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A LAMENT FOR CHIVALRY.

ALAS! the days of Chivalry are filed!

The brilliant tournament exists no more! Our loves are cold and dull as ice or lead, And courting is a most enormous bore!

In those good" olden times," a "ladye bright"
Might sit within her turret or her bower,
While lovers sang and play'd without all night,
And deem'd themselves rewarded by a flower.

Yet, if one favour'd swain would persevere,
In despite of her haughty scorn and laugh,
Perchance she threw him, with the closing year,
An old odd glove, or else a worn-out scarf.

And he a thousand oaths of love would swear,
As, in an ecstasy, he caught the prize;
Then would he gallop off, the Lord knows where,
Telling another thousand monstrous lies:—

All picturing her matchless beauty, which
He might discern, I ween, not much about,
Seeing he could but see her 'cross the ditch,
As she between the lattice peeped out.

Off then, away he'd ride o'er sea and land,
And dragons fell and mighty giants smite,
With the tough spear he carried in his hand :
And all to prove himself her own true knight.

Meanwhile, a thousand more, as wild as he,
Were all employ'd about the selfsame thing;
And when each had rode hard for his "ladye,"
They all came back and met within a ring.

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A LAMENT FOR CHIVALRY.

Where all the men who were entitled "syr"
Appear'd with martial air and haughty frown,
Bearing "long poles, each other up to stir*,'

And, in the stir up, thrust each other down.

And then they gallop'd round with dire intent,
Each knight resolved another's pride to humble;
And laughter rang around the tournament
As oft as any of them chanced to tumble.

And when, perchance, some ill-starr'd wight might die,

The victim of a stout unlucky poke,

Mayhap some fair one wiped one beauteous eye,
The rest smiled calmly on the deadly joke.

Soon then the lady, whose grim stalwart swain
Had got the strongest horse and toughest pole,
Bedeck'd him kneeling with a golden chain,

And plighted troth before the motley whole.

Then trumpets sounded, bullocks whole were dress'd. Priests with shorn heads and lengthy beards were

seen;

'Mid clamorous shouts the happy pair were bless'd, For Chivalry won Beauty's chosen queen.

And when fair daughters bloom'd like beauteous flowers,

To bless the gallant knight and stately dame, They shut them up within their lonely towers,

That squires might fight for them and win them fame.

See Lady Morgan's chivalric defiance to the knights of the inky plume.

But maidens now from hall and park are brought, Like Covent Garden flowers, in lots, to town: No more by prowess in the lists 'tis soughtBeauty's the purchase of the wealthiest clown!

Alas! the days of Chivalry are fied!

The brilliant tournament exists no more! Men now are cold and dull as ice or lead, And even courtship is a dreadful bore!

SONG OF A GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE. BY MRS. HEMANS.

"A Greek islander being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beautiful scenery, replied, Yes, all is fair; but the sea-where is it?" "

WHERE is the sea?-I languish here-
Where is my own blue sea?
With all its barks of fleet career,
And flags and breezes free!

I miss that voice of waves-the first

That woke my childish glee:

The measured chime—the thundering burst—
Where is my own blue sea?

Oh! rich your myrtles' breath may rise,
Soft, soft, your winds may be;
Yet my sick heart within me dies-
Where is my own blue sea?

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute,
I hear the whispering tree-
The echoes of my soul are mute--
Where is my own blue sea?

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet gray;
For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,
And it makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,

And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walk'd the world for fourscore years,
And they say that I am old;

And my heart is ripe for the reaper Death,
And my years are well nigh told.
It is very true-it is very true-

I'm old, and "I 'bide my time

But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on! play on! I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call;
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go,

For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is beating slow;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

AUTUMNAL LEAVES.

AUTUMNAL leaves, Autumnal leaves,
That gently rustle 'neath my tread,
Oh how the afflicted spirit grieves

To see you wither'd thus and dead,
From your own parent branches riven,
And scatter'd by the winds of heaven.

Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves,
Who feels no pang, and heaves no sigh
To see you shrivell'd thus, achieves
No enviable victory

O'er powers that ne'er should own control-
The kindliest feelings of the soul !

Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves,
Though hope aspire to heights sublime,
Your fall her every dream deceives,
And as the warning voice of time
Proclaims in language plain and clear
The changes of the circling year.

Autumnal leaves, Autumnal leaves,
And shall we see your like again?
That thought-like Gilead's balm, relieves
The anguish of the heart and brain,
Giving a charm and mystic spell

To life's last words-Farewell!-Farewell!

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