'Oh! there is one path through the forest so green, Where thou and I only, my palfrey, have been: We traversed it oft, when I rode to her bower To tell my love tale through the rift of the tower. 'Thou know'st not my words, but thy instinct is good: By the road to the church lies the path through the wood: Thy instinct is good, and her love is as true: Thou wilt see thy way homeward: dear palfrey, adieu.' They feasted full late and full early they rose, And church-ward they rode more than half in a doze: The steed in an instant broke off from the throng, And pierced the green path, which he bounded along. In vain was pursuit, though some followed pell-mell: Through bramble and thicket they floundered and fell. On the backs of their coursers some dozed as before, And missed not the bride till they reached the church door. The knight from his keep on the forest-bound gazed: The drawbridge was down, the portcullis was raised: And true to his hope came the palfrey amain, With his only loved lady, who checked not the rein. The drawbridge went up: the portcullis went down; The chaplain was ready with bell, book, and gown: The wreck of the bride-train arrived at the gate, The bride showed the ring, and they muttered 'Too late!' 'Not too late for a feast, though too late for a fray; What's done can't be undone: make peace while you may': So spake the young knight, and the old ones complied; And quaffed a deep health to the bridegroom and bride. Mr. Falconer had listened to the ballad with evident pleasure. He turned to resume his place on the sofa, but finding it preoccupied by the doctor, he put on a look of disappointment, which seemed to the doctor exceedingly comic. 'Surely,' thought the doctor, 'he is not in love with the old maid.' Miss Gryll gave up her place to a young lady, who in her turn sang a ballad of a different character. LOVE AND AGE I played with you 'mid cowslips blowing, When I was six and you were four; When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, Were pleasures soon to please no more. Through groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, With little playmates, to and fro, We wandered hand in hand together; But that was sixty years ago. You grew a lovely roseate maiden, And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden, They glided joyously along; And I did love you very dearly, How dearly words want power to show; I thought your heart was touched as nearly; But that was fifty years ago.