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I saw him once before ; he rode

Upon a coal-black steed, And tens of thousands throng'd the road,

And bade their warrior speed. His helm, his breastplate, were of gold, And graved with many dint, that told

Of many a soldier's deed ; The sun shone on his sparkling mail, And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood chained and alone,

The headsman by his side, The plume, the helm, the charger gone ;

The sword, which had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near :
And yet no sign or sound of fear

Came from that lip of pride ;
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than did his now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke

With an uncover'd eye;
A wild shout from the numbers broke

Who throng'd to see him die.
It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame,

A nation's funeral cry, Rome's wail above her only son, Her patriot and her latest one.

EXTRACTS FROM THE IMPROVISATRICE.

FAREWELL, my lute !-and would that I

Had never waked thy burning chords ! Poison has been upon thy sigh,

And fever has breathed in thy words.

Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame

Thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute? I should have been the wretch I am,

Had every chord of thine been mute.

It was my evil star above,

Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong ; It was not song that taught me love,

But it was love that taught me song.

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He spoke not when the others spoke,

His heart was all too full for praise ;
But his dark eyes kept fixed on mine

Which sank beneath their burning gaze.
Mine sank—but yet I felt the thrill
Of that look burning on me still.
I heard no word that others said

Heard nothing, save one low-breathed sigh.
My hand kept wandering on my lute,

In music, but unconsciously;
My pulses throbbed, my heart beat high,
A flush of dizzy ecstacy

Crimsoned my cheek ; I felt warm tears
Dimming my sight, yet was it sweet,
My wild heart's most bewildering beat,

Consciousness, without hopes or fears,

Of a new power within me waking,
Like light before the morn's full breaking.

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I loved him as young Genius loves,

When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light,

The love, the life, by passion given. I loved him, too, as woman loves

Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn : Life had no evil destiny

That, with him, I could not have borne ! I had been purst in palaces ;

Yet earth had not a spot so drear,
That I should not have thought a home

In Paradise, had he been near !
How sweet it would have been to dwell,
A part from all, in some green dell
Of sunny beauty, leaves and flowers ;
And nestling birds to sing the hours !
Our home, beneath some chestnut's shade,
But of the woven branches made :
Our vesper hymn, the low lone wail
The rose hears from the nightingale ;
And waked at morning by the call
Of music from a waterfall.
But not alone in dreams like this,
Breathed in the very hope of bliss,
I loved : my love had been the same
In hushed despair, in open shame.
I would have rather been a slave,

In tears, in bondage, by his side,
Than shared in all, if wanting him,

This world had power to give beside !

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I had sprung

My heart was withered, and my heart

Had ever been the world to me:
And love had been the first fond dream,
Whose life was in reality.

from

my solitude,
Like a young bird upon the wing
To meet the arrow; so I met

My poisoned shaft of suffering.
And as that bird, with drooping crest-
And broken wing, will seek his nest,
But seek in vain : so vain I sought
My pleasant home of song and thought.
There was one spell upon my brain,
Upon my pencil, on my strain ;
But one face to my colours came ;
My chords replied to but one name
Lorenzo !-all seemed vowed to thee,
To passion, and to misery!

REV. GEORGE CRABBE.

PHEBE DAWSON. Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas Fair, The sweetest flower that ever blossom'd there, When Phæbe Dawson gaily cross'd the Green, In haste to see and happy to be seen : Her air, her manners, all who saw, admired ; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retired ; The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd ; A native skill her simple robes express’d, As with untutor'd elegance she dress’d;

The lads around admired so fair a sight,
And Phæbe felt, and felt she gave, delight.
Admirers soon of every age she gain'd,
Her beauty won them and her worth retain'd;
Envy itself could no contempt display,
They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away.
Correct in thought, she judged a servant's place
Preserved a rustic beauty from disgrace ;
But yet on Sunday-eve, in freedom's hour,
With secret joy she felt that beauty's power,
When some proud bliss upon the heart would steal,
That, poor or rich, a beauty still must feel.-
At length, the youth, ordain'd to move her

breast,
Before the swains with bolder spirit press'd ;
With looks less timid made his passion known,
And pleased by manners most unlike her own;
Loud though in love, and confident though young ;
Fierce in his air, and voluble of tongue ;
By trade a tailor, though, in scorn of trade,
He served the 'Squire, and brush'd the coat he

made : Yet now, would Phæbe her consent afford, Her slave alone, again he'd mount the board ; With her should years of growing love be spent, And growing wealth :-she sigh'd and look'd

consent. Now, through the lane, up hill, and 'cross the

green, (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seen Déjected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid : Slow through the meadows roved they, many a mile Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each stile ;

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