The maiden exclaimed-"Thou see'st, Sir Knight, Thy fingers of iron can only smite; And, like the rose thou hast torn and scatter'd, She trembled and blush'd, and her glances fell; But she turn'd from the Knight, and said "Fare well;" 'Not so," he cried, "will I lose my prize, I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes." He lifted her up in his grasp of steel, And he mounted and spurr'd with furious heel; But her cry drew forth her hoary sire, Who snatch'd his bow from above the fire. Swift from the valley the warrior fled, Swifter the bolt of the cross-bow sped: And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horse, Was the living man, and the woman's corse. That morning the rose was bright of hue: On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead. THE ROSE. BY WALLER. Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time on me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair. Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; That goodness time's rude hand defies; HEART'S-EASE. I USED to love thee, simple flower, But now thou only work'st my grief, That falls on Autumn's bosom dead. For that ne'er tells of what has been, I love thee not, thou simple flower, The Heart's-ease from my path is gone. THE MOSS-ROSE. BY JOHN STERLING. Mossy rose on mossy stone, Baby germ of freshest hue, And one stalk supporting both: Thus may still, while fades the past, Life come forth again as fast; Happy if the relics sere Deck a cradle, not a bier. Tear the garb, the spirit flies, Ever thus together live, Moss, the work of vanished years, Moss, that covers dateless tombs; Moss and Rose, and Age and Youth, THE HYACINTH. BY CASIMIR. CHILD of the Spring, thou charming flower, No longer in confinement lie, Arise to light, thy form discover, The rains are gone, the storms are o'er; The sun is dress'd in beaming smiles, |