Rock!" Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, he cursed himself in his despair; the waves rush in on every side, the ship is sinking beneath the tide. But ever in his dying ear one dreadful sound could the Rover hear: a sound as if with the Inchcape Bell the fiends below were ringing his knell.

GINEVRA. (Rogers.)

SHE was an only child-her name Ginevra, the joy, the pride of an indulgent sire; and in her fifteenth year became a bride, marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, her playmate from her birth, and her first love. She was all gentleness, all gaiety, her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, the nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; and in the lustre of her youth she gave her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy ; but at the nuptial feast, when all sat down, the bride was wanting there, nor was she to be found! Her father cried, "'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"—and filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, and soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, laughing, and looking back, and flying still-her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas! she was not to be found ; nor from that hour could ; anything be guessed, but that she was not!

Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have seen an old man wandering as in quest of something, something he could not find he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot; when on an idle day-a day of search 'mid the old lumber in the gallery that mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said by one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why

not remove it from its lurking-place?" 'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way it burst-it fell; and lo! a skeleton; with here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, a golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold! All else had perished-save a nuptial ring and a small seal, her mother's legacy, engraven with a name, the name of both -"GINEVRA". There, then, had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; when a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, fastened her down for ever!

BARBARA FRITCHIE.-(Whittier.)

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,
Over the mountains winding down,

Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Fritchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic-window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead,
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.

"Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast, "Fire!"-out blazed the rifle blast,

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
"Shoot, if you must, this grey old head,
But spare your country's flag," she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life, at that woman's deed and word:
"Who touches a hair of yon grey head
"Dies like a dog! March on!" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag toss'd
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell

On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps, sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Fritchie's work is o'er,

And the rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honour to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.

Over Barbara Fritchie's grave
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

THE ABUSE OF POWER. (Shakespeare.)

O, it is excellent

To have a giant's strength: but tyrannous To use it like a giant.

BOADICEA. (Cowper.)

WHEN the British warrior-queen, bleeding from the Roman rods,

Sought, with an indignant mien, counsel of her country's gods, Sage, beneath a spreading oak, sat the Druid, hoary chief, Every burning word he spoke, full of rage and full of grief. "Princess! if our aged eyes weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties all the terrors of our tongues, Rome shall perish-write that word in the blood that she has spilt ;

Perish, hopeless and abhorred, deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renowned, tramples on a thousand states; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground-hark! the Gaul is at

her gates!

-Other Romans shall arise, heedless of a soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, harmony the path to fame!

Then the progeny that springs from the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings, shall a wider world command:

Regions Cæsar never knew, thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew, none invincible as they!"

Such the Bard's prophetic words, pregnant with celestial fire,

Bending as he swept the chords of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, felt them in her bosom glow; Rushed to battle, fought, and died—dying, hurled them at the

foe!

[due ; "Ruffians! pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance Empire is on us bestowed; shame and ruin wait for you!”

THE FORCED RECRUIT.-(Mrs. Browning.)

By kind permission of Robert Browning, Esq.
IN the ranks of the Austrian you found him,
He died with his face to you all;

Yet bury him here where around him
You honour your bravest that fall.
Venetian, fair-featured and slender,
He lies shot to death in his youth,

With a smile on his lips over-tender
For any mere soldier's dead mouth.
No stranger, and yet not a traitor,

Though alien the cloth on his breast,
Underneath it how seldom a greater

Young heart, has a shot sent to rest!
By your enemy tortured and goaded
To march with them, stand in their file,
His musket (see) never was loaded,

He facing your guns with that smile!
As orphans yearn on to their mothers,
He yearned to your patriot bands ;—
"Let me die for our Italy, brothers,

If not in your ranks, by your hands!
"Aim straightly, fire steadily! spare me
A ball in the body which may
Deliver my heart here, and tear me

This badge of the Austrian away!"

So thought he, so died he this morning.
What then? Many others have died.
Ay, but easy for men to die scorning

The death-stroke who fought side by sideOne tricolor floating above them;

Struck down 'mid triumphant acclaims

Of an Italy rescued to love them,

And blazon the brass with their names.

But he, without witness or honour,

Mixed, shamed in his country's regard,
With the tyrants who march in upon her,
Died faithful and passive : 'twas hard.
'Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction
Cut off from the guerdon of sons,
With most filial obedience, conviction,
His soul kissed the lips of her guns.

That moves you? Nay, grudge not to show it
While digging a grave for him here:
The others who died, says your poet,
Have glory-let him have a tear.