But where was Philip, he who danced so well? Had he retired, had pleasure broke her spell? No, he had yielded to a tend'rer bond, He sat beside his own sick Rosamond, Whose illness long deferr'd their wedding hour; She wept, and seem'd a lily in a shower; She wept to see him 'midst a crowd so gay, For her sake lose the honours of the day. But could a gentle youth be so unkind? Would Philip dance, and leave his girl behind? She in her bosom hid a written prize, Inestimably rich in Philip's eyes; The warm effusion of a heart that glow'd With joy, with love, and hope by Heaven bestow'd. He woo'd, he soothed, and every art assay'd, To hush the scruples of the bashful maid, Drawing, at length, against her weak command, Reluctantly the treasure from her hand: And would have read, but passion chain'd his tongue, He turn'd aside, and down the ballad flung; And paused so long from feeling and from shame, That old Sir Ambrose halloo'd him by name: "Bring it to me, my lad, and never fear, "I never blamed true love, or scorn'd a tear; "They well become us, e'en where branded most." He came, and made a proxy of his host, Who, as the dancers cooling join'd the throng, Eyed the fair writer as he read her song. ROSAMOND'S SONG OF HOPE. Sweet Hope, so oft my childhood's friend, I will believe thee still, For thou canst joy with sorrow blend, Where grief alone would kill. When disappointments wrung my heart, Ill brook'd in tender years, Thou, like a sun, perform'dst thy part, And dried my infant tears. When late I wore the bloom of health, And love had bound me fast, My buoyant heart would sigh by stealth For fear it might not last. My sickness came, my bloom decay'd, But Philip still was by; And thou, sweet Hope, so kindly said, "He'll weep if thou should'st die." Thou told'st me too, that genial Spring Would bring me health again; I feel its power, but cannot sing Its glories yet for pain. But thou canst still my heart inspire, And Heaven can strength renew; I feel thy presence, holy fire! My Philip will be true. * * * * * All eyes were turn'd, all hearts with pity glow'd, The maid stood trembling, and the lover bow'd As rose around them, while she dried her tears, "Long life to Rosamond, and happy years!" Scarce had the voices ceased, when forth there came Another candidate for village fame: By gratitude to Heaven, by honest pride, Impell'd to rise and cast his doubts aside, A sturdy yeoman, button'd to the throat, Faced the whole ring, and shook his leathern coat. "I have a tale of private life to tell, "'Tis all of self and home, I know it well; "In love and honour's cause I would be strong, "Mine is a father's tale, perhaps too long, "For fathers, when a duteous child's the theme, "Can talk a summer's sun down, and then dream "Of retrospective joys with hearts that glow "With feelings such as parents only know." ALFRED AND JENNET.