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GENEVIEVE.

78. GENEVIEVE.

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
Are all but ministers of love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own.
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story—
An old rude song, that suited well.
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
For well she knew I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.

GENEVIEVE.

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn

Which crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

Bnt sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,-

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land ;-

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And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
And how she tended him in vain—
And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain ;

And that she nursed him in a cave;
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest leaves
A dying man he lay ;-

His dying words-but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng;
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love and virgin shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved-she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stept-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.

GENEVIEVE.

She half enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly "twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears; and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous bride!

COLERIDGE.

79. WE ARE ALL GOD'S CHILDREN.

CHILDREN We are all,

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Of one Great Father, in whatever clime
His providence hath cast the seed of life.
The all-seeing Father,-He in whom we live and move,
He, the impartial Judge of all,-regards

Nations and hues, and dialects alike.

According to their works shall they be judged,
When even-handed justice in the scale

Their good and evil weighs.

SOUTHEY.

80. GOODNESS THE ONLY TRUE NOBILITY.

HOWE'ER it be, it seems to me,

'Tis only noble to be good.

True hearts are more than coronets,

And simple faith, than Norman blood.

TENNYSON.

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FROM INDIA.

81. FROM INDIA.

"O, COME you from the Indies, and, soldier, can you tell Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe and well? O, soldier, say my son is safe; for nothing else I care,And you shall have a mother's thanks-shall have a widow's prayer."

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"Q, I've come from the Indies-I've just come from the war; And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they are; From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades well, And news I've brought for you, mother, your Robert bade me tell."

"And do you know my Robert now? O, tell me, tell me true,
O, soldier, tell me word for word all that he said to you,
His very words-my own boy's words-O tell me every one!
You little know how dear to his old mother is my son."

Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were there; In all the gallant 90th did, your Robert did his share; Twice he went into Lucknow, untouched by steel or ball, And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought him safe through all."

“O, thanks unto the living God that heard his mother's prayer,

The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to spare;
O blessed be God, that turned from him the sword and shot

away;

And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say?"

"Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and bravely it was done; In the Despatch they told it all, and named and praised

your son;

A medal and a pension's his; good luck to him I say,

And he has not a comrade but will wish him well to-day."