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286

THE GRAVE OF KORNER.

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled;
What then was left for her, the faithful hearted?
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead!
Softly she perished-be the flower deplored

Here, with the Lyre and Sword!

Have ye not met ere now ?-So let those trust
That meet for moments but to part for years;
That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust,
That love where love is but a fount of tears !
Brother! sweet sister!-peace around ye dwell!
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell!

SONG.

BY HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

SHE is not fair to outward view,
As many maidens be;
Her loveliness I never knew,

Until she smiled on me:

Oh, then I saw her eye was bright-
A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne'er reply;
And yet I cease not to behold
The love-light in her eye:

Her very frowns are better far
Than smiles of other maidens are!

PRINCE WILLIAM OF ENGLAND.

The melancholy death, by shipwreck, of this young Prince, has often been held up to commiseration. His fate may, however, suggest other ideas than those of mere compassion, when it is recollected he had frequently declared, that when he came to the throne of England, he would treat the English as slaves, and reduce them to the condition of beasts of burden.

PRINCE WILLIAM's bark swept on,
With song and trumpet-clang,
And loudly for King Henry's son
The shout of welcome rang.

He trod the deck with all

A future monarch's pride;

And his stately form grew yet more tall
As Albion's cliffs he eyed.

He thought upon the hour

When his unfettered hand

Should stretch the rod of regal power
About the sea-girt land.

But hate, and wrath, and cruelty,
Glared fiercely in his frown;
"Her sons are all too proud and high;
I'll tame their spirits down:

"Like oxen, they shall drag

The plough for us, their lords;
And if they dare rebel, or flag,

We'll spur them with our swords."

283

PRINCE WILLIAM OF ENGLAND.

And loud the Normans laughed
The Prince's words to hear;
And many a Briton deeper quaffed
To hide his scorn-not fear.

But youthful hearts soon spring
Above reflection's sway,
Forgotten was the future King,
As the wine-cup circled gay.

Swift rushed the vessel on,

And France was left behind;
And cloudless was the summer sun,
And soft the summer wind:

And loud and louder round

Rose song and shout of glee,

For, who could dream that danger frowned
With such a sky and sea?

But three long days have past,

And still upon the main

King Henry's anxious eyes are cast,

To seek his son-in vain.

He lay the waves beneath;

And many an ocean gem

Was round his brow-a mockery wreath
For England's diadem.

A LAMENT FOR CHIVALRY.

ALAS! the days of Chivalry are fled !

The brilliant tournament exists no more! Our loves are cold and dull as ice or lead, And courting is a most enormous bore!

In those good "olden times," a "ladye bright" Might sit within her turret or her bower, While lovers sang and played without all night, And deemed themselves rewarded by a flower.

Yet, if one favoured swain would persevere,
In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh,
Perchance she threw him, with the closing year,
An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf.

And he a thousand oaths of love would swear,
As, in an ecstacy, he caught the prize;
Then would he gallop off, the Lord knows where,
Telling another thousand monstrous lies:-

All picturing her matchless beauty, which
He might discern, I ween, not much about,
Seeing he could but see her 'cross the ditch,
As she between the lattice peeped out.

Off then, away he'd ride o'er sea and land,
And dragons fell and mighty giants smite,
With the tough spear he carried in his hand;
And all to prove himself her own true knight.

Meanwhile, a thousand more, as wild as he,

Were all employed about the selfsame thing; And when each had rode hard for his "ladye," They all came back and met within a ring.

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A LAMENT FOR CHIVALRY.

Where all the men who were entitled "syr"
Appeared with martial air and haughty frown,
Bearing "long poles, each other up to stir*,"

And, in the stir up, thrust each other down.

And then they galloped round with dire intent, Each knight resolved another's pride to humble; And laughter rang around the tournament

As oft as any of them chanced to tumble.

And when, perchance, some ill-starred wight might die,

The victim of a stout unlucky poke,

Mayhap some fair one wiped one beauteous eye,
The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke.

Soon then the lady, whose grim stalwart swain
Had got the strongest horse and toughest pole,
Bedecked him kneeling with a golden chain,

And plighted troth before the motley whole.

Then trumpets sounded, bullocks whole were dressed, Priests with shorn heads and lengthy beards were

seen;

'Mid clamorous shouts the happy pair was blessed, For Chivalry won Beauty's chosen queen.

And when fair daughters bloomed like beauteous flowers,

To bless the gallant knight and stately dame, They shut them up within their lonely towers,

That squires might fight for them and win them fame.

*See Lady Morgan's chivalric defiance to the knights of the inky plume.

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