Or looking from a casement tall, Or shaped of dream or evening cloudForgotten when, forgotten where Her face had filled his careless eye Divine and passionless and strong, No lover's kiss had dared to wrong. He took his armor from the wall Ah! gone since then was many a dayHe led his steed from out the stall And sought la dame de ses pensées. The ladies of the Troubadours Came riding through the chestnut grove: "Sir Minstrel, string that lute of yours, And sing us a gay song of love." "O ladies of the Troubadours, My lute has but a single string; Sirventes fit for paramours My heart is not in tune to sing. "The flower that blooms upon my shield, It has another soil and spring Than that wherein the gaudy rose Of light Provence is blossoming. "The lady of my dreams doth hold Such royal state within my mind, No thought that comes unclad in gold To that high court may entrance find." So through the chestnut groves he passed, And through the land and far away; Nor know I whether in the world He found la dame de ses pensées. Only I know that in the South Long to the harp his tale was told; Sweet as new wine within the mouth' The small, choice words and music old. To scorn the promise of the Real; To seek and seek and not to find; HENRY AUGUSTIN BEERS. CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. SLOWLY England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day; And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow He with footsteps slow and weary, she with Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the sunny, floating hair; bell swung to and fro: fell no ray of light, He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, As she climbed the dusty ladder, on which she with lips all cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Cur- Up and up, her white lips saying, "Curfew few must not ring to-night!" shall not ring to-night!" "Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er pointing to the prison old, With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp, and cold her hangs the great dark bell, Awful is the gloom beneath her like the pathway down to hell; “I've a lover in that prison, doomed this Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis very night to die At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. the hour of Curfew now, And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow. Cromwell will not come till sunset;" and Shall she let it ring? No, never! Flash her her face grew strangely white As she breathed the husky whisper, "Curfew must not ring to-night!" 66 eyes with sudden light, And she springs and grasps it firmly: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!" Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton-and his Out she swung, far out; the city seemed a accents pierced her heart speck of light below; Like the piercing of an arrow, like a dead- She 'twixt heaven and earth suspended ly poisoned dart "Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower; as the bell swung to and fro; And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, Every evening, just at sunset, it has told But he thought it still was ringing fair the twilight hour; young Basil's funeral knell. I have done my duty ever, tried to do it Still the maiden clung more firmly, and, just and right, with trembling lips and white, Now I'm old, I still must do it: Curfew, Said, to hush her heart's wild beating, girl, must ring to-night!" Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, And within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow. "Curfew shall not ring to-night!" It was o'er: the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the dark old ladder, where for hundred years before She had listened while the judges read, Human foot had not been planted; but without a tear or sigh, the brave deed she had done "At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Un- Should be told long ages after:-often as At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn; "Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle the brown; a town:" And her face so sweet and pleading, yet Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade frae with sorrow pale and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity-lit But lang ere the horse was drawn and brought to the green, his eye with misty light; "Go, your lover lives!" said Cromwell; Oh, bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his lane. "Curfew shall not ring to-night!" ROSA HARTWICK THORPE. GLENLOGIE. THREESCORE O' nobles rade up the king's ha', But bonnie Glenlogie's the flower o' them a', When he came to Glenfeldy's door, little mirth was there; Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her hair. "Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, ye're welcome," said she, "Ye're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie to see." Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie Pale and wan was she when Glenlogie gaed ben, black e'e, "Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for me!" But red and rosy grew she whene'er he When he gaed to Glenlogie, 'twas "Wash and go dine;" sat down; She turn'd awa' her head, but the smile was in her e'e, "Oh, binna fear'd, mither, I'll maybe no dee." AUTHOR UNKNOWN. GINEVRA. IF thou shouldst ever come by choice or To Modena, where still religiously Stop at a Palace near the Reggio gate, "Twas "Wash ye, my pretty boy, wash and Will long detain thee; thro' their archèd go dine." walks, "Oh, 'twas ne'er my father's fashion, and it Dim at noonday, discovering many a The next line that he read, the tear blindit That in the spring-time, as alone they sat, Venturing together on a tale of love, his e'e; But the last line that he read, he gart the Read only part that day.-A summer sun table flee. Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go, Enter the house-prythee, forget it not- She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp; Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Antony of Trent With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ; A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old Ancestor. That by the way-it may be true or falseBut don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. She was an only child; from infancy The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire. Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, That precious gift, what else remained to him? The young Ginevra was his all in life, Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety, Her pranks the favorite 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, preach'd de corum ; 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 Bridal feast, When all sat down, the Bride was wanting there. 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 anything be guess'd, But that she was not! Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have 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. Blow, blow the trumpet clearer still! more loudly strike the drum !— The alcayde of Algava to fight the bull doth come. All else had perish'd-save a nuptial And first before the king he pass'd, with 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 conceal'd herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fasten'd her down for ever! SAMUEL ROGERS. THE BULL-FIGHT OF GAZUL. KING ALMANZOR of Granada, he hath bid the trumpet sound, He hath summon'd all the Moorish lords from the hills and plains around ; From Vega and Sierra, from Betis and Xenil, They have come with helm and cuirass of gold and twisted steel. 'Tis the holy Baptist's feast they hold in royalty and state, And they have closed the spacious lists, beside the Alhambra's gate; In gowns of black with silver laced, within the tented ring, Eight Moors to fight the bull are placed in presence of the king. reverence stooping low; And next he bow'd him to the queen, and the Infantas all a-row; Then to his lady's grace he turn'd, and she to him did throw A scarf from out her balcony was whiter than the snow. With the life-blood of the slaughter'd lords all slippery is the sand, Yet proudly in the centre hath Gazul ta'en his stand; And ladies look with heaving breast, and lords with anxious eye: But firmly he extends his arm-his look is calm and high. Three bulls against the knight are loosed, and two come roaring on: He rises high in stirrup, forth stretching his rejón; Each furious beast upon the breast he deals him such a blow, He blindly totters and gives back across the sand to go. "Turn, Gazul-turn!" the people cry: the third comes up behind; Low to the sand his head holds he, his nostrils snuff the wind ;The mountaineers that lead the steers without stand whispering low, "Now thinks this proud alcayde to stun Harpado so?" Eight Moorish lords, of valor tried, with From Gaudiana comes he not, he comes stalwart arm and true, The onset of the beasts abide, as they come rushing through: From Guadalarif of the plain, or Barves not from Xenil, of the hill; rama's waters clear, The deeds they've done, the spoils they've But where from out the forest burst Xa won, fill all with hope and trust; Yet, ere high in heaven appears the sun, they all have bit the dust. Beneath the oak trees was he nursed,—this proud and stately steer. Then sounds the trumpet clearly, then Dark is his hide on either side, but the clangs the loud tambour: Make room, make room for Gazul!-throw wide, throw wide the door! blood within doth boil, And the dun hide glows, as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil: |