And while she bless'd his name, her smile "No fears could damp; I reach'd the camp, Sought out its champion; And if my broad sword fail'd at last, 'Twas long and well laid on. "This wound's my meed, my name's Kinghorn, My foe's the Ritter Bann.". The wafer to his lips was borne, "He died not till you went to fight The Turks at Warradein; But I see my tale has changed you pale."— And brought a little page, who pour'd The stunn'd knight saw himself restored And stoop'd and caught him to his breast, And with a shower of kisses press'd "And where went Jane?"-"To a nunnery, SirLook not again so pale Kinghorn's old dame grew harsh to her." "And has she ta'en the veil?" "Sit down, Sir," said the priest, "I bar Rash words."-They sat all three, And the boy play'd with the knight's broad star, As he kept him on his knee. "Think ere you ask her dwelling-place," The abbot further said; "Time draws a veil o'er beauty's face "Grief may have made her what you can The priest undid two doors that hid One moment may with bliss repay Such was the throb and mutual sob THE HARPER. On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as 1; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey, And he lick'd me for kindness-my poor dog Tray. Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case, Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? SONG. TO THE EVENING STAR. STAR that bringest home the bee, If any star shed peace, 'tis thou, That send'st it from above, Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard, Star of love's soft interviews, Of thrilling vows thou art, Too delicious to be riven By absence from the heart. SONG. "MEN OF ENGLAND." MEN of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on land and flood: By the foes ye've fought uncounted, If the patriotism of your fathers What are monuments of bravery, Pageants!-Let the world revere us, Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Worth a hundred Azincours! We're the sons of sires that baffled THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. NEVER wedding, ever wooing, All my life with sorrow strewing, Rivals banish'd, bosoms plighted, Still our days are disunited; |