"'Tis but to make a trial of our love!

And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed
But that she was not! Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived; and long mightst thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find--he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
"Why not remove it from its lurking place?"
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold!
All else had perished-save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,

66

Ginevra." There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever!

Rogers.

T

MEETING OF THE WATERS.

HERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters
meet;

Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of the valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal, and brightest of green;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh no!—it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,

Who made ev'ry dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world would cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace!

Moore.

I

THE HEART'S CHANGES.

ANTICIPATION.

WILL take the orchard path, she said,
Speaking lowly, smiling slowly;

The brook was dried within its bed,

The hot sun flung a flame of red
Low in the west, as fast she sped.

Across the dried brook's course she went,
Singing lowly, smiling slowly,
She scarcely saw the sun that spent
Its fiery force in swift descent,
She never saw the wheat was bent,

The grasses parched, the blossoms dried;
Singing lowly, smiling slowly;
Her eyes amid the drouth espied
A summer pleasaunce far and wide,
With roses and sweet violets pied.

B

DISAPPOINTMENT.

UT homeward coming all the way,
Sighing lowly, pacing slowly;

She knew the bent wheat withering lay,

She saw the blossoms' dry decay,

She missed the little brooklet's play.

A breeze had sprung from out the south,
Sighing lowly, pacing slowly;

She only felt the burning drouth,

Her eyes were hot, and parched her mouthYet sweet the wind blew from the south!

And when the wind brought welcome rain,
Sighing lowly, pacing slowly;
She never saw the lifting grain,
But only a lone orchard lane,
Where she had waited all in vain!

THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.

HE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,

ΤΗ And left the red clouds to preside o'er the

scene,

While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin',

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
How sweet is the briar, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom!
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain:
And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower of
Dumblane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening ;
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen :
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie !
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ;
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum-
blane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

Tannahill.

TH

THE MOSS ROSE.

HE angel of the flowers, one day, Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay; That spirit to whose charge 'tis given To bathe young buds in dews of heaven ;— Awaking from his light repose,

The angel whispered to the rose :
"O fondest object of my care,

Still fairest found, where all are fair;
For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me,
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee."

Then," said the rose, with deepened glow, "On me another grace bestow."

The spirit paused in silent thought,
What grace was there that flower had not?
'Twas but a moment-o'er the rose

A veil of moss the angel throws,
And robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that rose exceed?

I

THE BETTER LAND.

HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band,
Mother! oh, where is that radiant shore ?

Shall we not seek it and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle
boughs?

Not there; not there, my child.

Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,