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“Then he'll ride among 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, donned 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 up 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 gnawed the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not; but I know
She could never show him—never,
That swan's nest among the reeds!

JOHN THOMPSON'S DAUGHTER. PHOEBE CAREY.

A fellow near Kentucky's clime
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry,

And I'll give thee a silver dime
To row us o'er the ferry.”

"Now, who would cross the Ohio,
This dark and stormy water?”

"O, I am this young lady's beau,
And she John Thompson's daughter.

“We’ve fled before her father's spite
With great Precipitation,
And should he find us here to

-night, I'd lose my reputation.

"They've missed the girl and purse beside,

Fis horsemen hard have pressed me, And who will cheer my bonny bride, If yet they shall arrest me?”

Out Spoke the boa
"You shall no
I'll go,
But

tnan then in time,
t fail, don't fear it;
not for your silver dime,
for your manly spirit.

“And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;

For though a storm is coming on,
I’ll row you o'er the ferry.”

By this the wind more fiercely rose,
The boat was at the landing,

And with the drenching rain their clothes
Grew wet where they were standing.

But still as wilder rose the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,

Just back a piece came the police,
Their tramping sounded nearer.

“Oh, haste thee, haste!” the lady cries,
“It’s anything but funny;

I’ll leave the light of loving eyes,
But not my father's money!”

And still they hurried in the face
Of wind and rain unsparing;

John Thompson reached the landing-place,
His wrath was turned to swearing.

For by the lightning's angry flash,
His child he did discover;

One lovely hand held all the cash,

- And one was round her lover!

“Come back, come back,” he cried in woe,
Across the stormy water;

“But leave the purse, and you may go,
My daughter, O my daughter!”

'Twas vain; they reached the other shore,
(Such dooms the Fates assign us,)

The gold he piled went with his child,
And he was left there, minus.

THE WEIRD LADY.
CHARLES EINGSLEY.

The swevens came up round Harold the Earl, Like motes in the sunnès beam;

And over him stood the Weird Lady,

In her charmèd castle over the sea,
Sang “Lie thou still and dream.”

“Thy steed is dead in his stall, Earl Harold,
Since thou hast been with me;

The rust has eaten thy harness bright,

And the rats have eaten thy greyhound light,
That was so fair and free.”

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