The moonshine stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She leaned against the arméd man, The statue of the arméd knight; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, She listened with a flitting blush, I told her of the Knight that wore I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush, Too fondly on her face. But when I told the cruel scorn That sometimes from the savage den, In green and sunny glade, There came and looked him in the face And that unknowing what he did, The Lady of the Land; 'Tis to woo a bonnie lasie When the kye come hame, "T is not beneath the burgonet, Nor yet in bed o' down: There the blackbird bigs his nest, When the blewart bears a pearl, Has fauldit up his ee, Then the lavrock, frae the blue lift, To woo his bonnie lassie, When the kye come hame. See yonder pawky shepherd, And his lambs are lying still; For his heart is in a flame, To meet his bonnie lassie When the kye come hame. When the little wee bit heart Then since all Nature joins To Nature's dearest joy? FROM ATALANTA VICTORIOUS. ATALANTA'S RACE," IN "THE EARTHLY AND there two runners did the sign abide But on this day with whom shall he contend? A maid stood by him like Diana clad When in the woods she lists her bow to bend, Too fair for one to look on and be glad, Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had, If he must still behold her from afar ; Too fair to let the world live free from war. She seemed all earthly matters to forget; Of all tormenting lines her face was clear, Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near; But her foe trembled as a man in fear, Nor from her loveliness one moment turned His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. Now through the hush there broke the trumpet's clang Just as the setting sun made eventide. Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang, But when the people saw how close they ran, When half-way to the starting-point they were, A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near Unto the very end of all his fear; And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel, His flushed and eager face he turned around, There stood she breathing like a little child But her late foe stopped short amidst his course, One moment gazed upon her piteously, Then with a groan his lingering feet did force To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see; And, changed like one who knows his time must be But short and bitter, without any word He knelt before the bearer of the sword; Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade, Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place Was silence now, and midst of it the maid Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace, And he to hers upturned his sad white face; Nor did his eyes behold another sight Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. But he what look of mastery was this He cast on her? why were his lips so red? Why was his face so flushed with happiness? So looks not one who deems himself but dead, E'en if to death he bows a willing head; So rather looks a god well pleased to find Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, And even as she casts adown her eyes Redden to note his eager glance of praise, And wish that she were clad in other guise? Why must the memory to her heart arise Of things unnoticed when they first were heard, Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word? What makes these longings, vague, without a |