Owning her weakness,

Her evil behavior,

And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour.

SONG.

THE stars are with the voyager,

Wherever he may sail;

The moon is constant to her time,

The sun will never fail, But follow, follow, round the world, The green earth and the sea; So love is with the lover's heart, Wherever he may be.

Wherever he may be, the stars

Must daily lose their light,

The moon will veil her in the shade,
The sun will set at night;
The sun may set, but constant love
Will shine when he's away,
So that dull night is never night,
And day is brighter day.

I LOVE THEE! I LOVE THEE!

I LOVE thee! I love thee!
'Tis all that I can say;
It is my vision in the night,
My dreaming in the day;
The very echo of my heart,
The blessing when I pray,
I love thee! I love thee!
Is all that I can say.

I love thee! I love thee!
Is ever on my tongue;
In all my proudest poesy,

That chorus still is sung.
It is the verdict of my eyes
Amidst the gay and young;
I love thee! I love thee!

A thousand maids among.

I love thee! I love thee!

Thy bright and hazel glance, The mellow lute upon those lips

Whose tender tones entrance.
But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs,
That still these words enhance;

I love thee! I love thee!
Whatever be thy chance.

RUTH.

SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush
Deeply ripened — such a blush
In the midst of brown was born-
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veiled a light
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim:
Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks:-

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come
Share my harvest and my home.

FAIR INES.

O SAW you not fair Ines?

She's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest.
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.

Oh, turn again, fair Ines!

Before the fall of night,

For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivalled bright.

And blessed will the lover be,

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek. I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier,

THE GENIUS OF BYRON.
[The Course of Time.]

HE touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced.

As some vast river of unfailing source, Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed,

And oped new fountains in the human heart.

Where Fancy halted, weary in her flight, In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose,

And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home,

Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,

Beneath their argument seemed struggling whiles;

He from above descending, stooped to touch

The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped as though

It scarce deserved his verse. With Na

ture's self

He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest

At will with all her glorious majesty. He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane,"

And played familiar with his hoary locks:

Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines,

And with the thunder talked as friend to friend;

And vove his garland of the lightning's wing,

In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing,

Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God,

Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed;

Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung

But back into his soul retired, alone, Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously

On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet.

So Ocean, from the plains his waves had late

To desolation swept, retired in pride,
Exulting in the glory of his might,
And seemed to mock the ruin he had
wrought.

As some fierce comet of tremendous
size,

To which the stars did reverence as it passed,

So he, through learning and through fancy, took

His flights sublime, and on the loftiest top

Of Fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and worn,

As if he from the earth had labored up;

But, as some bird of heavenly plumage fair,

He looked, which down from higher regions came,

And perched it there, to see what lay beneath.

HENRY OF NAVARRE. Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they |

who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day

We saw the army of the League drawn

out in long array;

With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,

And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land!

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand!

And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest,

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!" "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine,

amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din

Of fife, and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring culverin!

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,

Charge for the Golden Lilies nowupon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;

The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail; And then, we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry, “No Frenchman is my foe:

Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,

As our Sovereign Lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne!

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexi

can pistoles,

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls! Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright! Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night!

For our God hath crushed the tyrant,

our God hath raised the slave,

For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!

O! WHEREFORE come ye forth in triumph from the North,

With your hands and your feet, and your raiment all red?

And wherefore do your rou send forth a joyous shout?

And whence are the grapes of the winepress that ye tread?

O! evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,

Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,

That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine,

And the Man of Blood was there, with

his long essenced hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,

The General rode along us to form us for the fight;

When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd into a shout

. Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billow on the shore,

The cry of battle rises along their charging line:

pert of the Rhine!

The furious German comes, with his
trumpets and his drums,
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of
Whitehall;

They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your pikes! Close your ranks! For Rupert never comes, but to conquer, or to fall.

They are here they rush on — we are broken we are gone — Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.

O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!

Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight it to the last!

Stout Skippen hath a wound — the centre hath given ground.

But hark! what means this trampling of horsemen in the rear? What banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank God! 'tis he, boys! Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here!

Their heads are stooping low, their pikes all in a row:

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,

And at a shock have scatter'd the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide

Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar.

And he he turns! he flies! shame to those cruel eyes

That bore to look on torture, and dare

not look on war.

Ho, comrades! scour the plain, and ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make the quest secure;