MINGCALLS

FROM ANCIENT SPANISH BALıa.a cursul vỀ

ROMANTIC," TRANSLATED #7, 1

SINCE for kissing thee, agu
My mother scolds me t
Let me have it quickly, d
Give me back my kiss, I any

If we have done aught

Let's undo it while we may
Quickly give me back the re

Never despair! though dark shadows surround thee, Let not thine heart be oppress'd with the gloom; Remember, though failure to-day may have found thee, To-morrow, success may thy pathway illume!

NORA'S VOW.

66

SIR WALTER SCOTT. FROM SELECT MELODIES OF

SCOTLAND."

HEAR What Highland Nora said:
"The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of Nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the laws both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,

I would not wed the Earlie's son."

"A maiden's vows, (old Callum spoke,)
Are lightly made and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae,
Yet, Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son."

"The swan." she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest;

The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben Cruachan fall, and crush Kilchurn:
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;

But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son."

Still in the water-lily's shade

Her wonted nest the wild swan made,
Ben Cruachan stands as fast as ever,

Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;

To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No highland brogue has turn'd the heel:
But Nora's heart is lost and won,

-She's wedded to the Earlie's son !

THE IVY.

A BALLAD.

JOHN CHRISTOPHER FREDERICK VON SCHILLER, BORN AT
MARBACH, IN WURTEMBERG, Nov. 10, 1759, DILD
IN NORTHERN GERMANY, MAY 9, 1805.

OH! a merry old stave for the Ivy brave
That mantles the ruin'd wall;

And he climbeth the steep of the castle keep
Till he waves o'er the turrets tall.

He rooteth him fast, against the blast,
And laughs at the cold wind's moan;
He scorneth to fear at the winter drear,
That decketh him then in his brightest gear.
So a merry old stave

To the Ivy brave,

That changelessly flourishes on!

A stripling tree, just sprung had he,

Five hundred years agone,

When the young fair girl of a belted earl

Train'd his limbs o'er the crannied stone,