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JOSEPHINE.

We did not meet in courtly hall,

Where Birth and Beauty throng,
Where Luxury holds festival,

And wit awakes the song ;
We met where darker spirits meet,

In the home of Sin and Shame,
Where Satan shows his cloven feet,

And hides his titled name;
And she knew she could not be, Love,

What once she might have been,
But she was kind to me, Love,

My pretty Josephine.

We did not part beneath the sky,

As warmer lovers part, Where Night conceals the glistening eye,

But not the throbbing heart; We parted on the spot of ground

Where we first had laughed at love, And ever the jests were loud around,

And the lamps were bright above :

“The heaven is very dark, Love,

The blast is very keen,
But merrily rides my bark, Love

Good night, my Josephine !"

She did not speak of ring or vow,

But filled the cup of wine,
And took the roses from her brow

To make a wreath for mine ;
And bade me, when the gale should lift

My light skiff on the wave,
To think as little of the gift

As of the hand that gave: “Go gaily o'er the sea, Love,

And find your own heart's queen; And look not back to me, Love,

Your humble Josephine !"

That garland breathes and blooms no more,

Past are those idle hours;
I would not, could I choose, restore

The fondness or the flowers ;
Yet oft their withered witchery.

Revives its wonted thrill, Remembered—not with Passion's sigh,

But oh ! remembered still : And even from your side, Love,

And even from this scene, One look is o'er the tide, Love,

One thought with Josephine !

Alas ! your lips are rosier,

Your eyes of softer blue, And I have never felt for her

As I have felt for you; Our love was like the snow-flakes, .

Which melt before you pass
Or the bubble on the wine, which breaks

Before you lip the glass.
You saw these eye-lids wet, Love,

Which she has never seen;
But bid me not forget, Love,

My poor Josephine !

MARSTON MOOR.

To horse! to horse ! Sir Nicholas, the clarion's note is

high! To horse! to horse ! Sir Nicholas, the big drum makes

reply! Ere this hath Lucas marched, with his gallant cavaliers, And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter in our

ears, To horse! to horse ! Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at

the door, And the raven whets his beak o'er the field of Marston

Moor.

Up rose the Lady Alice, from her brief and broken

prayer, And she brought a silken banner down the narrow tur

ret-stair; Oh! many were the tears that those radiant eyes had

shed, As she traced the bright word “ Glory” in the gay and

glancing thread;

And mournful was the smile which o'er those lovely

features ran, As she said, “ It is your lady's gift, unfurl it in the van!"

"It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest

ride Midst the steel-clad files of Skippon, the black dragoons

of Pride; The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel a sicklier qualm, And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm, When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt proudly on

their wing, And hear her loyal soldier's shout, “For God and for

the King."

'Tis soon. The ranks are broken, along the royal line They fly, the braggarts of the court ! the bullies of the

Rhine! Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's

helm is down, And Rupert sheathes his rapier, with a curse and with a

frown, And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in their

flight, “ The German boar had better far have supped in York

to-night.”

The knight is left alone, his steel-cap cleft in twain,
His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory

stain ;

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