The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side, Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty bold yeomen will draw at his word; And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail, Who at Rerecross on Stanmore meets Allen-aDale. The mere for his net and the land for his Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; The mother, she asked of his hot hold and home; "Though the castle of Richmond on the hill, ind fair My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows llanter still: 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent Then think of the friend who once welcomed so pale, And all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale. The father was steel, and the mother was stone; They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry; He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, And the youth it was told by was Allen-a- And still on that evening, when pleasure fills Dale. SIR WALTER SCOTT. GENEVIEVE. MAID of my love, sweet Genevieve! M In beauty's light you glide along; Your eye is like the star of eve, And sweet your voice as seraph's song; Yet not your heavenly beauty gives This heart with passion soft to glow; Within your soul a voice there lives; It bids you hear the tale of woe. When, sinking low, the sufferer wan Beholds no hand outstretched to save, Fair as the bosom of the swan That rises graceful o'er the wave, I've seen your breast with pity heave, And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. "FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR." AREWELL! but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night; Shall join in your revels, your sports and your wiles, And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles; Too blest, if it tell me, that mid the gay cheer Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he were here!" Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear; Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled, You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will cling round it still. THOMAS MOORE. MORALITY IN ART. ORAL beauty is the basis of all true beauty. This foundation is somewhat veiled and covered in nature. Art brings it out, and gives it more transparent forms. It is here that art, when it knows well its power and resources, engages in a struggle with nature in which it may have the advantage. VICTOR COUSIN. "THEY THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. THEY made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, "And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds; And, when on earth he sunk to sleep, He lay where the deadly vine doth weep And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, 66 He saw the lake, and a meteor bright Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark And the boat returned no more. But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, Are seen at the hour of midnight damp THOMAS MOORE. |