Are ye all there, my vassals true?-mine eyes are waxing

dim:

Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the

brim !

'Ye're there; but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword,

And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my

board.

I hear it faintly. Louder yet!-What clogs my heavy breath?

Jp all, and shout for RUDIGER—' Defiance unto Death !'

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafening cry,

That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on

high.

"Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?-Slaves, traitors, have ye

flown?

Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone?

"But I defy him-let him come !" Down rang the massy

cup,

While from its sneath the ready blade came flashing half

way up;

An, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on

his head,

There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat,

dead.

OLD GRIMES.

LD GRIMES is dead! that good old man

OLD

We never shall see more:

He used to wear a long, black coat,

All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day;
His feelings all were true:

His hair was some inclined to gray-
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'er he heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burned;
The large, round head upon his cane
From ivory was turned.

Kind words he ever had for all;

He knew no base design:

His eyes were dark and rather small,

His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true:
His coat had pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes

He passed securely o'er,

And never wore a pair of boots

For thirty years or more.

But good old GRIMES is now at rest,
Nor fears Misfortune's frown:
He wore a double-breasted vest-
The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert:

He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbours he did not abuse—
Was sociable and gay:

He wore large buckles on his shoes,
And changed them every day.

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view,

Nor make a noise town-meeting days,

As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to Fortune's chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares,

His peaceful moments ran;

And everybody said he was

A fine old gentleman

OH

Lucy Hooper.

LEGENDS OF FLOWER 8.

H, gorgeous tales, in days of old,
Were linked with opening flowers,

As if in their fairy urns of gold

Beat human hearts like ours;

The nuns in their cloister, sad and pale,
As they watched soft buds expand,
On their glowing petals traced a tale
Or legend of Holy Land.

Brightly to them did thy snowy leaves
For the sainted MARY shine,

As they twined for her forehead vestal wreaths
Of thy white buds, cardamine !

The crocus shone, when the fields were bare,
With a gay, rejoicing smile;

But the hearts that answered Love's tender prayer
Grew brightened with joy the while.

Of the coming spring and the summer's light,
To others that flower might say;

But the lover welcomed the herald bright
Of the glad St. VALENTINE's day.
The crocus was hailed as a happy flower,

And the holy saint that day

Poured out on the earth their golden shower

To light his votaries' way.

On the day of St. GEORGE, the brave S GEORGE, To merry England dear,

By field and by fell, and by mountain-gorge,

Shone hyacinths blue and clear:
Lovely and prized was their purple light,
And 'twas said in ancient story,
That their fairy bells rang out at night
A peal to old England's glory;

And sages read in the azure hue

Of the flowers so widely known,

That by white sail spread over ocean's blue Should the empire's right be shown.

And thou of faithful memory,

St. JOHN, thou "shining light," Beams not a burning torch for thee, The scarlet lychnis bright? While holy MARY, at thy shrine, Another pure flower blooms, Welcome to thee with news divine,

The lily's faint perfumes;
Proudly its stately head it rears,

Arrayed in virgin white--
So Truth, amid a world of tears,
Doth shine with vestal light.

And thou, whose opening buds were snown
A Saviour's cross beside,
We hail thee, passion-flower alone,

Sacred to CHRIST, who died.

No image of a mortal love,
May thy bright blossoms be

Linked with a passion far above

A Saviour's agony.