LOCHINVAR.

LADY HERON'S SONG.

O 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 unarm'd, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Eske 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,

Among bride's-men, 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,) "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ?"—

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup;
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd 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 his 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 bride-maidens whisper'd, ""T were better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

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

When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe 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;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran :
There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie lee,
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 ?

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,

Born 1773, died 1834.

THE KISS.

ONE kiss, dear maid! I said, and sigh'd

Your scorn the little boon denied ;

Ah why refuse the blameless bliss ?
Can danger lurk within a kiss?

Yon viewless wanderer of the vale,

The spirit of the western gale,

At morning's break, at evening's close,
Inhales the sweetness of the rose ;
And hovers o'er th' uninjured bloom,
Sighing back the soft perfume.
Her nectar-breathing kisses fling
Vigour to the Zephyr's wing;
And He the glitter of the dew
Scatters on the rose's hue;
Bashful, lo! she bends her head,
And darts a blush of deeper red.
Too well those lovely lips disclose
The triumphs of the opening rose ;
O fair! O graceful! bid them prove

As passive to the breath of Love!
In tender accents, faint and low,

Well pleased I hear the whispered "No!"

The whispered "No!"-how little meant ! Sweet falsehood that endears consent!

For on those lovely lips the while

Dawns the soft relenting smile,

And tempts, with feign'd dissuasion coy,

The gentle violence of the joy.

THE ROSE.

As late each flower that sweetest blows

I pluck'd, the garden's pride!

Within the petals of a rose
A sleeping Love I spied.

Around his brows a beamy wreath
Of many a lucent hue;

All purple glow'd his cheek, beneath,
Inebriate with dew.

I softly seized the unguarded Power,
Nor scared his balmy rest;

And placed him, caged within the flower,
On spotless Sara's breast.

But when, unweeting of the guile,

Awoke the prisoner sweet,

He struggled to escape awhile,

And stamp'd his faery feet.

M

Ah! soon the soul-entrancing sight
Subdued the impatient boy;

He gazed, he thrill'd with deep delight,
Then clapp'd his wings for joy.

. And, "O!" he cried, "of magic kind,

What charms this throne endear!

Some other Love let Venus find-
I'll fix my empire here."

LOVE.

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve !