I wish I were where Helen lies:
Night and day on me she cries;
And I am weary of the skies,

Since my love died for me.

OLD BALLAD.

CXXXVIII

GINEVRA.

She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.
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 his birth, and her first love.

She was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling for the hundreth 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 sate 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.-
'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 anything 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 was to be 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 past, 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!

ROGERS.

CXXXIX

THE ERL KING.

Who is it that rides through the forest so fast,
While night frowns around him, while shrill roars the blast!
The father, who holds his young son in his arm,

And close in his mantle has wrapped him up warm.

"Why trembles my darling? why shrinks he with fear?"-“Oh, father! my father! the Erl-King is near !

"The Erl-King, with his crown and his beard long and white!" "Oh! your eyes are deceived by the vapours of night.”

-“Come, baby, sweet baby, with me go away! "Fine clothes you shall wear, we will play a fine play; "Fine flowers are growing, white, scarlet, and blue, "On the banks of yon river, and all are for you."

"Oh! father! my father! and dost thou not hear, "What words the Erl-King whispers low in mine ear? "Now hush thee, my darling, thy terrors appease; "Thou hear'st 'mid the branches, where murmurs the breeze."

"Oh! baby, sweet baby, with me go away! "My daughter shall nurse you, so fair and so gay; "My daughter, in purple and gold who is dress'd, "Shall tend you, and kiss you, and sing you to rest!"

-"Oh! father! my father! and dost thou not see
"The Erl-King and his daughter are waiting for me!”

"Oh! shame thee, my darling, 'tis fear makes thee blind, "Thou see'st the dark willows which wave in the wind."

"I love thee! I doat on thy face so divine!

"I must and will have thee, and force makes thee mine!". 'My father! my father! oh! hold me now fast!

"He pulls me! he hurts, and will have me at last! '

The father he trembled, he doubled his speed;

O'er hills and through forests he spurred his black steed; But when he arrived at his own castle door,

Life throbbed in the sweet baby's bosom no more.

(From the German of Goethe.)

CXL

THE WAKENING.

How many thousands are wakening now!
Some to the songs from the forest bough,
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice-pane,
To the chiming fall of the early rain.

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea,
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee,
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side,
That holds through the tumult her path of pride.

And some
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice;

oh, well may their hearts rejoice! —

Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone,
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone.

And some, in the camp, to the bugle's breath,
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath;
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun,
Which tells that a field must ere night be won.

And some, in the gloomy convict cell,

To the dull deep note of the warning bell,

As it heavily calls them forth to die,

When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky.

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn,
And some to the din from the city borne,
And some to the rolling of torrent-floods,
Far midst old mountains and solemn woods.

So are we roused on this chequered earth:
Each unto light hath a daily birth;
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet.