EVELYN HOPE.

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She pluck'd that piece of geranium-
flower,

Beginning to die, too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think; The shutters are shut-no light may pass Save two long rays thro' the hinges chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my

name

It was not her time to love; beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares;

And now was quiet, now astir—
Till God's hand beckon'd unawares,
And the sweet white brow is all of her.
Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?

What! your soul was pure and true; The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; And just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide,

Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow-mortals-naught beside? No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love; I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delay'd, it may be, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a

few;

Much is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come-at last it willWhen, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall

say,

In the lower earth-in the years long stillThat body and soul so gay?

Why your hair was amber I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's

red

And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's

stead.

The bride-men flock'd round Lucy dead, And all the village wept.

Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

At once his bosom swell;

The damps of death bedew'd his brow, He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride (ah, bride no more!)

The varying crimson fled, When, stretch'd before her rival's corse, She saw her husband dead.

Then to his Lucy's new-made grave,
Convey'd by trembling swains,
One mould with her beneath one sod,
For ever now remains.

Oft at their grave the constant hind

And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands gay, and true-love knots
They deck the sacred green.

But, swain forsworn, whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear,
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

THOMAS TICKELL.

LORD LOVEL.

LORD LOVEL he stood at his castle-gate
Combing his milk-white steed;
When up came Lady Nancy Belle,

To wish her lover good speed, speed,
To wish her lover good speed.

"Where are you going, Lord Lovel?" she said,

"Oh! where are you going?" said she; "I'm going, my Lady Nancy Belle,

Strange countries for to see, to see,
Strange countries for to see."

“When will you be back, Lord Lovel?” she said;

"Oh! when will you come back?" said she;

"In a year or two or three, at the most, I'll return to my fair Nancy-cy, I'll return to my fair Nancy."

day,

Strange countries for to see,

When languishing thoughts came into his

head,

Lady Nancy Belle he would go see, see,
Lady Nancy Belle he would go see.

So he rode and he rode on his milk-white steed,

Till he came to London town, And there he heard St. Pancras' bells, And the people all mourning, round, round,

And the people all mourning round.

"Oh! what is the matter?" Lord Lovel he said,

"Oh! what is the matter?" said he; "A lord's lady is dead," a woman replied, "And some call her Lady Nancy-cy, And some call her Lady Nancy."

So he order'd the grave to be open'd wide,
And the shroud he turned down,
And there he kiss'd her clay-cold lips,

Till the tears came trickling down, down,
Till the tears came trickling down.

Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day,
Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow;
Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure
grief,

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow,

row,

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow.

sor

Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras' church,

Lord Lovel was laid in the choir; And out of her bosom there grew a red

rose,

And out of her lover's a brier, brier, And out of her lover's a brier.

They grew, and they grew, to the churchsteeple top,

And then they could grow no higher: So there they entwined in a true-lover's

knot,

For all lovers true to admire-mire, For all lovers true to admire.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE!
WHAT ails this heart o' mine?
What ails this watery ee?

What gars me a' turn pale as death
When I take leave o' thee?
When thou art far awa',

Thou'lt dearer grow to me;

But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee.

When I gae out at e'en,

Or walk at morning air,

Ilka rustling bush will seem to say,

I used to meet thee there. Then I'll sit down and cry,

And live aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, I'll ca' 't a word frae thee.

I'll hie me to the bower

That thou wi' roses tied, And where wi' mony a blushing bud I strove myself to hide.

I'll doat on ilka spot

Where I hae been wi' thee;

And ca' to mind some kindly word, By ilka burn and tree.

SUSANNA BLAMIRE

THE PORTRAIT.

MIDNIGHT past! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.

I sat by the dying fire, and thought
Of the dear dead woman up stairs.

A night of tears! for the gusty rain

Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping

yet;

And the moon look'd forth, as though in pain,

With her face all white and wet:

Nobody with me, my watch to keep,

But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:

And grief had sent him fast to sleep
In the chamber up above.

Nobody else, in the country place

All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face,

Who confess'd her when she died.

That good young Priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control;

For his lip grew white, as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul.

I sat by the dreary hearth alone:

I thought of the pleasant days of yore: I said, "The staff of my life is gone: The woman I loved is no more.

"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, Which next to her heart she used to

wear

Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes

When my own face was not there.

"It is set all round with rubies red,

And pearls which a Peri might have kept. For each ruby there my heart hath bled. For each pearl my eyes have wept."

And I said "The thing is precious to me: They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay;

It lies on her heart, and lost must be
If I do not take it away."

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,
And crept up the stairs that creak'd for
fright,

Till into the chamber of death I came,
Where she lay all in white.

The moon shone over her winding-sheet, There stark she lay on her carven bed: Seven burning tapers about her feet,

And seven about her head.

As I stretch'd my hand, I held my breath;
I turn'd as I drew the curtains apart:

I dared not look on the face of death:
I knew where to find her heart.

I thought at first, as my touch fell there, It had warm'd that heart to life, with love;

"This woman, she loved me well," said I. "A month ago," said my friend to me: "And in your throat," I groan'd, “you lie!"

He answer'd, . . . "Let us see."

"Enough!" I return'd, "let the dead decide:

And whose soever the portrait prove,
His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraign'd by Love."

We found the portrait there, in its place:
We open'd it by the tapers' shine:
The gems were all unchanged: the face
Was-neither his nor mine.

"One nail drives out another, at least! The face of the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend's the Raphael-faced young Priest,

Who confess'd her when she died."

The setting is all of rubies red,

And pearls which a Peri might have kept.

And I could feel it move.

'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving

slow

O'er the heart of the dead,—from the

other side:

For each pearl my eyes have wept.

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON. (OWEN MEREDITH.)

AMYNTA.