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GENEVIEVE.

LL thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay

Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She leaned against the armèd man,
The statue of the armèd knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand ;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The lady of the land.

I told her how he pined: and ah !
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed
Too fondly on her face.

But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed that bold and lovely knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade,

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a fiend,
This miserable knight!

And that unknowing what he did,

He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The lady of the land;

And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
And how she tended him in vain ;
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain;
And that she nursed him in a cave,
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay ;

-His dying words-but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,

An undistinguishable throng,

And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long.

She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love, and virgin shame :
And like a murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved,-she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stept-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

'T was partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 't was a bashful art
That I might rather feel than see

The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous bride.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

THE COURTIN'.

OD makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all gliste

Zekel crep' quite unbeknown

An' peeked in thru' the winder,

An' there sot Huldy all alone,

'Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room's one side
With half a cord o' wood in---

There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin'.

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out

Towards the pootiest, bless her!

An' leetle flames danced all about

The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An' in among 'em rusted

The old queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, coz she was in,

Seemed warm from floor to ceilin';
An' she looked full ez rosy agin,

Ez the apples she was peelin'.
'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look
On such a blessed creetur,
A dogrose blushin' to a brook
Ain't modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o' man, A 1,
Clean grit an' human natur';
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,

He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em,
Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells-
All is, he couldn't love 'em.

But long o' her his veins 'ould run
All crinkly like curled maple,

The side she breshed felt full o'sun
Ez a south slope in Ap'il.

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing

Ez hisn in the choir;

My! when he made "Ole Hundred" ring,

She knowed the Lord was nigher.

An' she'd blush scarlet, right in prayer,
When her new meetin' bunnet
Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair
O' blue eyes sot upon it.

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,

A raspin' on the scraper-
All-ways to once her feelin's flew

Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder,

"To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es

Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."

To say why gals act so or so,

Or don't 'ould be presumin';
Mebby to mean yes an' say no
Comes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t'other,
An' on which one he felt the wust

He couldn't ha' told ye nuther.
Says he, "I'd better call agin ;"

Says she "Think likely, Mister;"
That last word pricked him like a pin,
An' . . . . Wal, he up an' kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips
An' teary roun' the lashes.

For she was jes' the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,

Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued

Too tight for all expressin',

Till mother see how metters stood,

And gin 'em both her blessin'.
Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy,
An' all I know is, they was cried

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In meetin' come nex' Sunday.

JAMES RUSSELL Lowell.

CONSTANCY

T setting day and rising morn,

With soul that still shall love thee, I'll ask of Heaven thy safe return,

With all that can improve thee.

I'll visit aft the birken bush,

Where first thou kindly told me Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush, Whilst round thou didst infold me To all our haunts I will repair,

By greenwood shaw or fountain; Or where the summer day I'd share With thee upon yon mountain; There will I tell the trees and flowers, From thoughts unfeigned and tender, By vows you're mine, by love is yours A heart which cannot wander.

ALLAN RAMSAY,

GONE BEFORE.

F still they kept their earthly place, The friends I held in my embrace, And gave to death, alas!

Could I have learned that clear, calm faith
That looks beyond the bounds of death,
And almost longs to pass?
Sometimes I think, the things we see
Are shadows of the things to be;

That what we plan we build ;

That every hope that hath been crossed,
And every dream we thought was lost,
In heaven shall be fulfilled;

That even the children of the brain
Have not been born and died in vain,
Though here unclothed and dumb!
But on some brighter, better shore,
They live, embodied evermore,

And wait for us to come.

And when on that last day we rise,
Caught up between the earth and skies,

Then shall we hear our Lord

Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death, Henceforth, according to thy faith,

Shall be thy faith's reward.

HAPPY MATCHES.

PHOEBE CARY.

AY, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,

And who the happy pairs

Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into thy chains

As custom leads the way:

If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

Not sordid souls of earthly mould,

Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold,
To dull embraces move:

So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires
The purer bliss destroy;

On Ætna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed
T' improve the burning joy.
Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,
Can mingle hearts and hands:

Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are married just like Stoic souls,

With osiers for their bands.
Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless;
As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,
Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,

The rugged and the keen:
Samson's young foxes might as well
In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell,
With firebrands tied between.
Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rise and forbid delight.

Two kindest souls alone must meet,

'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And cupids yoke the doves.

ISAAC WATTS.

THE DEAD FRIEND.

HE path by which we twain did go,

Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Through four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow. But where the path we walked began To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended, following hope, There sat the shadow feared of man ; Who broke our fair companionship,

And spread his mantle dark and cold,
And wrapped thee formless in the fold,
And dulled the murmur on thy lip.

When each by turns was guide to each,
And fancy light from fancy caught.

And thought leapt out to wed with thought Ere thought could wed itself with speech;

And all we met was fair and good,

And all was good that time could bring,
And all the secret of the Spring
Moved in the chambers of the blood;

I know that this was life-the track
Whereon with equal feet we fared;
And then, as now, the day prepared
The daily burden for the back.

But this it was that made me move
As light as carrier-birds in air;
I loved the weight I had to bear
Because it needed help of love.

Nor could I weary, heart or limb,

When mighty love would cleave in twain
The lading of a single pain,
And part it, giving half to him.

But I remained, whose hopes were dim,
Whose life, whose thoughts were litttle worth,
To wander on a darkened earth,

Where all things round me breathed of him.

O friendship, equal-poised control,

O heart, with kindliest motion warm,

O sacred essence, other form,

O solemn ghost, O crownèd soul !

Yet none could better know than I
How much of act at human hands
The sense of human will demands,
By which we dare to live or die.
Whatever way my days decline,

I felt and feel, though left alone,
His being working in mine own,
The footseps of his life in mine.
My pulses therefore beat again

For other friends that once I met;
Nor can it suit me to forget

The mighty hopes that make us men.

I woo your love: I count it crime
To mourn for any overmuch;
I, the divided half of such

A friendship as had mastered time;
Which masters time, indeed, and is
Eternal, separate from fears:

The all-assuming months and years
Can take no part away from this.

O days and hours, your work is this,
To hold me from my proper place
A little while from his embrace,
For fuller gain of after bliss.

That out of distance might ensue

Desire of nearness doubly sweet; And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundred fold accrue.

The hills are shadows, and they flow

From form to form, and nothing stands;
They melt like mists, the solid lands,
Like clouds they shape themselves and go.
But in my spirit will I dwell,

And dream my dream, and hold it true;
For though my lips may breathe adieu,
I cannot think the thing farewell.

FRED TENNYSON.

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A BENEDICTION.

OD'S love and peace be with thee, where
Soe'er this soft autumnal air
Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair!
Whether through city casements comes
Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms,
Or, out among the woodland blooms,

It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face,
Imparting, in its glad embrace,
Beauty to beauty, grace to grace!

Fair nature's book together read,
The old wood-paths that knew our tread,
The maple shadows overhead-

The hills we climbed, the river seen

By gleams along its deep ravine-
All keep thy memory fresh and green.

If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The gracious heavens will heed from me,
What should, dear heart, its burden be?

The sighing of a shaken reed-
What can I more than meekly plead
The greatness of our common need?
God's love-unchanging, pure and true-
The Paraclete white-shining through
His peace-the fall of Hermon's dew!
With such a prayer, on this sweet day.
As thou mayst hear and I may say,
I greet thee, dearest, far away!

JOHN GREENLeaf Whittier.

TO A FRIEND.

RUDDY drop of manly blood
The surging sea outweighs ;

The world uncertain comes and goes,
The lover rooted stays.

I fancied he was fled

And, after many a year,

Glowed unexhausted kindliness,

Like daily sunrise there.

My careful heart was free again;

O friend, my bosom said,

Through thee alone the sky is arched,

Through thee the rose is red;

All things through thee take nobler form,

And look beyond the earth;

The mill-round of our fate appears

A sun-path in thy worth.

Me too thy nobleness has taught

To master my despair;

The fountains of my hidden life
Are through thy friendship fair.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

JEWISH HYMN IN BABYLON.

'ER Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord!
The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate,
Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian's
sword,

Even her foes wept to see her fallen state;
And heaps her ivory palaces became,
Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame,
Her temples sank amid the smouldering flame,
For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate.
O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam,
And the sad city lift her crownless head,

And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleam
In streets where broods the silence of the dead.
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers,
On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers
To deck at blushing eve their bridal bowers,
And angel feet the glittering Sion tread.
The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy;

Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home;
He that went forth a tender prattling boy

Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come; And Canaan's vines for us their fruit shall bear, And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare, And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blazed the irradiate dome.

THE WIDOW'S WOOER.

E woos me with those honeyed words
That women love to hear,
Those gentle flatteries that fall

So sweet on every ear.
He tells me that my face is fair,

Too fair for grief to shade:
My cheek, he says, was never meant
In sorrow's gloom to fade.

He stands beside me, when I sing
The songs of other days,

And whispers, in love's thrilling tones,
The words of heartfelt praise;
And often in my eyes he looks,

Some answering love to see-
In vain! he there can only read

The faith of memory.

He little knows what thoughts awake

With every gentle word;

How, by his looks and tones, the founts

Of tenderness are stirrel,

The visions of my youth return, /

Joys far too bright to last;

And while he speaks of future bliss,
I think but of the past.

Like lamps in eastern sepulcores,
Amid my heart's deep groom,
Affection sheds its holiest light

Upon my husband's tomb.

And, as those lamps, it brought once more
To upper air, grow dim,

So my soul's love is cold and dead.
Unless it glow for him.

EMMA C. EMBUKY.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

PEEN be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee,

Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And lang, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.