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But stately his steps, and his bearing high,
And wild the light of his fiery eye,
And proud in the lists were the maiden bright
Who might claim the Knight of the Cross for her

knight;
But he rides for the home he has pined to see,
In the court, in the camp, in captivity.

He reach'd the castle-the gate was thrown
Open and wide, but he stood there alone:
He enter'd the door-his own step was all
That echoed within the deserted hall :
He stood on the roof of the ancient tower,
And for banner there waved one pale wall-flower;
And for sound of the trumpet and sound of the horn,
Came the scream of the owl on the night-wind borne;
And the turrets were falling, the vassals were flown,
And the bat ruled the halls he had thought his own.
His heart throbb’d high ; oh, never again
Might he soothe with sweet thoughts his spirit's pain!
He never might think on his boyish years
Till his eyes grew dim with those sweet warm tears
Which hópe and memory shed when they meet-
The grave of his kindred was at his feet.
He stood alone, the last of his race,
With the cold wide world for his dwelling-place :
The home of his fathers, gone to decay,-
All but their memory was pass'd away;
No one to welcome, no one to share
The laurel he no more was proud to wear !
He came in the pride of his war-success
But to weep over very desolateness.
They pointed him to a barren plain,
Where his fathers, his brothers, his kinsmen, were

slain ;
They show'd him the lowly grave where slept
The maiden whose scarf he so truly had kept;
But they could not show him one living thing
To which his wither'd heart could cling,

Amid the warriors of Palestine
Is one, the first in the battle line;
It is not for glory he seeks the field,
For a blasted tree is upon his shield,
And the motto he bears is, “ I fight for a grave

." He found it—that warrior has died with the brave!

Miss LANDON.

ADDRESS TO WOMAN.
SYLPH of the blue and beaming eye!

The Muse's fondest wreaths are thine,
The youthful heart beats warm and high,

And joys to own thy power divine!
Thou shinest on the flowery path

Of youth—and all its pleasures there;-
Thou soothest man, whene'er he hath
An

eye of gloom-a brow of care !

To youth, thou art the early morn,

With “light, and melody, and song,"
To beam around ; each scene adorn;

And swiftly speed his time along.
To man, thou art the gift of Heaven,

A boon for regions bright above,
His lot how dark, had ne'er been given

To him the light of woman's love!

When o'er his dark’ning brow the storm

Is gathering in its power and might,
The radiant beam of woman's form

Breaks through the cloud, and all is light:
When dire Disease prepares her wrath

To pour in terror from above,
How gleams upon his gloomy path

The glowing light of woman's love!

When all around is clear and bright,
And pleasure lends her fairest

charm, And man, enraptured with delight,

Feels, as he views, his bosom warm; Why glows his heart with joy profuse,

And all his deeds his rapture prove ? It is, because the scene he views

Through the bright rays of woman's love! O woman! thine is still the power,

Denied to all but only thee,
To chase away the clouds that lower

To darken life's eventful sea.
Thou light of man! his only joy

Beneath a wide and boundless sky! Long shall thy praise his tongue employ, Sylph of the blue and beaming eye!

ANON.

THE MINSTREL'S HOUR. WHEN day is done, and clouds are low,

And flowers are honey-dew,
And Hesper's lamp begins to glow

Along the western blue,
And homeward wing the turtle doves,
Then comes the hour the Minstrel loves.

Far in the dimness curtain'd round,

He hears the echoes all
Of rosy vale, or grassy mound,

Or distant waterfall;
And shapes are on his dreaming sight,
That keep their beauty for the night.
And still, as shakes the sudden breeze

The forest's deep'ning shade,
He hears on Tuscan evening seas

The silver serenade!

Or, to the field of battle borne,
Swells at the sound of trump and horn.

The star that peeps the leaves between,

To him is but the light
That from some lady's bower of green

Shines on her pilgrim knight,
That feels her spell around him twine,
And hastens home from Palestine.

O, if some wand'ring peasant's song

Come sweeten'd from the vale,
He hears the stately mitred throng

Around the altar's pale ;
Or sees the dark-eyed nuns of Spain,
Bewitching, blooming, young, in vain.
And thus he thinks the hour away

In sweet unworldly folly ;
And loves to see the shades of gray,

That feed his melancholy :
Finding sweet speech and thought in all,
Star, leaf, wind, song, and waterfall!

CROLY.

THE SAILOR.

An aged Widow, with one only child,
And even he was far away at sea :
Narrow and mean the street wherein she dwelt,
And low and small the room; but still it had
A look of comfort: on the white-wash'd walls
Were rang'd her many ocean treasures shells,
Some like the snow, and some pink, with a blush
Caught from the sunset on the waters; plumes
From the bright pinions of the Indian birds;
Long dark sea-weeds, and black and crimson berries,
Were treasured with the treasuring of the heart.

Her sailor brought them, when from his first voyage
He came so sun-burnt and so tall, she scarce
Knew her fair stripling in that manly youth.
Like a memorial of far better days,
The large old Bible, with its silver clasps,
Lay on the table; and a fragrant air
Came from the window: there stood a rose tree-
Lonely, but of luxuriant growth, and rich
With thousand buds, and beautifully blown flowers :
It was a slip from that which grew beside
The cottage, once her own, which ever drew
Praise from each passer down the shadowy lane
Where her home stood, the home where yet she

thought
To end her days in peace;—that was the hope
That made life pleasant, and it had been fed
By the so ardent spirits of her boy,
Who said that God would bless the efforts made
For his old mother.—Like a holiday
Each Sunday came, for then her patient way
She took to the white church of her own village,
A long five miles; and many marvell’d, one
So aged, so feeble, still should seek that church.
They knew not how delicious the fresh air,
How fair the green leaves and the fields, how glad
The sunshine of the country, to the eyes
That look'd so seldom on them. She would sit
Long after service on a grave, and watch

The cattle as they grazed, the yellow corn,
The lane where yet her home might be; and then
Return with lighten'd heart to her dull street,
Refresh'd with hope and pleasant memories,—
Listen with anxious ear to the conch shell,
Wherein, they say, the rolling of the sea
Is heard distinct; pray for her absent child,
Bless him, then dream of him.-

A shout awoke tho sleeping town, the night
Rang with the fleet's return, and victory!
Men that were slumbering quietly, rose up

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