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 tall yeomen will draw at his word; And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;

The mother, she asked of his household and home: 'Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the

66

hill,

My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so

pale,

And with 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,
And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale!
Sir Walter Scott.

BALLAD

SHE's up and gone, the graceless girl!
And robbed my failing years;

My blood before was thin and cold,
But now 't is turned to tears.

THE LAST LEAF

My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand:

She might have stayed a little yet,
And led me by the hand.

Ay, call her on the barren moor,
And call her on the hill;
"Tis nothing but the heron's cry,
And plover's answer shrill.
My child is flown on wilder wings
Than they have ever spread,
And I may even walk a waste
That widened when she fled.

Full many a thankless child has been,
But never one like mine ;

Her meat was served on plates of gold,
Her drink was rosy wine.

But now she 'll share the robin's food,
And sup the common rill,

Before her feet will turn again

To meet her father's will!

155

Thomas Hood.

THE LAST LEAF

I SAW him once before,

As he passed by the door,
And again

The pavement stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,

Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets
Sad and wan,

And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,
"They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest

On the lips that he has prest

In their bloom,

And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

JENNY kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief! who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in!

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add

Jenny kissed me!

Leigh Hunt.

1 Note 13.

DOROTHY Q

A Family Portrait

GRANDMOTHER's mother! her age,

I guess,

Thirteen summers, or something less;

Girlish bust, but womanly air,

Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair;
Lips that lover has never kissed,
Taper fingers and slender wrist;
Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade, -
So they painted the little maid.

On her hand a parrot green
Sits unmoving and broods serene.
Hold

the canvas full in view, up Look! there's a rent the light shines through, Dark with a century's fringe of dust; That was a Redcoat's rapier-thrust! Such is the tale the lady old, Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told.

Who the painter was none may tell,
One whose best was not over well;
Hard and dry, it must be confessed,
Flat as a rose that has long been pressed;
Yet in her cheek the hues are bright,
Dainty colors of red and white,
And in her slender shape are seen
Hint and promise of stately mien.