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'. Yes! I was with thee wben the dance through mazy rings

was led, And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast

was spread ;But not where noble blood flowed forth, where sounding

javelins flew-Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and not its last

adieu ? What now can breathé of gladness more, what scene, what

hour, what tone ? The blue skies fade with all their lights,-they fade, since

thou art gone! Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears

unmoved -Take me from this dark world with thee, Janthis ! my

beloved !

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the

young, Amidst her tears the funeral chant a mournful' sister sung. Ianthis, brother of my sou) !-Oh! where are now the

days That laughed among the deep-green hills, on all our infant

plays ?

When we two sported by the streams, or tracked them to

their source,

And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy first fearless

course! -I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend, I see thy bounding step no more, my brother and my

friend !

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I come with flowers—for spring is come !-Ianthis ! art

thou here? I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy

bier ! Thou shouldst be crowned with victory's crown-but oh!

more meet they seem, The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream. More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early

low-Alas ! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine's

glow : The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy

to send, -Woe, that it smiles, and not for thee !--my brother and

my friend !

Mrs Hemans.

THE CRUSADER.

He is come from the land of the sword and the shrine,
From the sainted battles of Palestine ;
The snow plumes wave o'er bis victor crest-
Like a glory the red cross hangs at his breast ;
The courser is black as black can be,
Save the brow-star, white as the foam of the sea ;
And he wears a scarf of broidery rare,
The last love-gift of his lady fair ;
It bore for device, a cross and a dove,
And the words, ' I am vowed to my God, and my

love !' He comes not back the same that he went, For his sword has been tried, and his strength has been

spent ; His golden hair has a deeper brown, And his brow has caught a darker frown And his lip hath lost its boyish red, And the shade of the south o'er his cheek is spread; 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 reached the castle-the gate was thrown
Open and wide, but he stood there alone.
He entered 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 throbbed 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 hope 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 passed 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,

o'er
very

desolateness ;

But to weep

They pointed him to a barren plain
Where his father, his brothers, his kinsmen were slain.
They showed 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 withered 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 on his shield;
And the motto he bears is, ' I fight for a grave!
He found it that warrior has died with the brave !

Miss L. E. Landon.

SOLITUDE.

A FRAGMENT.

I love thee, Solitudel thou art possessed
Of all

my secret heart ; nor hath thine ear Shrunk from the accents of thy lonely guest,

Told to the night when thou alone wert near. I've sought thee 'neath the moonlight, where the stream

Through rock and sedge poured forth its voiced gush..

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