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Gonsalvo had no marble heart,
Albeit his look was stern;
And ere set of sun return:
Yet sometimes turn'd his head,
His captive featly sped.
Yet blush'd with rosy light,
Before the Christian knight;
For a damsel press'd his arm,
And quivering with alarm.
She look'd at him and wept;
An equal silence kept.
She knelt at the chieftain's knee,
But he well could guess the plea. “Gazul, thy captive, Christian knight,
Is here by his solemn vow, He was my lover yesternight,
He is my husband now; Without him life to me is vain,
And its sounding pageants hollow, With him I've promised to remain ;
Him, him alone I follow,
“'T was for me he dared, unwisely brave,
The ambush'd road to take; He was your
foe, he is your slave, But he suffers for my make :
Ah! then, his love still let me share,
To whom I've pledged my oath;
But let them bind us both !"
They soften'd to his suít;
Like music from a lute.
The buttress, not the bower;
And not to crush the flower.
Live happy; and whene'er
Believe Gonsalvo there!"
To their own dear Darro's water;
THE HAPPIEST TIME.
WHEN are we happiest—when the light of morn
Wakes the young roses from their crimson rest; When cheerful sounds, upon the fresh winds borne,
Tell man resumes his work with blither zest; While the bright waters leap from rock to glen
Are we the happiest then? Alas, those roses!-they will fade away,
And thunder-tempests will deform the sky; And summer heats bid the spring buds decay,
And the clear sparkling fountain may be dry; And nothing beauteous may adorn the scene,
To tell what it has been!
When are we happiest ?-in the crowded hall,
When fortune smiles, and flatterers bend the knee? How soon-how very soon, such pleasures pall!
How fast must falsehood's rainbow colouring flee; Its poison flow'rets brave the sting of care:
We are not happy there!
Are we the happiest, when the evening hearth
Is circled with its crown of living flowers? When goeth round the laugh of harmless mirth,
And when affection from her bright urn showers Her richest balm on the dilating heart?
Bliss! is it there thou art!
Oh, no!--not there; it would be happiness
Almost like heaven's, if it might always be
And wanting nothing but eternity;
They must, they must decay.
Those voices must grow tremulous with years,
Those smiling brows must wear a tinge of gloom; Those sparkling eyes be quench'd in bitter tears,
And, at the last, close darkly in the tomb. If happiness depends on them alone,
How quickly is it gone!
When are we happiest, then?-oh! when resign'd
To whatsoe'er our cup of life may brim; When we can know ourselves but weak and blind,
Creatures of earth! and trust alone in Him Who giveth, in his mercy, joy or pain:
Oh! we are happiest then! Miss MARY ANNE BROWNE
THE SISTER'S VOICE.
“O what a voice is silent !"-Barry Cornwall.
O my sister's voice is gone away!
Around our social hearth
So full of harmless mirth-
The waving of her hair,
The hand so small and fair;
And made our hearts rejoiceSadly we mourn each vanish'd grace,
But most of all her voice.
For oh! it was so soft and sweet
When it breathed forth in words ;
In echoes on their chords;
She sung a mournful song,
In triumph" chorus strong;
Would soothe our bosoms' care,
In sounds of praise and prayer. 0, in my childhood, I have sate,
When that sweet voice hath breathed, Forgetful of each merry mate
Of the wild flowers I had wreathed; And though each other voice I scorn'd
That call'd me from my play, If my sweet sister only warnd,
I never could delay.
'Twas she who sang me many a rhyme,
And told me many a tale, And many a legend of old time
That made my spirit quail.
There are a thousand pleasant sounds
Around our cottage still-
The breeze upon the hill,
The swallow in the eaves,
In passing from the leaves,
The opening flowers to wet,-
To make them sweeter yet.
We stood around her dying bed,
We saw her blue eyes close;
And from her cheek the rose.
And still she strove to speak
And yet she was too weak;
That bound us like a spell; And as her spirit pass'd away,
We heard her sigh-"farewell!"
And oft since then that voice hath come
Across my heart again;
And bids me not complain :
Or the sound of a rippling stream, Or the rich deep music of a lute,
But it renews my dream,