WOODSTOCK MAZE.

Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day,
Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay.

"I tune my lute and I straight forget,

Though it weighs down my neck, woe's me,
Till it feebly moans to the sharp short gusts
Aye rushing from tree to tree.
Often that single redbreast comes

To the sill where my Jesu stands,

I speak to him as to a child, he flies,
Afraid of these poor thin hands!"

Oh the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall,
Fall and fall over churchyard and hall.

"The golden evening burns right through
My dark chamber windows twain:

I listen, all round me is only a grave,
Yet listen I ever again.

Will he come? I pluck the flower-leaves off,
And at each, cry, yes, no, yes,

I blow the down from the dry hawkweed,
Once, twice, hah! it flies amiss!"

Oh, the shower and the sunshine every day,
Pass and pass, be ye sad, be ye gay.

"Hark! he comes! yet his footstep sounds
As it sounded never before!

Perhaps he thinks to steal on me,

But I'll hide behind the door."

She ran, she stopped, stood still as stone-
It was Queen Eleanore,-

And at once she felt what sudden death

The hungering she-wolf bore!

Oh the leaves, brown, yellow, and red, still fall,
Fall and fall over churchyard and hall.

WEAVE no more the marriage chain;
All unmated is the lover;
Death has ta'en the place of Pain;
Love doth call on love in vain:
Life and years of hope are over!

No more want of marriage bell!

No more need of bridal favour! Where is she to wear them well? You, beside the lover, tell!

Gone-with all the love he gave her!

THE SEA FIGHT.

Paler than the stone she lies:

Colder than the winter's morning!
Wherefore did she thus despise,
She with pity in her eyes,

Mother's care and lover's warning?

Youth and beauty-shall they not
Last beyond a brief to-morrow?
No a prayer and then forgot!
This the truest lover's lot;

This the sum of human sorrow!

THE SEA FIGHT.

THE Sun hath ridden into the sky,

And the Night gone to her lair;
Yet all is asleep

On the mighty Deep,

And all in the calm gray air.

All seemeth as calm as an infant's dream,

As far as the eye may ken :

But the cannon blast,

That just now passed,

Hath awakened ten thousand men.

An order is blown from ship to ship;

All round and round it rings;

And each sailor is stirred

By the warlike word,

And his jacket he downwards flings.

He strippeth his arms to his shoulders strong; He girdeth his loins about;

And he answers the cry

Of his foemen nigh,

With a cheer and a noble shout.

BRYAN W. PROCTER.

What follows?- a puff, and a flash of light,
And the booming of a gun;

And a scream, that shoots

To the heart's red roots,

And we know that a fight's begun.

A thousand shot are at once let loose:
Each flies from its brazen den,

Like the Plague's swift breath,

On its deed of death,

And smites down a file of men.

The guns in their thick-tongued thunder speak, And the frigates all rock and ride,

And timbers crash,

And the mad waves dash,

Foaming all far and wide:

And high as the skies run piercing cries,

All telling one tale of woe,

That the struggle still,

Between good and ill,

Goes on, in the earth below.

Day pauses, in gloom, on his western road:

The Moon returns again:

But, of all who looked bright,

In the morning light,

There are only a thousand men.

Look up, at the brooding clouds on high!

Look up, at the awful sun!

And, behold, the sea flood

Is all red with blood:

Hush! a battle is lost, --and won!

CAROLINE NORTON.

THE LADY OF THE CHACE.

LIKE a sweet picture doth the Lady stand,
Still blushing as she bows; one tiny hand,
Hid by a pearl-embroidered gauntlet, holds
Her whip, and her long robe's exuberant folds.
The other hand is bare, and from her eyes
Shades now and then the sun, or softly lies,
With a caressing touch, upon the neck
Of the dear glossy steed she loves to deck
With saddle-housings worked in golden thread,
And golden bands upon his noble head.
White is the little hand whose taper fingers
Smooth his fine coat, and still the lady lingers,
Leaning against his side; nor lifts her head,
But gently turns as gathering footsteps tread ;
Reminding you of doves with shifting throats,
Brooding in sunshine by their sheltering cotes.
Under her plumèd hat her wealth of curls
Falls down in golden links among her pearls,
And the rich purple of her velvet vest

Slims the young waist, and rounds the graceful breast.