The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and 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, 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, "'T were 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 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 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?
Sir Walter Scott.

THE PICKET GUARD.

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say,
"Except now and then a stray picket

Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman off in the thicket.

"'Tis nothing—a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle;

Not an officer lost-only one of the men,
Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watchfires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind.
Through the forest-leaves softly is creeping;
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard-for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed
Far away in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack-his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,

As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep—
For their mother-may Heaven defend her!

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then,
That night, when the love yet unspoken
Leaped up to his lips-when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling,
And gathers his gun closer up to its place
As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree-
The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes through the broad belt of light
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle-"Ah! Mary, good-by!"
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,

No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
The picket 's off duty forever.

Mrs. Ethel Lynn Beers.

FOR A' THAT, AND A' THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
And dare be poor, for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man, for a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, tho' ne'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'ed a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;

Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A king can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man 's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that;

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that;
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

Robert Burns.

MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL.

Near the city of Sevilla,

Years and years ago—

Dwelt a lady in a villa,

Years and years ago;—

And her hair was black as night,
And her eyes were starry bright;
Olives on her brow were blooming,
Roses red her lips perfuming,
And her step was light and airy

As the tripping of a fairy;

When she spoke, you thought, each minute,

'Twas the trilling of a linnet;

When she sang, you heard a gush

Of full-voiced sweetness like a thrush;

And she struck from the guitar

Ringing music, sweeter far

Than the morning breezes make

Through the lime-trees when they shake

Than the ocean murmuring o'er

Pebbles on the foamy shore.

Orphaned both of sire and mother,
Dwelt she in that lonely villa,
Absent now her guardian brother
On a mission from Sevilla.

Skills it little now the telling

How I wooed that maiden fair, Tracked her to her lonely dwelling

And obtained an entrance there.

Ah! that lady of the villa!
And I loved her so,
Near the city of Sevilla,
Years and years ago,
Ay de mi!-Like echoes falling
Sweet and sad and low,
Voices come at night, recalling
Years and years ago.
Once again I'm sitting near thee,
Beautiful and bright;

Once again I see and hear thee
In the autumn night;

Once again I'm whispering to thee
Faltering words of love;
Once again with song I woo thee
In the orange grove,
Growing near that lonely villa
Where the waters flow

Down to the city of Sevilla—
Years and years ago.

'Twas an autumn eve: the splendor
Of the day was gone,

And the twilight, soft and tender,
Stole so gently on

That the eye could scarce discover
How the shadows, spreading over,
Like a veil of silver gray,

Toned the golden clouds, sun painted,
Till they paled, and paled, and fainted
From the face of heaven away.
And a dim light rising slowly

O'er the welkin spread,

Till the blue sky, calm and holy,
Gleamed above our head;
And the thin moon, newly nascent,
Shone in glory meek and sweet,

As Murillo paints her crescent

Underneath Madonna's feet.