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The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;

Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,

Yet twenty bold yeomen will draw at his word;

And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,

Who at Rerecross on Stanmore meets Allen-aDale.

The mere for his net and the land for his Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;

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The mother, she asked of his hot hold and home;

"Though the castle of Richmond on the hill,

ind fair

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My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows llanter still:

'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent Then think of the friend who once welcomed

so pale,

And all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale.

The father was steel, and the mother was stone;

They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;

But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry;

He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye,

And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,

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And the youth it was told by was Allen-a- And still on that evening, when pleasure fills Dale.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

GENEVIEVE.

MAID of my love, sweet Genevieve!

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In beauty's light you glide along;

Your eye is like the star of eve,

And sweet your voice as seraph's song; Yet not your heavenly beauty gives

This heart with passion soft to glow; Within your soul a voice there lives;

It bids you hear the tale of woe. When, sinking low, the sufferer wan

Beholds no hand outstretched to save, Fair as the bosom of the swan

That rises graceful o'er the wave, I've seen your breast with pity heave, And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

"FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR." AREWELL! but whenever you welcome the hour

That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,

up

To the highest top sparkle each heart and each

cup,

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;

Shall join in your revels, your sports and your wiles,

And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles;

Too blest, if it tell me, that mid the gay cheer Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he were here!"

Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;

Which come in the night-time of sorrow and

care,

And bring back the features that joy used to wear;

Long, long be my heart with such memories

filled!

Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled,

You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will,

But the scent of the roses will cling round it still.

THOMAS MOORE.

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MORALITY IN ART.

ORAL beauty is the basis of all true beauty. This foundation is somewhat veiled and covered in nature. Art brings it out, and gives it more transparent forms. It is here that art, when it knows well its power and resources, engages in a struggle with nature in which it may have the advantage.

VICTOR COUSIN.

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"THEY

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

THEY made her a grave too cold and damp

For a soul so warm and true;

And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal
Swamp,

Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.

"And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and loving our life shall be,
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
When the footstep of Death is near."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds;
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before.

And, when on earth he sunk to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,

He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew.

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake,
And the coppersnake breathed in his ear,
Till he starting, cried, from his dream awake,
Oh, when shall I see the dusky lake,
And the white canoe of my dear ?"

66

He saw the lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface played;
"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"
And the dim shore echoed for many a night
The name of the death-cold maid.

Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark
Which carried him off from the shore;
Far, far he followed the meteor spark;
The winds were high, and the clouds were
dark,

And the boat returned no more.

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true

Are seen at the hour of midnight damp
To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe.

THOMAS MOORE.

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