No more of me you knew,

My love!

No more of me you knew.

This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow,

Ere we two meet again.

He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,

He gave his bridle-reins a shake,

Said, 'Adieu for evermore,

My love!

And adieu for evermore.'

CXLIV.

L

LUCY ASHTON'S SONG.

OOK not thou on beauty's charming,— Sit thou still when kings are arming,— Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,— Speak not when the people listens,— Stop thine ear against the singer,— From the red gold keep thy finger,— Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, Easy live and quiet die.

CXLV.

SONG.

AH! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,

The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who trilled all day,
Sits hushed his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?.

The village maid steals through the shade
Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born cavalier.
The star of love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know-
But where is County Guy?

CXLVI

FLORA'S SONG.

'HE sun upon the lake is low,

THE

The wild birds hush their song,

The hills have evening's deepest glow,
Yet Leonard tarries long.

Now all whom varied toil and care
From home and love divide,
In the calm sunset may repair
Each to the loved one's side.

The noble dame on turret high,
Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy
The flash of armour bright.

The village maid, with hand on brow,
The level ray to shade,

Upon the footpath watches now

For Colin's darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row,

By day they swam apart,

And to the thicket wanders slow

The hind beside the hart.

The woodlark at his partner's side Twitters his closing song

All meet whom day and care divide, But Leonard tarries long!

CXLVII.

W

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 1772-1834.

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

HERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Where may the grave of that good man be?— By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree!

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown.
The Knight's bones are dust,

And his good sword rust ;—

His soul is with the saints, I trust.

CXLVIII.

YOUTH AND AGE.

VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,

VERS

Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee

Both were mine! life went a-maying

With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,

When I was young!