And the reaper armed, like a freeman's son,
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

"Hunter! leave the mountain-chase!
Take the falchion from its place!
Let the wolf go free to-day,
Leave him for a nobler prey!
Let the deer ungalled sweep by,-
Arm thee! Britain's foes are nigh!"

And the hunter armed ere the chase was done,
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

"Chieftain! quit the joyous feast!
Stay not till the song hath ceased:
Though the mead be foaming bright,
Though the fire gives ruddy light,
Leave the hearth and leave the hall-
Arm thee! Britain's foes must fall!"

And the chieftain armed, and the horn was blown,
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

"Prince! thy father's deeds are told,

In the bower and in the hold!
Where the goatherd's lay is sung,

Where the minstrel's harp is strung!
-Foes are on thy native sea-

Give our bards a tale of thee!"

And the prince came armed, like a leader's son,
And the bended bow and the voice passed on.

"Mother! stay thou not thy boy!
He must learn the battle's joy.
Sister! bring the sword and spear,
Give thy brother words of cheer!
Maiden! bid thy lover part,

Britain calls the strong in heart!"

And the bended bow and the voice passed on,
And the bards made song for a battle won.

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.*

It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.

THE bark that held a prince went down, The sweeping waves rolled on;

'Originally published in the Literary Gazette.

And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne

Ere sorrow break its chain;

Why comes not death to those who mourn? -He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms around his throne,
The stately and the brave,

But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him passed the young and fair,

In pleasure's reckless train,

But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair-
-He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round;
He heard the minstrel sing,
He saw the tourney's victor crowned,
Amidst the knightly ring:

A murmur of the restless deep

Was blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep-
-He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
Of vows once fondly poured,
And strangers took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board;

Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to Heaven's bright rain,
Fresh hopes were born for other years—
-He never smiled again!

COEUR-DE-LION AT THE BIER OF HIS FATHER.

The body of Henry the Second lay in state in the abbey church of Fontevraud, where it was visited by Richard Cœur. de-Lion, who, on beholding it, was struck with horror and remorse, and bitterly reproached himself for that rebellious conduct which had been the means of bringing his father to an untimely grave.

TORCHES were blazing clear, Hymns pealing deep and slow, Where a king lay stately on his bier,

In the church of Fontevraud. Banners of battle o'er him hung,

And warriors slept beneath, And light, as Noon's broad light, was flung On the settled face of death.

On the settled face of death
A strong and ruddy glare,

Though dimmed at times by the censer's breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there
As if each deeply-furrowed trace
Of earthly years to show,—

-Alas! that sceptered mortal's race

Had surely closed in wo!

The marble floor was swept

By many a long dark stole,

As the kneeling priests round him that slept,

Sang mass for the parted soul;

And solemn were the strains they poured

Through the stillness of the night,

-Hushed, hushed-how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus?-wo, wo for all
The love my soul forgot!

"Thy silver hairs I see,

So still, so sadly bright! And father, father! but for me,

They had not been so white!

And the silent king in sight.

There was heard a heavy clang,

As of steel-girt men the tread,

And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding trill of dread;

And the holy chaunt was hushed awhile,
As, by the torch's flame,

A gleam of arms, up the sweeping aisle,
With a mail-clad leader came.

He came with haughty look,

An eagle-glance and clear,

But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook,
When he stood beside the bier!

He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasped hands o'er it raised ;-
For his father lay before him low,

It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed!

And silently he strove

With the workings of his breast, -But there's more in late repentant love

Than steel may keep suppressed! And his tears brake forth, at last, like rain— Men held their breath in awe,

For his face was seen by his warrior-train,
And he recked not that they saw.

He looked upon the dead,
And sorrow seemed to lie,

A weight of sorrow, even like lead,
Pale on the fast-shut eye.

He stooped-and kissed the frozen cheek,

And the heavy hand of clay,

Till bursting words-yet all too weak-
Gave his soul's passion way.

No longer couldst thou strive;Oh! for one moment of the past, To kneel and say-' Forgive!'

"Thou wert the noblest king, On royal throne e'er seen; And thou didst wear, in knightly ring,

Of all, the stateliest mien;

And thou, didst prove, where spears are proved

In war, the bravest heart-

-Oh! ever the renowned and loved

Thou wert-and there thou art!

"Thou that my boyhood's guide Didst take fond joy to be!The times I've sported at thy side,

And climbed thy parent-knee! And there before the blessed shrine, My sire! I see thee lie,— How will that sad still face of thine Look on me till I die!"

THE VASSAL'S LAMENT FOR THE FALLEN TREE.

"Here (at Brereton in Cheshire) is one thing incredibly strange, but attested, as I myself have heard, by many persons, and commonly believed. Before any heir of this family dies, there are seen, in a lake adjoining, the bodies of trees swimming on the water for several days."

Camden's Britannia.

YES! I have seen the ancient oak

On the dark deep water cast,

And it was not felled by the woodman's stroke,
Or the rush of the sweeping blast;

For the axe might never touch that tree,
And the air was still as a summer-sea.

I saw it fall, as falls a chief

By an arrow in the fight,

And the old woods shook, to their loftiest leaf At the crashing of its might!

And the startled deer to their coverts drew, And the spray of the lake as a fountain's flew!

"Tis fallen! but think thou not I weep For the forest's pride o'erthrown;

An old man's tears lie far too deep,

To be poured for this alone! But by that sign too well I know, That a youthful head must soon be low!

A youthful head, with its shining hair,
And its bright quick-flashing eye-
-Well may I weep! for the boy is fair,
Too fair a thing to die!

But on his brow the mark is set-
Oh! could my life redeem him yet!

He bounded by me as I gazed

Alone on the fatal sign,

And it seemed like sunshine when he raised

His joyous glance to mine!

With a stag's fleet step he bounded by,
So full of life-but he must die!

He must, he must! in that deep dell,
By that dark water's side,

'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell,
But an heir of his father's died.

And he there's laughter in his eye,
Joy in his voice-yet he must die!

I've borne him in these arms, that now
Are nerveless and unstrung;
And must I see, on that fair brow,
The dust untimely flung?

I must!-yon green oak, branch and crest,
Lies floating on the dark lake's breast!

The noble boy!-how proudly sprung
The falcon from his hand!

It seemed like youth to see him young,
A flower in his father's land!

But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh,
For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die.

Say not 'tis vain!-I tell thee, some

Are warned by a meteor's light, Or a pale bird flitting calls them home, Or a voice on the winds by night; And they must go!—and he too, he— -Wo for the fall of the glorious Tree!

THE WILD HUNTSMAN.

THY rest was deep at the slumberer's hour If thou didst not hear the blast

Of the savage horn, from the mountain-tower,
As the Wild Night-Huntsman passed,
And the roar of the stormy chase went by,

Through the dark unquiet sky!

The stag sprung up from his mossy bed
When he caught the piercing sounds,
And the oak-boughs crashed to his antlered head
As he flew from the viewless hounds;
And the falcon soared from her craggy height,
Away through the rushing night!

The banner shook on its ancient hold,

And the pine in its desert-place,

As the cloud and tempest onward rolled
With the din of the trampling race;

And the glens were filled with the laugh and shout,
And the bugle, ringing out!

From the chieftain's hand the wine-cup fell,

At the castle's festive board,

And a sudden pause came o'er the swell
Of the harp's triumphal chord;
And the Minnesinger's thrilling lay
In the hall died fast away.

The convent's chanted rite was stayed,
And the hermit dropped his beads,
And a trembling ran through the forest-shade,
At the neigh of the phantom steeds,
And the church-bells pealed to the rocking blast
As the Wild Night-Huntsman passed.

The storm hath swept with the chase away,
There is stillness in the sky,

But the mother looks on her son to-day,
With a troubled heart and eye,

And the maiden's brow hath a shade of care
'Midst the gleam of her golden hair!

The Rhine flows bright, but its waves ere long
Must hear the voice of war,

And a clash of spears our hills among,

And a trumpet from afar;

And the brave on a bloody turf must lie,
For the Huntsman hath gone by!

THE SHADE OF THESEUS.

ANCIENT GREEK TRADITION.

KNOW ye not when our dead

From sleep to battle sprung? -When the Persian charger's tread

On their covering greensward rung!
When the trampling march of foes

Had crushed our vines and flowers,
When jewelled crests arose
Through the holy laurel bowers,

When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

There was one, a leader crowned,
And armed for Greece that day;
But the falchions made no sound
On his gleaming war-array.
In the battle's front he stood,

With his tall and shadowy crest;
But the arrows drew no blood

Though their path was through his breast.

When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

His sword was seen to flash

Where the boldest deeds were done; But it smote without a clash;

The stroke was heard by none!

His voice was not of those

That swelled the rolling blast,
And his steps fell hushed like snows-
'Twas the Shade of Theseus passed!

When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

Far sweeping through the foe,
With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a bow
On the sounding ocean-shore.

And the foaming waves grew red,

And the sails were crowded fast, When the sons of Asia fled,

As the Shade of Theseus passed!

When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE. WHERE is the summer, with her golden sun! -That festal glory hath not passed from earth: For me alone the laughing day is done!

Where is the summer with her voice of mirth? -Far in my own bright land!

Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die

On the green hills? the founts, from sparry caves Through the wild places bearing melody? The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves? -Far in my own bright land!

Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,

The virgin-dances, and the choral strains? Where the sweet sisters of my youth entwining The Spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes? -Far in my own bright land!

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs,

The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades? The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs, And the pine forests, and the olive shades? -Far in my own bright land!

Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers, The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's

dreams?

-Oh! that my life were as a southern flower's!
I might not languish then by these chill streams,
Far from my own bright land!

GREEK FUNERAL CHANT OR MYRI

OLOGUE.

"Les Chants Funèbres par lesquels on déplore en Grèce la mort de ses proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myriologia, comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, complaintes. Un malade vient-il de rendre le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mère, ses filles, ses sœurs, celles, en un mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sont là, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, en épanchant librement, chacune selon son naturel et sa mesure de tendresse pour le défunt, la douleur qu'elle ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. Là elles changent