And as she ask'd, with voice of woeList'ning, the while, that fountain's flow"Shall I recover

My truant lover?"

The fountain seem'd to answer "No;"
The fountain answered, "No."

A HUNTER once in that grove reclin'd
To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he woo'd the wandering wind,
To cool his brow with its sigh.
While mute lay ev'n the wild bee's hum,

Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair, His song was still "Sweet air, oh come! While Echo answer'd, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise! What meaneth that rustling spray? ""Tis the white-horn'd doe," the Hunter cries, "I have sought since break of day," Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs,

The arrow flies from his sounding bow,

'Hilliho-hilliho!" he gaily sings,

While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horn'd doe
He saw in the rustling grove,
But the bridal veil, as pure as snow,
Of his own young wedded love.
And, ah, too sure that arrow sped,

For pale at his feet he sees her lie;—

"I die, I die,” was all she said,

While Echo murmur'd, "I die, I die!"

YOUTH AND AGE.

"TELL me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day, To drooping Age, who crost his way."It is a sunny hour of play,

For which repentance dear doth pay;
Repentance! Repentance!

And this is Love, as wise men say."

"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more,

Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.

'Soft as a passing summer's wind:

Would'st know the blight it leaves behind?

Repentance! Repentance!

And this is Love-when love is o'er."

Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth again,
Trusting the bliss, but not the pain.-
"Sweet as a May tree's scented air-
Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear,
Repentance! Repentance!

This is Love-sweet Youth, beware."

Just then, young Love himself came by,
And cast on Youth a smiling eye;
Who could resist that glance's ray?
In vain did Age his warning say,
"Repentance! Repentance!"
Youth laughing went with Love away.

THE DYING WARRIOR.

A WOUNDED Chieftain, lying
By the Danube's leafy side,
Thus faintly said, in dying,

Oh! bear, thou foaming tide,
This gift to my lady-bride.”

'Twas then, in life's last quiver,
He flung the scarf he wore
Into the foaming river,

Which, ah too quickly, bore
That pledge of one no more!

With fond impatience burning,
The Chieftain's lady stool,
To watch her love returning

In triumph down the flood,
From that day's field of blood.

But, field, alas, ill-fated!

The lady saw, instead

Of the bark whose speed she waited,
Her hero's scarf, all red

With the drops his heart had shed.

One shriek—and all was over-
Her life-pulse ceas'd to beat;

The gloomy waves now cover

That bridal-flower so sweet,

And the scarf is her winding sheet!

"COME, if thy magic Glass have pow'r
To call up forms we sigh to see;
Show me my love, in that rosy bow'r,
Where last she pledg'd her truth to me."

The Wizard show'd him his Lady bright,
Where lone and pale in her bow'r she lay;
True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight,

She's thinking of one, who is far away.”

But, lo a page, with looks of joy,

Brings tidings to the Lady's ear;

"Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy, Who used to guide me to my dear."

The lady now, from her fav'rite tree,
Hath, smiling, pluck'd a rosy flow'r;
"Such," he exclaim'd, "was the gift that she
Each morning sent me from that bow'r!"

She gives her page the blooming rose,

With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!" "Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes, By fancying, still, her true-love nigh."

But the page returns, and-oh, what a sight,
For trusting lover's eyes to see!-

Leads to that bow'r another Knight,
As young and, alas, as lov'd as he!

"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!" Then, darting forth with furious bound,

Dash'd at the Mirror his iron glove,

And strew'd it all in fragments round.

MORAL.

Such ills would never have come to pass,
Had he ne'er sought that fatal view;

The Wizard would still have kept his Glass,
And the Knight still thought his Lady true.

THE PILGRIM.

STILL thus, when twilight gleam'd,

Far off his Castle seem'd,

Trac'd on the sky;

And still, as Fancy bore him

To those dim tow'rs before him,

He gaz'd, with wishful eye,

And thought his home was nigh.

Hall of my Sires!" he said,
How long, with weary tread,
Must I toil on?

Each eve, as thus I wander,
Thy tow'rs seem rising yonder,
But, scarce hath daylight shone,
When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"

In vain all the Knights of the Underwald woo'd her,

Though brightest of maidens, the proudest was she. Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her, But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whomsoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling,

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That Knight must the conq'ror of conquerors be;

He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in;-
None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!"