O true, most true the omen!
The words that lady said,
"Alas! alas! for the dying!
Alas! alas! for the dead!"

O! the good knight, they bear him in, and lay him down with care

On the soft low couch, but he heareth not the holy father's prayer,

Nor his lady's moan, nor his young son's cries, all wildly o'er him bent;

With closed eyes, and sheathed in mail, like knight on monument,

He lieth, and now wailings loud burst from the sorrowing train;

But alas! alas! he speaketh not, he ne'er shall speak again!

Ungird his sword-O never more shall he wield that trusty brand!

Away, good leech, thine art is vain, it cannot death withstand.

Come nearer, holy man; bow down and whisper in his ear

Some blessed word of hope and heaven-he yet some word may hear,

Though sinking fast! O kneel ye all, and let your prayers arise,

That when he sleepeth fast in death he may wake in paradise!

O lady, vain thy sighing!

Raise, gently raise his head-
Alas! alas! he's dying!

Alas! the good knight's dead!

THE NIGHT-SONG.

FROM THE TURKISH OF HAMET AL IZMALI.

Arise, young daughter of the dove,
The moon is like a shield of light;
The nightingale is in the grove,
It is the very noon of night.

I ask thee not to wreathe thy tress
With Persian rose or Indian gem.
Thou, thou thyself art loveliness,
Light of my life, my soul's rich beam.

I ask thee not to lift thy veil ;

My glance to thine I dare not raise, I dare not breathe my spirit's tale Before thy soul-consuming blaze.

I dare not meet thy dazzling eye,

Nor touch a ringlet of thy hair.

My soul is madness when thou'rt nigh,
But when thou'rt gone-despair-despair!

Αμφίων.

"A MOTHER'S GIFT."

Written in E. C.'s Album, which bore the above motto, having been presented to her son when he left the United States to visit the British Isles and the old continent. The owner, in the course of his travels, had collected in this small volume a great number of contributions from eminent and excellent persons of different nations, when the following lines were inscribed in it.

"A Mother's Gift!" in what sweet way Such kindness shall a son requite? That is no easy thing to say;

But hearken!—give her black for white.

Though from her lovely hand to you
Unsoil'd as new-fall'n snow it came,
Return it written through and through,
"At once another and the same."

Where all was blank and still before,
Let friends their cordial tributes bring,
Patriots their fervent feelings pour,
Young ladies paint, and poets sing.

So may the mother with delight
O'er these transfigured pages look;
So be the son, in her dear sight,
Improved by travel, like the book!

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

PASSION AND PRINCIPLE.

BY EDEN LOWTHER.

WAS our heroine beautiful? It would have puzzled a judge to decide, supposing him to have been blind, since there was an equal host of testimony on both sides-the gentlemen asseverating the fact with all their hearts, and the ladies disputing it with all their souls.

For myself, being her true historian, I am bound to assert it as incontrovertible that she was beautiful as the dream of a poet-as the dream of a poet, said I? oh as the dream of an angel when the bright intelligence, folding his ambient wings, gives loose to all the glories of imagination, and revels in seraphic visions, playing with suns for balls and stringing stars for beads.

Beautiful then was Lady Alice, but whether her eyes were black or blue, or any intermediate shade, we are too independent to tell, and whether her complexion were of the lily or of the sunkissed tint of Cleopatra's brow we shall not disclose. Enough for us to tell that Lady Alice was rich, was high-born, and placed out of the reach of ill-natured guardians, who might have talked about common sense, and absurd uncles preaching nothing but prudence.

X

Prudence! mean and grovelling word. What has the heart, full of all rich emotions, to do with such a strait-waistcoat sort of thing. One generous perception, one impassioned sensibility-these make the life of the heart.

Lady Alice sat enthroned among adorers. What had her riches to do with that? All the gentlemen declared that they should have adored her as much if she had been a cottage girl, and since she was not a cottage girl, and never likely to be a cottage girl, who can say that they did not speak the truth? But we said that Lady Alice sat, a fact of some importance, and if she did sit, where sat she?

She sat in the dwelling of her fathers; luxury breathed in the very air loaded with perfume and with song. The walls were of gold, the doors of looking-glass, the curtains of damask, the carpets of silk, the blue ceiling like an Italian sky studded with silver stars. The ladies were delightful and delighted, the gentlemen were courtiers, and flattered so palatably, and flattery is so sweet-nobody but those who have tasted it can tell how sweet it is.

But all the ladies declared that they would not be flattered, and all the gentlemen declared that they never flattered, and so of course we were mistaken. They only exchanged sentiments, and listened to the music, and inhaled the odours, and