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"And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble,

With an eye that takes the breath,—
And the lute he plays upon
Shall strike ladies into trouble,

As his sword strikes men to death,

"And the steed, it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure,

And the mane shall swim the wind!
And the hoofs, along the sod,
Shall flash onward in a pleasure,
Till the shepherds look behind.

"But my lover will not prize
All the glory that he rides in,
When he gazes in my face!
He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes
Build the shrine my soul abides in,
And I kneel here for thy grace!'

"Then, ay, then-he shall kneel low,-
With the red-roan steed anear him,
Which shall seem to understand-
Till I answer Rise and go!
For the world must love and fear him
Whom I gift with heart and hand.'

"Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With a yes I must not say

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Nathless, maiden-brave, Farewell,'

I will utter and dissemble

'Light to-morrow with to-day.'

"Then he will ride through the hills,
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong!
To make straight distorted wills,—
And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.

"Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain,

And kneel down beside my feet--
Lo! my master sends this gage,
Lady, for thy pity's counting!
What wilt thou exchange for it?"

"And the first time I will send
A white rosebud for a guerdon,—
And the second time, a glove!
But the third time-I may bend
From my pride, and answer-Pardon—
If he comes to take my love.'

"Then the young foot-page will run— Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee! 'I am a duke's eldest son! Thousand serfs do call me master, But, O Love, I love but thee!"

"He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me, as a lover,

Through the crowds that praise his deeds!
And, when soul-tied by one troth,

Unto him I will discover

That Swan's Nest among the reeds."

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gaily,

Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe-And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding by the stream light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads-
Past the boughs she stoops and stops!
Lo! the wild Swan had deserted-
And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow! If she found the lover ever,

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With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not! but I know
She could show him never-never,
That Swan's Nest among the reeds!

SONNET.

By DRUMMOND.

I KNOW that all beneath the moon decays,
And what by mortals in this world is brought
In time's great periods shall return to nought;
That fairest states have fatal nights and days.
I know that all the Muses' heavenly lays,
With toil of sprite, which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought.
That there is nothing lighter than vain praise.
I know frail beauty 's like the purple flower,
To which one morn oft birth and death affords;
That love a jarring is of mind's accords,

Where sense and will bring under reason's power :-
Know what I list, this all cannot me move,
But that, alas! I both must write and love.

THE EVENING HOUR.

One of the many beautiful passages scattered in BYRON'S Don Juan: gems in a black ground, which it is forbidden to the pure and good to approach. We are therefore doing a service by removing them where they can be seen and admired, without danger of contaminating by their contexts.

THE feast was over, the slaves gone,

The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired;

The Arab lore and poet's song were done,
And every sound of revelry expired;

The lady and her lover, left alone,

The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired ;

Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea,

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee!

Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer!

Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love!

Ave Maria! may our spirits dare

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! Ave Maria! oh that face so fair!

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty doveWhat though 'tis but a pictured image ?—strike— That painting is no idol,-'tis too like.

Sweet hour of twilight !-in the solitude
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood,
Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er,
To where the last Cæsarian fortress stood,

Evergreen forest! which Boccacio's lore

And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me,
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee!

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine,
And vesper bells that rose the boughs along;
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line,

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng
Which learn'd from this example not to fly
From a true lover,-shadow'd my mind's eye.

Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things-
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,
The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gather'd round us by the look of rest;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.

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Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns !

BIRDS IN SUMMER.

A pretty little poem by MARY HOWITT,-simple without being silly-one of the most difficult paths for an author to thread successfully. Here it has been done.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Flitting about in each leafy tree;
In the leafy tree, so broad and tall,
Like a green and beautiful palace-hall,
With its airy chambers, light and boon,
That open to sun, and stars, and moon,
That open unto the bright blue sky,
And the frolicsome winds as they wander by.

They have left their nests in the forest bough,
Those homes of delight they need not now;
And the young and the old they wander out,
And traverse their green world round about:
And hark! at the top of this leafy hall,
How one to the other they lovingly call;
"Come up, come up!" they seem to say,
"Where the topmost twigs in the breezes sway!

"Come up, come up, for the world is fair,

Where the merry leaves dance in the summer air !"
And the birds below give back the cry,

"We come, we come to the branches high!"

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,

Flitting about in a leafy tree;

And away through the air what joy to go,
And to look on the bright, green earth below.

How pleasant the life of a bird must be,
Skimming about on the breezy sea,

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