O! BLEST art thou whose steps may rove
Through the green paths of vale and grove,
Or, leaving all their charms below,
Climb the wild mountain's airy brow!
And gaze afar o'er cultured plains,
And cities with their stately fanes,
And forests that beneath thee lie,
And ocean mingling with the sky.

For man can show thee nought so fair
As Nature's varied marvels there;
And if thy pure and artless breast
Can feel their grandeur, thou art blest!
For thee the stream in beauty flows,
For thee the gale of summer blows;
And, in deep glen and wood-walk free,
Voices of joy still breathe for thee.

But happier far, if there thy soul
Can soar to Him who made the whole;
If to thine eye the simplest flower
Portray His bounty and His power;
If, in whate'er is bright or grand,
Thy mind can trace His viewless hand;

If Nature's music bid thee raise
Thy song of gratitude and praise.

If heaven and earth, with beauty fraught,
Lead to His throne thy raptured thought;
If there thou lovest His love to read,
Then, wanderer, thou art blest indeed!

THE SACRIFICE.

A STORY OF THE LAST WHITE ROSE.

"RED roses are the fashion now-a-days, fair lady," was the exclamation of a knightly-looking personage, as, forcing himself without much trouble through a break in the hedge, he stood by the side of the Lady Somerton: "Red roses are the fashion, yet I perceive you gather only the white ones; now if you will accept my aid in the assortment of your posy, I shall enliven it with the blushing flower. See, too, how much hardier these are than those pale, sickly buds."

Lady Somerton was startled by the first words which fell upon her ear, and the pale roses trembled in her grasp; but ere Sir Pierre Brandon's speech was concluded, she recovered, by an effort of the will, at least the semblance of composure. She could not but return the courteous greeting of Sir Pierre, for though unknown to him by any formal introduction, she had received, three days previously, a signal service at his hands. Whether in search of white roses or wild flowers, we cannot tell, but she had been tempted on that occasion to wander beyond the precincts of the park, and, unconscious till too late that the

country was being scoured by the king's troops, had been rudely accosted by a party of soldiers. Utterly ignorant at that time of the meaning of their questions, she was yet painfully alarmed by their rude and imperious behavior; when Sir Pierre, riding up, dispersed them by a word, and then, with the chivalry of a soldier and a gentleman, escorted Edith and her old attendant to the gates of Somerton Park. To her deliverer she therefore felt truly grateful, and though she could have wished that he had caught her in some other act than that of gathering white roses, she accepted his offer, in as playful a manner as she could command, and added the Lancastrian bouquet with which he supplied her to those Yorkist buds she had already gathered.

"Now have you a most loyal offering," exclaimed Sir Pierre, striving to meet with his own searching glance the soft eyes of Edith Somer"meet even for the wise Tudor himself, since you retain just enough fair blossoms — poor things that they are - to remind him of the wife he has raised to share his throne."

ton,

She did not look up, though she felt her cheek grow pallid for a moment, and then the rebel blood return with added vigor to dye it crimson. How many a warm rejoinder hovered on her lip, which prudence warned her to restrain! But she only murmured,