THE DYING WARRIOR.

A WOUNDED Chieftain, lying
By the Danube's leafy side,
Thus faintly said, in dying,

"Oh! bear, thou foaming tide,
"This gift to my lady-bride."

'Twas then, in life's last quiver,
He flung the scarf he wore
Into the foaming river,

Which, ah too quickly, bore
That pledge of one no more!

With fond impatience burning,
The Chieftain's lady stood,

To watch her love returning
In triumph down the flood,
From that day's field of blood.

But, field, alas, ill-fated!

The lady saw, instead

Of the bark whose speed she waited, Her hero's scarf, all red

With the drops his heart had shed.

One shriek - and all was over

Her life-pulse ceased to beat;

The gloomy waves now cover
That bridal-flower so sweet,

And the scarf is her winding sheet !

THE MAGIC MIRROR.

"COME, if thy magic Glass have power "To call up forms we sigh to see; "Show me my love, in that rosy bower, "Where last she pledged her truth to me."

The Wizard show'd him his Lady bright, Where lone and pale in her bow'r she lay; "True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight, "She's thinking of one, who is far away."

But, lo! a page, with looks of joy,

Brings tidings to the Lady's ear; ""Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy, "Who used to guide me to my dear."

The Lady now, from her fav'rite tree, Hath, smiling, pluck'd a rosy flower; "Such," he exclaim'd, "was the gift that she "Each morning sent me from that bower!"

She gives her page the blooming rose,

With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!" “Thus,” thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes, "By fancying, still, her true-love nigh."

But the page returns, and oh, what a sight,

For trusting lover's eyes to see! Leads to that bower another Knight, As young and, alas, as loved as he!

Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!" Then, darting forth, with furious bound, Dash'd at the Mirror his iron glove,

And strew'd it all in fragments round.

MORAL.

Such ills would never have come to pass,
Had he ne'er sought that fatal view;
The Wizard would still have kept his Glass,

And the Knight still thought his Lady true.

THE PILGRIM.

STILL thus, when twilight gleam'd,

Far off his Castle seem'd,

Traced on the sky;

And still, as fancy bore him
To those dim towers before him,
He gazed, with wishful eye,

And thought his home was nigh.

"Hall of my Sires!" he said, "How long, with weary tread,

"Must I toil on?

"Each eve, as thus I wander,

Thy towers seem rising yonder,

"But, scarce hath daylight shone, "When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"

So went the Pilgrim still,

Down dale and over hill,

Day after day;