To shelter her bower in the noontide hour,

When the summer fiercely shone.

But joy will share itself with care

She died, but the tree grows greenest there.
So a merry old stave

To the Ivy brave,

That changelessly flourishes on!

He spreadeth the pride of his green-shoots wide,
O'er the chapel's roofless pile;

He loveth the haunt where the monk's grave chauut

Once roll'd through the pillar'd aisle.

Baron and knight, and lady bright,

Sleep below 'neath the sculptured stone,

And nothing is seen with life, I ween,

But the tree that mourneth o'er what hath been.
So a merry old stave

To the Ivy brave,

That changelessly flourishes on!

In his twenty-second year Schiller wrote his tragedy of "The Robbers," which at once raised him to the foremost rank among the dramatists of his country. His "Ballads" are reckoned among the finest compositions of their kind in any language. Maunder's Treasury.

POOR JANE'S LAMENT.

JANUARY SEARLE (GEORGE SEARLE PHILLIPS).

AH, well-a-day! that thou should'st prove
So false to thy true hearted Jane.

I loved thee, Robin, my false love!
And broken hearts ne'er love again.

When first we met by Dungeon-wood, That skirts the bloomy crossland moor, I thought that thou wast kind and goodThat thou would'st love me evermore.

For, kneeling on the purple heath,

When thou did'st clasp my hand in thine, Thy vows seem'd truthful as the breath Of the pure heavens that truthful shine.

And when we wander'd 'mongst the trees,
And sunny shadows, towards the town,
I scarcely heard the birds and bees,
Or saw the mosses, green and brown.

All things conspired to lure my sense,
And charm my trusting heart away:

Oh sad, sad day! oh, fatal gift!
Which to thy keeping I resign'd;
For thou hast left me all bereft,
Heart-broken, hopeless, mad, and blind.

I cannot rest. I sing no more
Whilst plying at the dreary loom :
My songs of joy, of love, are o'er;
My life is weaving for the tomb.

With thee for ever from my pain;

Take, oh! take me to thy breast,

And quench my aching heart and brain.

THE BIRD OF PASSAGE.

6

SIR BEVIS OF HAMPTON. FROM THE LITERARY GAZETTE."

AWAY! away! thou Summer Bird,
For Autumn's moaning voice is heard,
In cadence wild and deepening swell,
Of Winter's stern approach to tell.

Away! for vapours, damp and low,

Are wreathed around the mountain's brow; And tempest-clouds their mantles fold Around the forest's russet gold.

Away! away! o'er earth and sea,
This land is now no home for thee!
Arise and stretch thy soaring wing,
And seek elsewhere the smiles of spring!.

The wanderer now, with pinions spread,
Afar to brighter climes has filed,

Nor casts one backward look, nor grieves
For those sere groves whose shade he leaves.

Why should he grieve? the beam he loves
Shines o'er him still where'er he roves,
And all those early friends are near
Who made his Suminer-home so dear.

Oh deem not that the tie of birth
Endears us to this spot of earth;
For wheresoe'er our steps may roam,
If friends are near, that place is home!
No matter where our fate may guide us,
If those we love are still beside us !

THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, BORN AT HANS PLACE, CHELSEA, IN 1802, DIED AT CAPE COAST CASILE, OCTOBER 16, 1838.

THE muffled drum roll'd on the air,
Warriors with stately step were there;
On every arm was the black crape bound,
Every carbine was turn'd to the ground;
Solemn the sound of their measured tread,
As silent and slow they followed the dead.
The riderless horse was led in the rear,
There were white plumes waving over the bier ;
Helmet and sword were laid on the pall,
For it was a soldier's funeral.—

That soldier had stood on the battle-plain,

Where every step was over the slain;

But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by,

And he came to his native land to die.

'Twas hard to come to that native land, And not clasp one familiar hand!

'Twas hard to be number d amid the dead, Or ere he could hear his welcome said!