Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her 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 hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preach'd 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 sat 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 fill'd 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 any thing be guess'd,
But that she was not!-Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Her father lived; and long might'st thou have 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 remain'd 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,

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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 perish'd-save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

Engraven with a name, the name of both,

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Ginevra." There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she conceal'd herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fasten'd her down for ever!

ROGERS.

AN ENGLISH PEASANT.

To pomp and pageantry in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene :
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid,
At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd:

Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved :
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,
And with the firmest had the fondest mind.

I mark'd his action, when his infant died, And his old neighbour for offence was tried: The still tears, trickling down that furrow'd cheek, Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak.

If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride Who in their base contempt, the great deride: Nor pride in learning-though my clerk agreed, If Death should call him, Ashford might succeed ;Nor pride in rustic skill, although he knew None his superior, and his equals few : But if that spirit in his soul had place, It was the jealous pride that shuns Disgrace; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd; In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd; Pride, in the power that guards his country's coast, And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; Pride, in a life that slander's tongue defied; In fact, a noble passion, mis-named pride. I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there; I see no more those white locks, thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honour'd head; No more that awful glance on playful wight, Compell'd to kneel and tremble at the sight,

To fold his fingers, all in dread the while,
Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile;

No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith (to give it force,) are there:
But he is bless'd, and I lament no more,

A wise good man, contented to be poor.

CRABBE.

THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW.

LATE or early home returning,
In the starlight or the rain,
I beheld that lonely candle
Shining from his window-pane.
Ever o'er his tatter'd curtain,
Nightly looking, I could scan,
Ever writing,
Writing-writing,

The pale figure of a man;

Still discern behind him fall
The same shadow on the wall.

Far beyond the murky midnight,
By dim burning of my oil,
Filling aye his rapid leaflets,
I have watch'd him at his toil;

Watch'd his broad and seamy forehead, Watch'd his white industrious hand,

Ever passing

And repassing;

Watch'd and strove to understand

What impell'd it-gold, or fame

Bread, or bubble of a name.

Oft I've ask'd, debating vainly
In the silence of my mind,
What the services he render'd

To his country or his kind;
Whether tones of ancient music,
Or the sound of modern gong,

Wisdom holy,

Humours lowly,

Sermon, essay, novel, song,

Or philosophy sublime,

Fill'd the measure of his time.

No one sought him, no one knew him, Undistinguish'd was his name;

Never had his praise been utter'd

By the oracles of fame.

Scanty fare and decent raiment,
Humble lodging, and a fire-

These he sought for,

These he wrought for,