“Now fie on thy manhood, to deem it a sin That she loveth the glory thy falchion might win, Let them doubt of thy prowess and fortune no more, Up! Sir Knight, for thy lady—and do thy devoir!” “She hath shrunk from my side, she hath failed in her trust, Not relied on my blade, but remembered its rust; It shall brighten once more in the field of its fame, But it is not for her I would now win a name.” The knight rode away, and the lady she sigh’d, When he featly as ever his steed would bestride, While the mould from the banner he shook to the wind Seemed to fall on the breast he left aching behind. But the rust on his glaive and the rust in his heart Had corroded too long and too deep to depart, And the brand only brightened in honor once more, When the heart ceased to beat on the fray-trampled shore. * * * * * THE DYING MINSTREL TO HIS MUSE. BY WILLIAM FALCONER. Farewell, gentle Muse! fare thee well, and for ever! No more in the greenwood with thee must I stray: Thy flowers which I cherished have bloomed but to wither, Like youth’s vernal wreath, they all faded away: Yet sweet was the morn, timid Muse, when I sought thee, In the green ruined tower by the wild Scottish rill; A heart framed for joy like the wine-cup I brought thee, With Fancy’s rich draught thou the chalice didst fill. O soft was thy dawning, thou mental Aurora, It shed on my morning-dream heaven’s young ray, With the seraph-wing’d bird through the cloudlets of glory My soul soared exulting through life’s early day; Then love’s vernal flush filled my bosom with gladness, And she whom I loved shared its passion with thee; She left me to pine in the chill shade of sadness, Then crossed I in anguish the wide-spreading sea. But thou wert more faithful, for rocked on the ocean ’Twas thou who mad’st lovely the dreams of my rest, My spirit went forth on the wings of emotion To sport with the bird o’er the blue waters’ breast. Now in my pent bosom life’s last pulses tremble Like sear fluttering leaves on yon wind-beaten tree, With spring-loving birds on its boughs that assemble My soul to the Land of the Spirit shall flee. Then come, O my wild lyre, my sole earthly treasure, ’Neath Death’s downy pinions come slumber in peace; Leave the world to the rosy-crown’d vot’ries of Pleasure, Its garlands must wither—its Bacchanals cease! Dear Enchantress, farewell! but that friend of my bosom Revisit once more, o’er the waves’ deafening swell, Inspire him that one fleeting flowret may blossom To the memory of him who hath loved him so well! _Paris, France._ * * * * * HARRY CAVENDISH.