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Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it

up

when far away. She sits, inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said, “Beware!" Her vest of gold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody.

Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture-stories from the life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor.
That by the way—it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to him?
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal-dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of tonguc.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand with her heart in it to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sat down, the bride was wanting there.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
“'Tis but to make a trial of our love;"
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.

S

"Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas ! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed,
But that she was not! Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived, and long mightst thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find-he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless—then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were passed, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, .
That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,
“Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?”
'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold !
All else had perished-save a nuptial ring
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
“ Ginevra !” There then had she found a grave !
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy,
When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever.

MISCELLANEOUS

THE RIVULET.

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern

To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,

But I go on for ever.
I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles ;
I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,

But I go on for ever.
I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling ;

And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me, as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel,-
And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river ;
For men may come and men may go,

But I go on for ever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

I slide by hazel covers ;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses ;
I linger by my shingly bars ;

I loiter round my cresses ;
And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

Alfred Tennyson.

ST. AGNES.

Deep on the convent-roof the snows

Are sparkling to the moon ;
My breath to heaven like vapour goes,

May my soul follow soon !
The shadows of the convent-towers

Slant down the snowy sward,
Still creeping with the creeping hours

That lead me to my Lord ;
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear

As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year

That in my bosom lies.
As these white robes are soiled and dark

To yonder shining ground,
As this pale taper's

earthly spark To yonder argent round;

So shows my soul before the Lamb,

My spirit before Thee ;
So in mine earthly house I am

To that I hope to be.
Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far

Through all yon starlight keen
Draw me Thy bride, a glittering star,

In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors,

The flashes come and go ;
All heaven bursts her starry floors,

And strews her lights below,
And deepens on and up! The gates

Roll back, and far within
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,

To make me pure of sin.
The Sabbaths of eternity,

One Sabbath deep and wide A light upon the shining seaThe Bridegroom with his bride.

Alfred Tennyson.

SIR GALAHAD.

My good blade carves the casques

of

men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure;
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel;
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel.
They reel, they roll in clanging lists ;
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in shadows
That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favours fall !
For them I battle till the end,
To save from shame and thrall;
But all my heart is drawn above,
My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine;
I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden's hand in mine.

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