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THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.-Tennyson.

In her ear he whispers gaily,
"If my heart by signs can tell,
Maiden, I have watched thee daily,
And I think thou lov'st me well."
She replies, in accents fainter,
"There is none I love like thee :"
He is but a landscape painter,
And a village maiden she.
He to lips, that fondly falter,
Presses his without reproof:
Leads her to the village altar,

And they leave her father's roof.
"I can make no marriage present;
Little can I give my wife.

Love will make our cottage pleasant,
And I love thee more than life."
They by parks and lodges going
See the lordly castles stand;
Summer woods, about them blowing,
Made a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses,
Says to her that loves him well,
"Let us see these handsome houses
Where the wealthy nobles dwell."
So she goes by him attended,
Hears him lovingly converse,
Sees whatever fair and splendid
Lay betwixt his home and hers;
Parks with oaks and chestnut shady,
Parks and ordered gardens great,
Ancient homes of lord and lady,
Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him dearer :
Evermore she seems to gaze

On that cottage growing nearer,
Where they twain will spend their days.
O but she will love him truly!

He shall have a cheerful home;
She will order all things duly,
When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns;
Sees a mansion more majestic
Than all those she saw before :
Many a gallant gay domestic

Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footsteps firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly,
"All of this is mine and thine."
Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,
Not a lord in all the county

Is so great a lord as he.

All at once the colour flushes

Her sweet face from brow to chin:
As it were with shame she blushes,
And her spirit changed within.
Then her countenance all over
Pale again as death did prove :

But he clasped her like a lover,

And he cheered her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirits sank:

Shaped her heart with woman's meekness

I

To all duties of her rank:
And a gentle consort made he,
And her gentle mind was such
That she grew a noble lady,

And the people loved her much.
But a trouble weighed upon her,
And perplexed her night and morn,
With the burthen of an honour

Unto which she was not born.
Faint she grew, and ever fainter,
As she murmured, “Oh, that he
Were once more that landscape painter,
Which did win my heart from me!"
So she drooped and drooped before him,
Fading slowly from his side:

Three fair children first she bore him,
Then before her time she died.
Weeping, weeping late and early,
Walking up and pacing down,
Deeply mourned the Lord of Burleigh,
Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.
And he came to look upon her,

And he looked at her and said,
"Bring the dress and put it on her
That she wore when she was wed."
Then her people, softly treading,
Bore to earth her body, drest
In the dress that she was wed in,
That her spirit might have rest.

SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING.-
Motherwell.

OUR bark is on the waters deep, our bright blades in our hand,

Our birthright is the ocean vast—we scorn the girdled

land;

And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none can bolder be

Than the hoarse-tongued tempest raving o'er a proud and swelling sea!

Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall masts quivering bend

Before the gale, which hails us now with the hollo of a friend;

And its prow is sheering merrily the upcurled billows' foam,

While our hearts, with throbbing gladness, cheer old Ocean as our home!

Our eagle-wings of might we stretch before the gallant wind,

And we leave the tame and sluggish earth a dim mean speck behind;

We shoot into the untracked deep, as earth-freed spirits soar,

Like stars of fire through boundless space-through realms without a shore!

Lords of this wide-spread wilderness of waters, we bound free,

The haughty elements alone dispute our sovereignty; No landmark doth our freedom let, for no law of man

can mete

The sky which arches o'er our head-the waves which kiss our feet!

The warrior of the land may back the wild horse, in his pride;

But a fiercer steed we dauntless breast-the untamed ocean tide;

And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it quells the saucy wave,

While the Herald storm peals o'er the deep the glories of the brave.

Hurrah! Hurrah! the wind is up-it bloweth fresh and free,

And every cord, instinct with life, pipes loud its fearless glee ;

Big swell the bosomed sails with joy, and they madly kiss the spray,

As proudly, through the foaming surge, the Sea-King bears away!

DEATH OF WARWICK.-Shakspeare.

My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows
That I must yield my body to the earth,

And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe.
Thus yields the cedar to the axe's edge,
Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle;
Under whose shade the ramping lion slept;

Whose top-branch overpeered Jove's spreading tree,
And kept low shrubs from winter's powerful wind.
These eyes, that now are dimmed with death's black
veil,

Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun

To search the secret treasons of the world:

The wrinkles in my brows, now filled with blood,

Were likened oft to kingly sepulchres;

For who lived king but I could dig his grave?

And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow?
Lo, now my glory smeared in dust and blood!
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
Even now forsake me; and of all my lands
Is nothing left me but my body's length !
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?
And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

ODE TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND.-Kingsley. WELCOME, Wild North-easter!

Shame it is to see

Odes to every zephyr ;

Ne'er a verse to thee.

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