The ducal robes of some old ancestor-
That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture, and you will not
When you have heard the tale they told me there :—

She was an only child-her name Ginevra,
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour,
Now, frowning, smiling for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast,
When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
"'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And filled his glass to all-but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger:
'But now, alas! she was not to be found.
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed
But that she was not!

Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Donati lived-and long might you have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find-be knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When on an idle day, a day of search, 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed: and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking place?" 'Twas done as soon as said: but on the way It burst, it fell; and, lo! a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. All else had perished-save a wedding ring, And a small seal-her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "Ginevra."

There then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever!

2

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THE LADY CHRISTABEL.

It was a lovely sight to see The lady Christabel, when she Was praying at the old oak tree, Amid the jagged shadows Of mossy leafless boughs, Kneeling in the moonlight, To make her gentle vows:

Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resign'd to bliss or bale—
Her face, oh call it fair not pale,

And both blue eyes more bright than clear,
Each about to have a tear.

With open eyes (ah woe is me!)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is

O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild,
As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen, O Geraldine! since arms of thine Have been the lovely lady's prison.

Coleridge.

O Geraldine! one hour was thine-
Thou had'st thy will! By tairn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.
But now they are jubiliant anew,

From cliff and tower, tu-whoo! tu-whoo!
Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wood and fell!

And see! the lady Christabel Gathers herself from out of her trance; Her limbs relax, her countenance Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids Close o'er her eyes; and tears she shedsLarge tears that leave the lashes bright! And oft the while she seems to smile As infants at a sudden light!

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,

Like a youthful hermitess,

Beauteous in a wilderness,

Who, praying always, prays in sleep,
And, if she move unquietly,
Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free,
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet,
What if her guardian spirit 'twere
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call;
For the blue sky bends over all!

PASSIONATE LOVER.

Lord Byron.

'Tis sweet to hear

At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep; 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;

'Tis sweet to listen as the nightwinds creep From leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark

Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come;

'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,

Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth
Purple and gushing; sweet are our escapes
From civic revelry to rural mirth;
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps;
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth

Sweet is revenge-especially to women,
Pillage to sailors, prize-money to seamen.