THE COUNTESS OF LOVELACE.

And following her beloved Lord,
In decent poverty,

She makes her life one sweet record
And deed of charity.

For she was rich and gave up all
To break the iron bands

Of those who waited in her hall
And laboured on her lands.

Long since beyond the Southern Sea
Their outbound sails have sped,
While she, in meek humility,

Now earns her daily bread.

It is their prayers, which never cease,
That clothe her with such grace;
Their blessing is the light of peace
That shines upon her face.

LONGFELLOW.

THE COUNTESS OF LOVELACE.

"Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart."

LADY, thy brow is very bright,
Thy looks are glad and gay,

And thy young eyes shed gentle light
Around them as they play;

No shadows linger on thy sight,

But they do smile away!

And still-though happiness doth seem
To gild thee with its brightest beam,
And sing unto thy soul a song
Whose melody charms life along,—
I see thee in a sadder mood

Than sunshine should inspire,
For in my poet's heart doth brood
The memory of thy sire!
And gushingly upon my brain
Comes floating that angelic strain
Of Love, so deep-so warm-so wild-
Which Byron lavish'd on his child;
Then Genius and Affection grew
More beautiful while blessing you;
And pour'd out, in their fond excess,
The poetry of tenderness!

Thou livest in those lines: their light

Is glowing round thee now,
And, in the world's admiring sight,
Dwells ever on thy brow.

It cannot gaze on thee-their gem-
Without a passing thought of them;
And Memory's cup flows to the brim,
At sight of thee, with dreams of him--
The Bard who made his eagle tame
In passion as the dove,

THE COUNTESS OF LOVELACE.

To shed around his Ada's name

A Father's halo-love;

'Mid all the fires that warm'd his breast, As bright, but holier than the rest!

And still the Poet's blessing crowns
The beauty of thy life,

It hallows all the Mother's hope,
It sanctifies the Wife.

Young Wife! fond Mother! give thee joy,
Shine stars on thy career,

And love and happiness combine
To weave thy atmosphere!
Two merry children in thy heart
Have made themselves a throne,
And sit, as in thy Father's soul
Thou once didst sit alone!

May their fair Mother live with pride
To watch them on to fame,
Far as a Byron's genius darts

The dazzle of its name!

ANON.

FROM THE ARABIC.

WHILE sad suspense and chill delay
Bereave my wounded soul of rest;
New hopes, new fears, from day to day,
By turns assail my lab'ring breast.
My heart, which ardent love consumes,
Throbs with each agonizing thought;
So flutters, with entangled plumes,
The lark, in wily meshes caught.

SIR W. JONES.

THE POET'S PATH.

THE poet's path of old, it passed
By Grecian grove and hill;

And through the wrecks of war and time
We trace its splendour still;

For there the ancient temples rose,

As at the thrilling call

Of that Egyptian wanderer's lyre

Arose the Theban wall.

And since o'er many a distant shore
That starry path hath shone,

For gleaming through the Polar night,
It cheered the frozen zone;

THE POET'S PATH.

The old Crusaders saw it shine

Through realms of Eastern bloom,

And the wanderers of the Western woods
Amid their leafy gloom.

But like the ocean-doomed, who sought
The happy isles of yore,

The feet that seek that pleasant path
May turn aside no more;

For tuneful lips that once have quaffed
The bright Castalian rill,

Though never more they taste the wave,
Will wander by it still.

As he who traversed lands of old-
The glorious and unknown-
Returned at last in age to be

A stranger in his own;

So hearts that early leave the dust,
That upward path to share,
Forgotten lose their hold of earth,
And seem but strangers there.

But oh what glorious visions shine,
What lovely scenes arise,

Around that mystic path, to win

From earth the pilgrim's eyes!

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