The night was round her clear and cold,
The holy heaven above;

Its pale stars watching to behold
The might of earthly love.

Peace, peace, I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear,

When death is on thy brow?

"The world! what means it ?-mine is here"I will not leave thee now.

I have been with thee in thine hour

Of glory and of bliss;

"Doubt not its memory's living power

66

'To strengthen me through this!

And thou, mine honour'd love and true, "Bear on, bear nobly on!

We have the blessed heaven in view, "Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;

But oh! with such a glazing eye,

With such a curdling cheek

Love, love! of mortal agony

Thou, only thou, should'st speak!

The wind rose high, but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:
Perchance that dark hour brought repose,
To happy bosoms near,

While she sat striving with despair

Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer

Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute chords low,
Had still'd his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheeks such kisses prest
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

O lovely are ye, Love and Faith
Enduring to the last!

She had her meed-one smile in death-
And his worn spirit pass'd.

While e'en as o'er a martyr's grave,

She knelt on that sad spot;

And weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not!

MRS. HEMANS,

GINEVRA.

Ir thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To Modena, where still religiously

Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs,
Within that reverend tower-the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; through their arched walks
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance-
And lovers, such as in heroic song-

Perhaps the two-for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,

Read only part that day. A summer's sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go,
Enter the house-prythee, forget it not—
And look awhile upon a picture there.

C

"Tis of a lady in her earliest youth;
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by Zampieri-but I care not whom.
He, who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak;
Her lips half open, and her finger up,

As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face-
So lovely, yet so arch-so full of mirth-
The overflowings of an innocent heart-

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor.

That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancy

The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,

That precious gift, what else remained to him?
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come- -the day-the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,

The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast

When all sat down, the bride was wanting there.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried
"Tis but to make a trial of our love!"

And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd,
But that she was not!

Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Orsini lived; andlong might'st thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find-he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,

Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" 'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way

It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished-save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

Engraven with a name, the name of both,
Ginevra."

There then had she found a grave!

Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever!

ROGERS.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.

To be or not to be?—that is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And, by opposing, end them? To die,-to sleep,—
No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,-'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die,-to sleep ;-

To sleep! perchance to dream;-ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: There's the respect,
That makes calamity of so long life:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will;

And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

SHAKESPERE.

HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS AT THE
BATTLE OF AGINCOURT.

WHAT'S he who wishes for more men from England?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin :