Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?” With scorn in her glance, said the high-born Ladye.

""Tis the home," he replied, " of earth's loftiest creatures Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see;

But she sunk on the ground-'t was a skeleton's features, And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!

WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.

HEN on the lip the sigh delays,

As if 't would linger there for ever;
When eyes would give the world to gaze,

Yet still look down, and venture never ;
When, though with fairest nymphs we rove,
There's one we dream of more than any—
If all this is not real love,

'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart,

On all we've got to say at meeting;
And yet when near, with heart to heart,
Sit mute, and listen to their beating:

To see but one bright object move,

The only moon, where stars are many

If all this is not downright love,

I prithee say what is, my Fanny!

O life is like the mountaineer's,

His home is near the sky,

Where, throned above this world, he hears

Its strife at distance die.

Or, should the sound of hostile drum

Proclaim below, "We come-we come,"

Each crag that tow'rs in air
Gives answer, "Come who dare!"

While, like bees, from dell and dingle,
Swift the swarming warriors mingle,
And their cry "Hurra!" will be,
"Hurra, to victory!"

Then, when battle's hour is over,
See the happy mountain lover,
With the nymph, who'll soon be bride,
Seated blushing by his side,—
Every shadow of his lot

In her sunny smile forgot.

Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's,

His home is near the sky,

Where, throned above this world, he hears

Its strife at distance die.

Nor only thus through summer suns
His blithe existence cheerly runs—

Ev'n winter, bleak and dim,
Brings joyous hours to him;
When, his rifle behind him flinging,
He watches the roe-buck springing,
And away, o'er the hills away,
Re-echoes his glad "hurra."

Then how blest, when night is closing,

By the kindled hearth reposing,

To his rebeck's drowsy song,

He beguiles the hour along;

Or, provoked by merry glances,

To a brisker movement dances,

Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain,
He dreams o'er chase and dance again—

Dreams, dreams them o'er again.

THE STRANGER.

OME list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground; Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger Hears soft fairy-music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady,
Her language, though sweet, none could e'er understand;
But her features so sunn'd, and her eyelash so shady,
Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping, A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears;

So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping,
Like music that Sorrow had steep'd in her tears.

We thought 't was an anthem some angel had sung us ;-
But, soon as the day-beams had gush'd from on high,
With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us,
All lovely and lone, as if stray'd from the sky.

Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended,
For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue,
Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended,
And light from another already shines through.

Then her eyes, when she sung-oh, but once to have seen them

Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart;

While her looks and her voice made a language between

them,

That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.

But she pass'd like a day-dream, no skill could restore her—
Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast;

She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her,
That song of past days on her lips to the last.

Nor ev'n in the grave is her sad heart reposing-
Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb;
For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing,
The same strain of music is heard through the gloom.

CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS.

HUNTER once in that grove reclined,
To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he woo'd the wandering wind,
To cool his brow with its sigh.

While mute lay ev'n the wild bee's hum,
Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,

His was still Sweet Air, oh come
song

!

While Echo answer'd, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise!
What meaneth that rustling spray?

""Tis the white-horn'd doe," the Hunter cries,
"I have sought since break of day."