Of the gallants her steps' fairy music attending,
Was Victor for ever in fervency first;
With his harp's inspiration immortally blending
The visions his daring idolatry nurst.

And her triumph to Constance fresh glory was bringing,
From her eyes more victoriously darted the day,
As Time, through her life's cloudless atmosphere winging,
At her feet saw that youth, with his lyre and his lay.

She would linger-would listen-her full heart's expressions
To that slave in one glance's dark volley convey'd;
And she loved him to sing of the lofty concessions
That high-born maidens to minstrels have made.

Yet, guarded in guile, from her lips ruby-burning,
The one word so watch'd for by love never fell :
Poor Minstrel, no passion thy passion returning,
Shall ever the clouds closing o'er thee dispel!

(Oh! as bud in the blight be the lip of the woman,
Who, to wing the dull moments in indolence past,
Can foster with flattery cold and inhuman

Some heart's noble hopes but to break it at last!)

'Twas when Victor was loudest, by lance and lute vaunting His mistress unmatch'd from the Rhine to the RhoneWhile his lode-star of life was her aspect enchantingThat she wedded her kinsman, Count Hugh of Cologne.

Fly now to the haunts of thy boyhood-thou dreamer!
This truth like the hunter's keen shaft in thy brain-
That trampled and mock'd by one idolized schemer,
Thou, at least, hast no fierier hell-cup to drain!

His darkness came down with no softening gradation,
On the noon of his life it was instantly night—
'Twas the thunderbolt killing with swift desolation,
In its greenness and glory, the pine of the height.

Yet think not that Constance triumphantly wended
In bliss as in beauty her heartless career-
The voice of that wrong'd uncomplaining ONE, blended
With the breeze, was at midnight a curse to her ear.

When proudly before her the banquet was blazing,
And nobles pledged high to her beauty-her eyes
Ever saw, as through clouds, by a lonely hearth gazing,
A pale wither'd man, like a spectre, to rise.

In Cologne's banner'd aisles, Countess Constance is sleeping,
And leagues far away, by a blue river's side,
Over Victor's green turf silent Evening is weeping –
May their souls, at the Judgment, not sever as wide!

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

BY REV. C. WOLFE.

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclos'd his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we bound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on-
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

i

MAPHERSON