Come forth, for the lark is alive with his song, And the bound of my pulses is life-like and strong; It is gladness to see the wild fire of thine eye, And feel thy light tread as the breeze rushes by. Come forth, my own Arab, the Sun is asleep, And the tears of the morning thy dark mane shall steep; Thou shalt drink from the gushes of Summer’s cool streams, E’er the flow of the fountain is tipt with morn’s beams. Come forth to the greenwood whilst perfume is there, And we’ll start the wild deer from his slumbering lair; The leap of the cascade, and dash of the spray, Shall echo more faint as we hurry away. Come forth, my brave steed—far truer art thou Than the smile on the lip, or the light on the brow; More faithful than promises lovers may breathe, Or the garlands of fame that a nation may wreath. Come forth—I am ready—hurrah for the hills, Whilst the harp-string of pleasure with ecstasy thrills; No hour like the morning—no scene like to this In all the wide world, for a moment of bliss. * * * * * JASPER ST. AUBYN; OR THE COURSE OF PASSION. BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT. (_Concluded from page 262._) CHAPTER II. _The Sacrifice._ Ask any thing but that. An hour had not quite passed, when, as she sat alone in her little gayly-decorated study, with its walls hung with water-color drawings of her own execution, its tables strewn with poetry and music of her own composition, and her favorite books, and her own lute—her little study in which the happiest hours of her life had been spent, the first hours of her married life, while Jasper was all that her fancy painted him—his step came along the corridor, but with a slow and hesitating sound, most unlike to the quick, firm, decided tread, for which he was remarkable. She noticed the difference, it is true, at the moment, but forgot it again instantly. It was enough! It was he! and he was coming once again to seek her in her own apartment; he had a boon to ask of her—he had promised to love her—he had called her “his dear Theresa.” And now she sprung up, with her soul beaming from her eyes, and ran to meet him. The door was opened ere he reached it, and as he entered, she fell upon his neck, and wound her snowy arms about his waist, and kissed him fifty times, and wept silent tears in the fullness of her joy. And did not his heart respond in the least to her innocent and girlish rapture; did he not bend at all from his bad purpose; was there no melting, no relenting in that callous, selfish nature; was, indeed, all within him hard as the nether millstone?