I play'd a soft and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he woo'd
The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined; and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,

Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face.

But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade,

There came and look'd him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did,

He leap'd amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land!

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
And how she tended him in vain-
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain.

And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay.

His dying words-but when I reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; The music, and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,

Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight,

She blush'd with love, and virgin-shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved-she stepp'd aside,

As conscious of my look she stepp'dThen suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept.

I will this dreary blank of absence make
A noble task-time; and will therein strive
To follow excellence, and to o'ertake
More good than I have won since yet I
live.

So may this doomèd time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine;

So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine.

FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

HOW MANY TIMES.

How many times do I love thee, dear? Tell me how many thoughts there be

In the atmosphere

Of a new-fallen year,
Whose white and sable hours appear

The latest flake of Eternity;
So many times do I love thee, dear.
How many times do I love thee, again?
Tell me how many beads there are
In a silver chain

Of the evening rain, Unravelled from the tumbling main, And threading the eye of a yellow star; So how many times do I love, again.

THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.

FAIR INES.

Он, saw ye not fair Ines?

She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest:
She took our daylight with her,

The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.

Oh turn again, fair Ines,

Before the fall of night,

For fear the moon should shine alone,

And stars unrivall'd bright;

And blessed will the lover be

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier,
Who rode so gayly by thy side,
And whisper'd thee so near!

Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here,

That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines!

Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore; It would have been a beauteous dream, If it had been no more!

Alas, alas, fair Ines!

She went away with song,
With music waiting on her steps,

And shoutings of the throng;
But some were sad and felt no mirth,
But only music's wrong,

In sounds that sang, Farewell, farewell,
To her you've loved so long!

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines!
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,

Nor danced so light before;
Alas for pleasure on the sea,

And sorrow on the shore!

The smile that blest one lover's heart Has broken many more!

THOMAS HOOD.

HE CAME TOO LATE.

He came too late! Neglect had tried Her constancy too long;

Her love had yielded to her pride

And the deep sense of wrong.
She scorned the offering of a heart
Which lingered on its way
Till it could no delight impart,
Nor spread one cheering ray.

He came too late! At once he felt
That all his power was o'er;
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt-
She thought of him no more.
Anger and grief had passed away,

Her heart and thoughts were free; She met him, and her words were gayNo spell had Memory.

He came too late! The subtle chords Of love were all unbound,

Not by offence of spoken words,

But by the slights that wound.
She knew that life held nothing now
That could the past repay,
Yet she disdained his tardy vow,
And coldly turned away.

He came too late! Her countless dreams
Of hope had long since flown;

No charms dwelt in his chosen themes,

Nor in his whispered tone.

And when with word and smile he tried

Affection still to prove,

She nerved her heart with woman's pride, And spurned his fickle love.

ELIZABETH BOGART.

CUPID SWALLOWED.

T'OTHER day, as I was twining Roses, for a crown to dine in,

What, of all things, midst the heap,
Should I light on, fast asleep,
But the little desperate elf,
The tiny traitor,-Love himself!
By the wings I pinch'd him up
Like a bee, and in a cup

Of my wine I plunged and sank him;
And what d'ye think I did?-I drank him!
Faith, I thought him dead. Not he!
There he lives with tenfold glee;
And now this moment, with his wings
I feel him tickling my heart-strings.

LEIGH HUNT.

WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY.

OH waly waly up the bank,

And waly waly down the brae, And waly waly yon burn side,

Where I and my love were wont to gae.

I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty tree! But first it bow'd, and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lichtly me.

Oh waly waly gin love be bonny,
A little time while it is new;
But when its auld, it waxeth cauld,

And fades awa' like morning dew.
Oh wherefore shuld I busk my head?
Or wherefore shuld I kame my hair?
For my true love has me forsook,
And says he'll never lo'e me mair.

Now Arthur-seat sall be my bed,

The sheets sall ne'er be fyl'd by me: Saint Anton's well sall be my drink,

Since my true love has forsaken me. Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle death, whan wilt thou cum? For of my life I am wearìe.

Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,

Nor blawing snaws inclemencìe; 'Tis not sic cauld, that makes me cry,

But my loves heart grown cauld to me. When we came in by Glasgowe town, We were a comely sight to see, My love was cled in black velvet, And I my sell in cramasie.

But had I wist, before I kisst,

That love had been sae ill to win;

I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd,
And pinn'd it with a siller pin.
And, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurses knee,
And I my sell were dead and gane!
For a maid again Ise never be.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me-who knows how?-
To thy chamber-window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint.

On the dark, the silent streamThe champak odors fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must on thine, Beloved as thou art!

Oh lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

A ROMANCE OF THE AGE.

A poet writes to his friend. PLACE—A room in Wycombe Hall. TIME-Late in the evening.

And the palpitating engines snort in steam across her acres,

As they mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of the land.

There are none of England's daughters who can show a prouder presence; Upon princely suitors, praying, she has look'd in her disdain,

She was sprung of English nobles, I was born of English peasants;

What was I that I should love her, save for competence to pain?

I was only a poor poet, made for singing at her casement,

As the finches or the thrushes, while she thought of other things.

Oh, she walk'd so high above me, she appear'd to my abasement,

In her lovely silken murmur, like an angel clad in wings!

Many vassals bow before her as her carriage sweeps their door-ways; She has blest their little children, as a priest or queen were she:

Far too tender, or too cruel far, her smile upon the poor was,

For I thought it was the same smile which she used to smile on me.

would lean my spirit o'er you!

Down the purple of this chamber tears should scarcely run at will.

lovers in the palace,

And of all the fair court-ladies, few have jewels half as fine;

I bow my head before you:

You should lead me to my peasants, but

their faces are too still.

the red wine and the chalice: Oh, and what was I to love her? my beloved, my Geraldine!

proud and she is noble,

And she treads the crimson carpet, and she breathes the perfumed air,

And a kingly blood sends glances up, her princely eye to trouble,

And the shadow of a monarch's crown is soften'd in her hair.

born to poet-uses,

To love all things set above me, all of

good and all of fair.

Nymphs of mountain, not of valley, we are wont to call the Muses;

And in nympholeptic climbing, poets pass from mount to star.

has castles by the breakers,

She has farms and she has manors, she

can threaten and command,

public praised me,

With a critical deduction for the modern writer's fault,