THE BRIDE'S DEPARTURE.

None may count how many moons

Watched him, when the West breathed

coolly

From the hills of steep Friuli,

Gliding o'er the dim lagoons.

Well he knew what shadow falls,

Shine the star-gleams ne'er so brightly,

Slanting from those lofty walls

Where the singer, shrouded nightly, Poured his love in madrigals.

Many a fancy-stricken dame
Threw her opened lattice wide,
Wondered whence the music came;
Whose that winning foreign tongue,
Whose the peerless praise it sung,
Listening through the gloom, and sighed
Wishes she had blushed to name!

Now that shade is lost in shine,
Say what wandering hopes and sweet
Yonder bridal train may cheat-
Cousin, what a blush was thine!

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The bride descends: below one dainty foot, Trusted to air, the ready boat lies heaving. What if her eyelids droop, her voice be mute! Love's blessing cheer thee, Flower of Venice! leaving

Home, kindred, country! Bitter sweet the fruit Of thy long-cherished passion! nursed by grieving,

Vexed by strong fears; and dashed with bodings dim,

Even in the hour which yields thee all to him!

To him! whose hand upholds thee! To his prize He clings, a living type of rapture, glowing All hope, and pride, and tenderness, in eyes That seeing thee see heaven!- and gaily shewing

Yon restless bark, that waits but ere she flies

For her sweet freightage, seems a Genius,

wooing

[fond, Thy heart from its faint fears and memories To a new life of joy that shines beyond!

Pale she looks, but passing fair;

Such a mein the bride should wear:
Fitly tended, too, behold

Sour Lorenza's prudish care;

Saints! methinks she fain would scold, Thinking shame that youth should dare

Such a virgin hand to hold!

Nay! 'tis well the forward page

Mocks her primness-yonder maiden,
Quick Zabetta, too, were aiding,
But that softer claims engage-

THE BRIDE'S DEPARTURE.

Eyes that turn to seek the strand,
Parting becks, and waving hand.

But the sire-can he refrain,

When his favourite's foot is pressing Steps she may not tread again,

From one look, one word of blessing? Well-a-day! 'twas hard to yield

Her, that only brightest daughter; Thus his ireful heart was steeled;

Thus she pined with love concealed,

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While the threatened stranger sought her:

And to give the long-denied,

Death alone could wring from Pride!

Oh, fold her gently to thy heart! for thee, Strange anguish hath she borne, for one so weak!

Be kind! she leaves, beyond a homeless sea, The tombs her heart in solitude must seek!

Be all to her -all lost unless she be

Paid by thy love for his thou mad'st her break,

The household charm-the mystery that endears

The conscious scene of all her smiles and

tears!

And now unmoor! the painted galley springs, As the swart rowers brush the hissing foam; The sail is spread: Oh! happy be the wings That speed the Rose of Venice from her home!

Where evermore, the gondolier that sings

By Lido's wall, or white St. Mary's dome, Will count from year to year how many sighed, The day that Adria lost her sweetest bride!

J. R. CHORLEY.

THE SOLDIER'S GRATITUDE.

FROM THE FRENCH.

"TWAS when the fight was nobly won,
That, deafened by the cannon's roar,
I leaned, a proud but wearied one,
Against a lonely cottage door.

Who brought clear water from the pool,
To wash my brow, all battle-red?
Who poured the wine so old and cool,

And pledged with me our glorious dead?
'Twas brave Jeanette?-

My heart had ne'er been touched till then;
But seasons change, and so will men.

THE SOLDIER'S GRATITUDE.

There was a broad and amber moon,
-The like we ne'er shall see again,—
That, leaning from the heaven of June,
Lit our light shallop down the Seine.
Rememberest thou, my tender soul,

Who nestled 'neath this sinewy arm?
The kiss-the curl thy rover stole ?-
And still he wears it for a charm.
My soft Elise !—

My heart was never moved till then ;
But seasons change, and so will men.

That was a night-our General's fete !

(Ay, bless him, all French hearts and true!)
Those ripe red cheeks, I see them yet;
They meet me now, those eyes of blue!
My gallant lass, who poured the wine,
My moon-lit trembler-where were they,
As, clasping two small hands in mine,
I sighed, and swore to love alway?
O bright Amande !

My heart was never caught till then;
For seasons change, and so will men.

A. C. J.

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