Through the silent glades of the forest there springs An eager horseman proudly; He blows his horn, he laughs, and he sings Exultingly and loudly. His armour is made of the brass most strong, But stronger still is his bosom; ’Tis Cœur de Lion that’s riding along, That Christian chivalry’s blossom. “Thou’rt welcome to England!” each verdant bough “Exclaims with joyous assurance; “We’re heartily glad, O monarch, that thou “Hast escap’d from thine Austrian durance.” The king snuffs up the free air the while, Like a newborn creature lives he; He thinks of his Austrian dungeon vile,-- And his spurs to his proud horse gives he. THE ASRA. Daily went the wondrous lovely Sultan’s daughter at the cooling Hour of evening to the fountain, Where the waters white were plashing. Daily at the hour of evening Stood the young slave at the fountain Where the waters white were plashing, Daily grew he pale and paler. And one evening came the princess, And these sudden words address’d him: “Thou must tell me what thy name is, “And thy country and thy kindred!” And the slave replied: “My name is “Mahomet, I came from Yemmen, “And my race is of those Asras, “Who, whene’er they love, must perish.” THE NUNS. Who at night the convent walls Passes, sees the windows brightly Lighted up, for there the spectres Make their gloomy circuit nightly. ’Tis dead Ursulines that join In the sad and dark procession; From the linen hoods are peeping Faces young of sweet expression. Tapers bear they in their hands, Glimm’ring bloodred and mysterious Strangely echo in the crossway Whispers low, wails sad and serious. To the church the train moves on; Sitting on the wooden benches Of the quire, their mournful chorus Straight begin the’ unhappy wenches. Like a litany it sounds, But the words are wild and shocking They are poor and outcast spirits At the heavenly portal knocking. “Brides of Christ we used to be, “But by love of earth were chainèd, “And we render’d unto Cæsar “Things that unto God pertainèd. “Charming is a uniform “And mustachios smooth and shining “For the epaulettes of Cæsar “Were our hearts in secret pining. “Antlers to the brow we gave “By our shameless ill behaviour, “Which the crown of thorns once carried,-- “We betray’d our heavenly Saviour. “Jesus,--mercy’s very self,-- “Softly wept o’er our transgression, “And he said: ‘Your souls be cursèd “‘For disgracing your profession!’ “Grave-sprung spectres of the night, “We must wander in these dreary “Walls, our folly to atone for,-- “Miserere! Miserere!