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THE OLD COUPLE. T stands in a sunny meadow,

The house so sunny and brown, With its cumbrous old stone chimney

And the gray roof sloping down!

The trees fold their green arms around it,

The trees a century old; And the winds go chanting through them,

And the sunbeams drop their gold!

The cowslips spring in the marshes,

And the roses bloom on the hill; And beside the brook in the pasture

The herds go feeding at will.

The children have gone and left them;

They sit in the sun alone;
And the old wife's ears are failing,

As she harks to the well-known tone

That won her heart in girlhood,

That has soothed her in many a care, And praises her now for the brightness

Her old face used to wear.

She thinks again of her bridal

How, dressed in her robe of white, She stood by her gay young lover

In the morning's rosy light.

Oh! the morning is rosy as ever,

But the rose from her cheek has fled; And the sunshine still is golden,

But it falls on a silvered head.

And the girlhood dreams, once vanished,

Come back in her winter time, Till her feeble pulses tremble

With the thrill of springtime prime.

And looking forth from the window,

She thinks how the trees have grown, Since clad in her bridal whiteness,

She crossed the old doorstone.

Though dimmed her eye's bright azure

And dimmed her hair's young gold,
The love in her girlhood plighted
Has nev

zrown dim or old.

They sat their place in the sunshine

Till tr ay was almost done; And then its close, an angel

Stole over the threshold stone.

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tale :

ALLEN-A-DALE.

(From "Rokeby," Canto III.) A LAIEN-ADALLE has to fagot Corburimning, Ahenza: Bade was ne'er Shelted and night,

his be as sharp, his blade be Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,

as bright; Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, Come, read me my riddle ; come, hearken my Yet twenty bold yeomen will draw at his

word; And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. And the best of our nobles his bonnet will

vail, The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, Who at Rerecross on Stanmore meets Allen-aAnd he views his domains upon Arkindale Dale.

side, The mere for his net and the land for his Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; game,

The mother, she asked of his hou hold and The chase for the wild, and the park for the home;

• Though the castle of Richmond

nd fair Yet the tish of the lake, and the deer of the on the hill,

My hall," quoth bold Allen, "showy llanter Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale. still;

tame;

vale,

'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent Then think of the friend who once welcomed 80 pale,

it too, And all its bright spangles,” said Allen-a-Dale. And forgot his own grief to be happy with

you. The father was steel, and the mother was

His griefs may return, not a hope may remain stone;

Of the few that have brightened the pathway They lifted the latch, and they bade him be

of pain, gone;

But he ne'er will forget the short vision that But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their

threw cry;

Its enchantment around him, while lingering He had laughed on the lass with his bonny

with you. black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, And the youth it was told by was Allen-a- And still on that evening, when pleasure fills Dale.

up SIR WALTER SCOTT. To the highest top sparkle each heart and each

cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,

My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that GENEVIEVE.

night; AID of my love, sweet Genevieve! Shall join in your revels, your sports and l In beauty's light you glide along;

your wiles, Your eye is like the star of eve,

And return to me, beaming all o'er with your And sweet your voice as seraph's song ;

smiles; Yet not your heavenly beauty gives

Too blest, if it tell me, that mid the gay cheer This heart with passion soft to glow; Some kind voice had murmured, “I wish he Within your soul a voice there lives;

were here!" It bids you hear the tale of woe. When, sinking low, the sufferer wan

Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Beholds no hand outstretched to save,

Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot Fair as the bosom of the swan

destroy ; That rises graceful o'er the wave,

Which come in the night-time of sorrow and I've seen your breast with pity heave,

care, And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve.

And bring back the features that joy used to SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

wear ; Long, long be my heart with such memories

filled! 'FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER Like the vase, in which roses have once been

distilled, YOU WELCOME THE HOUR."

You may break, you may shatter the vase if

you will, the hour

But the scent of the roses will cling round it That awakens the night-song of mirth in your

still. bower,

THOMAS MOORE.

PAREWEL hol but whenever you welcome

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MORALITY IN ART. ORAL beauty is the basis of all true beauty. This foundation is somewhat veiled and covered in nature. Art brings it out, and gives it more transparent forms. It is here that art, when it knows well its power and resources, engages in a struggle with nature in which it may have the advantage.

VICTOR COUSIN.

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THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. THEY made her a grave too cold and And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, damp

And the coppersnake breathed in his ear, For a soul so warm and true;

Till he starting, cried, from his dream awake,
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal “Oh, when shall I see the dusky lake,
Swamp,

And the white canoe of my dear p”
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.

He saw the lake, and a meteor bright

Quick over its surface played ; “And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, “Welcome,” he said, “ my dear one's light!" And her paddle I soon shall hear;

And the dim shore echoed for many a night Long and loving our life shall be,

The name of the death-cold maid. And I'll bide the maid in a cypress tree, When the footstep of Death is near.” Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark

Which carried him off from the shore; Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds; Far, far he followed the meteor spark; His path was rugged and sore,

The winds were high, and the clouds were Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,

dark, Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, And the boat returned no more. And man never trod before.

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, And, when on earth he sunk to sleep,

This lover and maid so true
If slumber his eyelids knew,

Are seen at the hour of midnight damp
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp,
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep

And paddle their white canoe.
The flesh with blistering dew.

THOMAS MOORE.

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