Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?” With scorn in her glance, said the high-born Ladye. ""Tis the home," he replied, " of earth's loftiest creatures Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see; But she sunk on the ground-'t was a skeleton's features, And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye! WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS. HEN on the lip the sigh delays, As if 't would linger there for ever; Yet still look down, and venture never ; 'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny! To think and ponder, when apart, On all we've got to say at meeting; To see but one bright object move, The only moon, where stars are many If all this is not downright love, I prithee say what is, my Fanny! O life is like the mountaineer's, His home is near the sky, Where, throned above this world, he hears Its strife at distance die. Or, should the sound of hostile drum Proclaim below, "We come-we come," Each crag that tow'rs in air While, like bees, from dell and dingle, Then, when battle's hour is over, In her sunny smile forgot. Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's, His home is near the sky, Where, throned above this world, he hears Its strife at distance die. Nor only thus through summer suns Ev'n winter, bleak and dim, Then how blest, when night is closing, By the kindled hearth reposing, To his rebeck's drowsy song, He beguiles the hour along; Or, provoked by merry glances, To a brisker movement dances, Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain, Dreams, dreams them o'er again. THE STRANGER. OME list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground; Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger Hears soft fairy-music re-echo around. None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady, 'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping, A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears; So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping, We thought 't was an anthem some angel had sung us ;- Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended, Then her eyes, when she sung-oh, but once to have seen them Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart; While her looks and her voice made a language between them, That spoke more than holiest words to the heart. But she pass'd like a day-dream, no skill could restore her— She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her, Nor ev'n in the grave is her sad heart reposing- CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS. HUNTER once in that grove reclined, While mute lay ev'n the wild bee's hum, His was still Sweet Air, oh come ! While Echo answer'd, "Come, sweet Air!" But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise! ""Tis the white-horn'd doe," the Hunter cries, |