That the love of his heart lay suffering,

And pined for the comfort his voice would bring. (Oh ride as if you were flying!)

Better he loves each golden curl

On the brow of that Scandinavian girl

Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl;

And his Rose of the Isles is dying.

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;

(Hurry!)

Each one mounted a gallant steed

Which he kept for battle and days of need;

N

(Oh ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank,
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But, ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

Ilis nobles are beaten one by one;

(Hurry!)

They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; The little fair page now follows alone.

For strength and for courage trying,

The king looked back at that faithful child,
Wan was the face that answering smiled.

They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,
Then he dropped, and only the king rode in
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn:
(Silence!)

No answer came, but faint and forlorn
An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing.
The castle portal stood grimly wide;
None welcomed the king from that weary ride;
For, dead in the light of the dawning day,
The pale, sweet form of the welcomer lay,

Who had yearned for his voice while dying.

The panting steed with a drooping crest
Stood weary;

The king returned from the chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast,

And that dumb companion eying,

The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck:
"Oh steed, that every nerve didst strain--

Dear steed! our ride hath been in vain

To the halls where my love lay dying!"

OVER THE RIVER.

MISS PRIEST.

Over the river they beckon to me

Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side;

The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide.

There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels who met him there;
The gates of the city we could not see:
Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands ready to welcome me!

Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another-the household pet:
Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale-
Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We watched it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.
We know she is safe on the farther side,

Where all the ransomed and angels be: Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ·

We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,

And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart; They cross the stream, and are gone for aye;

We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day.
We only know that their barks no more
May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river, and hill, and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar.
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail;
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand;
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale
To the better shore of the spirit land;
I shall know the loved who have gone before;
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The Angel of Death shall carry me.

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best,
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Esk River where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,

'Mong bridemen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
"Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?"
"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There be maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup;
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar-
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
And the bridemaidens whispered," "Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,

When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near,
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung-

She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

THE INQUIRY.

CHARLES MACKAY.

Tell me, ye winged winds,

That round my pathway roar,
Do you not know some spot

Where mortals weep no more?

Some lone and pleasant dell
Some valley in the West,
Where, free from toil and pain,
The weary soul may rest?

(>) The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low,
And sighed for pity as it answered (>) "No!"

Tell me, thou mighty deep,

Whose billows round me play,
Knowest thou some favored spot-
Some island far away,

Where weary man may find

The bliss for which he sighs
Where sorrow never lives,

And friendship never dies?

The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow,

Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer

And thou, serenest moon,
That with such lovely face
Dost look upon the earth,

Asleep in night's embrace,

Tell me, in all thy round,

Hast thou not seen some spot

Where miserable man

Might find a happier lot

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe,
And a voice sweet, but sad, responded "No!"

Tell me, my secret soul

Oh tell me, Hope and Faith,

>)"No!"