The ruby's blushes,-there it lies!
Modest as the tender dawn,

When her purple veil 's withdrawn,

The flower of gems,-a lily, cold and pale! Yet, what doth all avail?

All its beauty, all its grace!

All the honors of its place?

He who pluck'd it from its bed,
In the far blue Indian Ocean,
Lieth, without life or motion,
In his earthly dwelling,-dead!
And his children, one by one,
When they look upon the sun,
Curse the toil by which he drew
The treasure from its bed of blue.

Gentle bride, no longer wear
In thy night-black odorous hair
Such a spoil! It is not fit
That a tender soul should sit
Under such accursèd gem.

What needst thou, a diadem ?-
Thou, within whose Eastern eyes
Thought (a starry genius) lies?-
Thou, whom beauty has array'd !—
Thou, whom love and truth hath made
Beautiful? in whom we trace
Woman's softness, angel's grace,-
All we hope for, all that streams
Upon us in our haunted dreams!

O sweet Lady! cast aside,
With a gentle, noble pride,
All to sin or pain allied.

Let the wild-eyed conqueror wear
The bloody laurel in his hair;

Let the slave-begotten gold

Weigh on bosoms hard and cold;
But be thou for ever known
By thy natural light alone!

George Gordon Moel Byron.

(LORD BYRON.)

1788-1824.

THE LAKE OF GENEVA.

From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," Canto III.

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake,
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction; once I loved
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved,
That I with stern delights should e'er have been
so moved.

It is the hush of night, and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen,
Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near,

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,

Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol

more:

He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill,
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

Charlotte Elliott.

66

1789-1871.

FROM SUNDAY EVENING."

The Sabbath day has reached its close;

Yet, Saviour, ere I seek repose,

Grant me the peace Thy love bestows :

Smile on my evening hour!

O heavenly Comforter, sweet guest!
Hallow and calm my troubled breast;
Weary I come to Thee for rest :
Smile on my evening hour!

If ever I have found it sweet
To worship at my Saviour's feet,
Now to my soul that bliss repeat:
Smile on my evening hour!

William knox.

1789-1825.

O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid ;
And the young and the old, and the low and the
high,

Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection who proved,

e husband that mother and infant who blessed,

ch, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

e maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

one beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;

d the memory of those who have loved her and praised,

e alike from the minds of the living erased.

e hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,

e brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, e eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, e hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

e peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, e herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,

e beggar who wandered in search of his bread, ve faded away like the grass that we tread.

e saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, Le sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, e wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, ve quietly mingled their bones in the dust.