I loved him more than she understands. For him I loaded my soul with truth; For him I am kneeling, with lifted hands, To lay at his feet my shattered youth! I love, I adore him, still the same! More than father, and mother, and life! My hope of hopes was to bear his name— My heaven of heavens to be his wife! His _wife_—oh, name which the angels breathe, Let it not crimson my cheek for shame— ’Tis her great glory that word to wreathe In the princely heart from whose blood it came. Oh, hush! again I behold them stand, As they stood to-night, by the chancel wall: I see him holding her white-gloved hand, I hear his voice in a whisper fall. I see the minister’s silver hair, I see him kneel at the altar-stone, I see him rise when the prayer is o’er, He has taken their hands and made them one. The fathers and mothers are standing near, The friends are pressing to kiss the bride; One of those kisses had birthplace here— The dew of her lips has not yet dried. His lips have touched hers before to-night— Then I have a grain of his to keep! This midnight blackness is flecked with light, Some angel is singing my soul to sleep. He knows full well why many a knave So close to his lady’s lips would swim— God only knows that the kiss I gave Was set in her mouth to give to him! W. L. KEESE. THE BALLAD OF CHEVY-CHASE. In this popular ballad, believed to have been written about the year 1600, occur these familiar stanzas: Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail; They washed their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail. Their bodies, bathed in purple blood, They bore with them away; They kissed them dead a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay. THE OLD LOVE. I met her; she was thin and old, She stooped, and trod with tottering feet; Her locks were gray that once were gold, Her voice was harsh that once was sweet; Her cheeks were sunken, and her eyes, Robbed of their girlish light of joy, Were dim: I felt a strange surprise That I had loved her when a boy. But yet a something in her air Restored me to my youthful prime: My heart grew young, and seemed to wear The impress of that long-lost time. I took her wilted hand in mine, Its touch awoke a ghost of joy; I kissed her with a reverent sigh, For I had loved her when a boy. EARL MARCH’S DAUGHTER. The earl, smitten with grief over his broken-hearted and dying Ellen, is anxious to restore the lover he had exiled. But it is too late: In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs; Her cheek is cold as ashes; Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyes To lift their silken lashes. CAMPBELL. THE KING OF FRANCE’S DAUGHTER.