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 armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my harp,
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 storyAn old rude song, that fitted well The 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 low, the deep, 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

Which crazed this 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 how, 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 maiden shame;

And, like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breath my name.

Her bosom heaved-she stepped aside;
As conscious of my look, she stepped-
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!

Cupid and Campaspe.

CUPID and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them, too; then down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose

Growing on 's cheek (but none knows how),
With these the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin;
All these did my Campaspe win.
At last he set her both his eyes,
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me?

COLERIDGE.

JOHN LYLY.

Resignation.

THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,

But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours: Amid these earthly damps,

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no death!

What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life Elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,—the child of our affection,-
But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
As Christ himself doth rule.