And the Lady Kunigund, in bantering mood, Spoke to Knight Delorges, who by her stood;"If the flame which but now to me you swore

Burns as strong as it did before,

Go pick up my glove, Sir Knight."
And he, with action quick as sight,

In the horrible place did stand:
And with dauntless mien,
From the beasts between

Took up the glove, with fearless hand;
And as ladies and nobles the bold deed saw,
Their breath they held, through fear and awe.
The glove he brings back, composed and light.
His praise was announced by voice and look,
And Kunigund rose to receive the knight

With a smile that promised the deed to requite;
But straight in her face he flung the glove,—
"I neither desire your thanks nor love;"
And from that same hour the lady forsook.

THE SKYLARK.

SCHILLER.

IRD of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er mooreland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest be thy dwelling-place

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud

Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

HOGG.

S

VISIONS OF THE HEART.

HE was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament:

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and
smiles.

And now I see with eyes serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly plann'd
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
WORDSWORTH.

APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN.

HERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods; There is a rapture on the lonely shore; There is society where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore;-upon the watery plain

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd and un-
known.

His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields
Are not a spoil for him,-thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he
wields

For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering, in thy playful

spray,

And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth:-there let him lay. The armaments which thunder-strike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals,The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?

Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts:-not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' playTime writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convuls'd-in breeze, or gale, or
storm,

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving;-boundless, endless, and sub-

lime

The image of Eternity-the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zere Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sport was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers-they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here. BYRON, (Childe Harold.)

THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN EASTERN SKIES.

HE bird, let loose in eastern skies, When hastening fendly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam;

But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God! from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through virtue's purer air,

To hold my course to thee!
No sin to cloud,-no lure to stay

My soul, as home she springs ;Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom on her wings!

MOORE.

THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.

N LINDEN, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden showed another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery!
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade;
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
Then rushed the steed to battle driven;
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet those fires shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet shall be the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout 'mid their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens: On, ye brave!
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre!
THOMAS CAMPBELL.

HYMN TO MOUNT BLANC.

AST thou a charm to stay the morning star
In his steep course? So long he seems
to pause
On thy bald awful head, O sovereign Blanc!
The Arve and the Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form,
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But, when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity.

O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in
prayer,

I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my
thought,

Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy;
Till the dilating soul-enrapt, transfused,
Into the mighty vision passing-there,
As in her natural form, swell'd vast to heaven!
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest; not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy. Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the

vale!

O, struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink;
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald; wake, O, wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who call'd you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shatter'd and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your
joy,

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded, (and the silence came,)
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's
brow

Adown enormous ravines slope amain -
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven
Beneath the keen full Moon? Who bade the Sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living
flowers

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?-
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome
voice!

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost;
Ye wild goats sporting around the eagle's nest;
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm;
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds;
Ye signs and wonders of the element-
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!
Thou too, hoar Mount, with thy sky-pointing

peaks,

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,