Genevieve.

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 life, my joy, my own dear Genevieve ! She leaned against the armèd man, the statue of the armèd knight; she stood and listened to my lay, amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, my hope! my joy! my Genevieve she loves me best whene'er I sing the songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story— an old rude song, that suited well that ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush, with downcast eyes and modest grace; for well she knew I could not choose but gaze upon her face. I told her of the knight that wore upon his shield a burning brand; and that for ten long years he wooed the Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined and ah! the deep, the low, the pleading tone with which I sang another's love interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush, with downcast eyes and modest grace; and she forgave me that I gazed too fondly on her face! But when I told the cruel scorn that crazed that bold and lovely Knight, and that he crossed the mountain-woods, nor rested day nor night; that sometimes from the savage den, and sometimes from the darksome shade, and sometimes starting up at once in green and sunny glade, there came and looked him in the face an angel beautiful and bright; and that he knew it was a Fiend, this miserable Knight; and that, unknowing what he did, he leaped amid a murderous band, and saved from outrage worse than death the Lady of the Land and how she wept, and clasped his knees; and how she tended him in vain—and ever strove to expiate the scorn that crazed his brain: and that she nursed him in a cave; and how his madness went away, when on the yellow forest leaves a dying man he lay : his dying words

but when I reached that tenderest strain of all the ditty, my faltering voice and pausing harp disturbed her

soul with pity! All impulses of sound and sense had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; the music and the doleful tale, the rich and balmy eve: and hopes, and fears that kindle hope, an undistinguishable throng, and gentle wishes long subdued, subdued and cherished long: she wept with pity and delight, she blushed with love and virgin shame; and like the murmur of a dream, I heard

her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved-she stepped aside, as conscious of my look she stept-then suddenly, with timorous eyes, she fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms, she pressed me with a meek embrace; and bending back her head, looked up, and gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love and partly fear, and partly 'twas a bashful art, that I might rather feel, than see, the swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm, and told her love with virgin pride; and so I won my Genevieve, my bright and beauteous Bride! S. T. Coleridge.

Ivan the Czar.

He sat in silence on the ground,

The old and haughty Czar,

Lonely, though princes girt him round,
And leaders of the war.

He had cast his jewelled sabre,

That many a field had won,

To the earth-beside his youthful dead,
His fair and first-born son.

With a robe of ermine for its bed,
Was laid that form of clay,
Where the light a stormy sunset shed
Through the rich tent made way;
And a sad and solemn beauty

On the pallid face came down,
Which the lord of nations mutely watched
In the dust, with his renown.

Low tones at last of woe and fear
From his full bosom broke-
A mournful thing it was to hear
How then the proud man spoke !

The voice that through the combat
Had shouted far and high,

Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,
Burdened with agony :-

"There is no crimson on thy cheek,
And on thy lip no breath;

I call thee, and thou dost not speak-
They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering
That I the deed have done;

For the honour of thy father's name,
Look up, look up, my son !

"Well might I know death's hue and mien !

But on thine aspect, boy,

What till this moment have I seen

Save pride and tameless joy? Swiftest thou went to battle,

And bravest there of all;

How could I think a warrior's frame
Thus, like a flower, should fall?

"I will not bear that still, cold look!

Rise up, thou fierce and free;

Wake as the storm wakes!

I can brook

All, save this calm, from thee;
Lift brightly up, and proudly,
Once more thy kindling eyes.

Hath my word lost its power on earth?
I say to thee, Arise!

"Did'st thou not know I loved thee well?

Thou did'st not! and art gone,

In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.
Come back! young fiery spirit,
If but one hour, to learn
The secrets of the folded heart,

That seemed to thee so stern.

"Thou wert the first, the first fair child That in my arms I press'd;

Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled Like summer on my breast;

I reared thee as an eagle,

To the chase thy steps I led; I bore thee on my battle-horse; I look upon thee-dead!

"Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,

And bury my red sword and spear,
Chiefs, in my first-born's grave !
And leave me! I have conquered,
I have slain-my work is done :
Whom have I slain? Ye answer not-
Thou, too, art mute, my son !"

And thus his wild lament was poured
Through the dark resounding night,
And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might.
He heard strange voices moaning

In every wind that sighed;

From the searching stars of heaven he shrank—

Humbly the conqueror died.

Slavery that was.

AGES, ages have departed

Since the first dark vessel bore Afric's children, broken-hearted, To the Caribbean shore;

She, like Rachel,

Mrs. Hemans.

Weeping-for they were no more! Millions, millions have been slaughter'd In the fight and on the deep; Millions, millions more have water'd, With such tears as captives weep,

Fields of travail,

Where their bones till Doomsday sleep.

Mercy, mercy vainly pleading,

Rent her garments, smote her breast,
Till a voice, from heaven proceeding,
Gladden'd all the gloomy West-
"Come, ye weary!

Come, and I will give you rest!”

Tidings, tidings of salvation!

Britons rose with one accord,

Purg'd the plague-spot from our nation,
Negroes to their rights restored;
Slaves no longer,

Freemen-freemen of the Lord!

James Montgomery.

The Legend of Lochbuy.

THE matins in Lochbuy's halls are said: Maclean, the doughty chief, with haughty mien his henchman calls, and gives command in language brief. "Go, let the pibroch of the clan, the Gathering,' both loud and clear, be sounded from the bartizan : Maclean to-day will hunt the deer. My child, Lochbuy's dear son and heir, my wife, the Lady Isobel, will, with myself, be present there : hence quickly go-thy message tell."

The henchman sped:-the stag-hounds bay, the fiery steeds impatient rear; the vassals in their tartans gay, with gladsome faces soon appear. The chief, with bow and bugle-horn, rides foremost with his island queen; the nurse and child aloft are borne within their wicker palanquin. Each gorge and pass is fenced with care, the strictest vigilance enjoined, in order that the quarry there no outlet for escape might find. The bugles sound: the startled deer fly fleetly as the viewless wind; the shaggy hounds in full career pursue, and leave the woods behind. But quicker still the red deer fly, bounding before the clamorous train; while from the pass, the Warder's cry rings wild to turn them!-but in vain! On, on they dash!— the gorge they've won !-the hunting of the day is done.

The baffled Chief the Warder eyed with savage wild ferocity: "Seize, bind the slave!" he madly cried, "a cur-dog's death his doom shall be. But no! a refuge in the grave from sneering scorn all cowards find; then let him live his meed to brave: but for the lash the craven bind."—With lips compressed, and dauntless breast, brave Callum Dhu the whip-lash bore; no change of countenance confessed the pain that thrilled through every pore. "Enough!" the Chieftain cried aloud: the galling cords were quick untied; and slowly, followed by the crowd,