
On, in thy mission! 'T is a holy power
That which thou wieldest o'er a people's heart:
And wastes of mind, that never knew a flower,
Bloom now and brighten, 'neath thy magic art.
Hearthstones are cheerful that were chill before;
And softened beams, like light that melteth through
The stained glass of old cathedrals, pour
Stream upon stream of beauty. All that's true,
All that is brave and beautiful, 't is thine—
High office, high and holy! thus to shed,
Sun-like, and sole, in shadow or in shine,
Thoughts that bedew and rouse minds cold and dead,
Startling the pulse that stirred not. This is thine! Be proudly humble: 't is a power divine!
New Orleans, October 1, 1847.Altus.