There was heard among the guests a universal murmur of admiration as she made her appearance. So beautiful, so bright, so radiant a being they had never seen. Her face appeared actually to _emit light_—so truly did the bright sunshine of her glad young heart shine through. A slight movement at the great double door of the chapel—and the bridegroom, the Marquis of Talavera was announced! Quite as great a sensation did the noble, manly figure of the young marquis create, as had the softer and more gentle one of the Lady Ysabel. The father seemed struck dumb in sudden surprise!—at length, burst from his lips—“The page!” Any of the old gossips of Spain will tell you the rest of the story—and what a joyous wedding there was—and how every one said there never was so well matched—so noble a pair, as Don Jose, Marquis of Talavera, and his gentle bride, Ysabel! They will tell you, too, that the honey-moon, instead of lasting but thirty-one days, did outlast thirty-one years!—and the love that was true to the sire could not but bless the son. * * * * * So endeth the story of “The Lady and the Page.” * * * * * FANCIES ABOUT A ROSEBUD, PRESSED IN AN OLD COPY OF SPENSER. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Who prest you here? The Past can tell, When summer skies were bright above, And some full heart did leap and swell Beneath the white new moon of love. Some Poet, haply, when the world Showed like a calm sea, grand and blue, Ere its cold, inky waves had curled O’er the numb heart once warm and true; When, with his soul brimful of morn, He looked beyond the vale of Time, Nor saw therein the dullard scorn That made his heavenliness a crime; When, musing o’er the Poets olden, His soul did like a sun upstart To shoot its arrows, clear and golden, Through slavery’s cold and darksome heart. Alas! too soon the veil is lifted That hangs between the soul and pain, Too soon the morning-red hath drifted Into dull cloud, or fallen in rain! Or were you prest by one who nurst Bleak memories of love gone by, Whose heart, like a star fallen, burst In dark and erring vacancy? To him you still were fresh and green As when you grew upon the stalk, And many a breezy summer scene Came back—and many a moonlit walk; And there would be a hum of bees, A smell of childhood in the air, And old, fresh feelings cooled the breeze That, like loved fingers, stirred his hair! Then would you suddenly be blasted By the keen wind of one dark thought, One nameless woe, that had outlasted The sudden blow whereby ’twas brought.