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CAROLINE NORTON.

So, till the latest joins the happy Meet;

Then springs she gladly to her eager feet;
And, while the white hand from her courser's side
Slips like a snow-flake,-stands prepared to ride.
Then lightly vaulting to her seat, she seems
Queen of some fair procession seen in dreams;
Queen of herself, and of the world; sweet Queen!
Her crown the plume above her brow serene,
Her jewelled whip a sceptre, and her dress
The regal mantle worn by loveliness.

And well she wears such mantle: swift her horse,
But firm her seat throughout the rapid course;
No rash unsteadiness, no shifting pose

Disturbs that line of beauty as she goes:

She wears her robe as some fair sloop her sails,
Which swell and flutter to the rising gales,
But never from the cordage taut and trim
Slacken or swerve away. The evening dim
Sees her return, unwearied and unbent,

The fair folds falling smooth as when she went;
The little foot no clasping buckle keeps,
She frees it, and to earth untrammelled leaps.

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"FLY, fly, my dove, to my own true love, And bear him this letter from me;

And let thy flight, on its path of light, Like the course of the comets be!

ROBERT BELL.

"Heed not the rain, should it chance to stain
Thy wings of driven snow-

But swiftly fly through the liquid sky,
And my blessing with thee go!

"In the solitude of Ardennes' wood

Is my falconer to be seen;

And do not forget that his plume is jet,
And his gear of the forest green.

"His scarf is tinged with gold, and fringed
With a border of glossy white;

And a true lover's knot is curiously wrought
In a margin of crimson bright.

"A hair knot too, of the sunniest hue,
Wears he upon his breast-

You'll know the braid by a silken thread,
A motto, and a crest.

"And on thy wing take this golden ring, A mark of thy lady's love—

My falconer will see that thou comest from me, When he looks on this ring, my dove!

"Fly, fly, my dove, to my own true love,
On thy fealty I rely;

Let thy wings be speed, for 'tis lady's need
That seeks thy ministry."

Swift, swift the dove flew, as the flashes do
When the clouds in heaven meet;

His momently place you could not trace,
His course was so wondrous fleet.

THE MESSENGER DOVE.

On, on he flew, the elements through

Of cold and of sunshine,

Nor felt the blast on his wings as he past,
Nor the scorch of the burning line.

Through clouds of fire, still higher and higher,

His course he did pursue;

And through floating gold, in the sun's deep hold, That fearless messenger flew.

A speck in the air-his plumage fair

Was melted to a ray

And the glancing light on his ring was bright

As the burst of the rising day.

And in his turning that bright ring's burning
Would dazzle a human eye;

You could not gaze on its fairy blaze
As it shot through the distant sky.

And on he flew, and well he knew

Where his resting place should be; Though the earth to him was far and dim, Yet the forest was plain to see.

And a hawk flew by, but he carefully

Avoided the bird of prey—

And he fluttered his wing, that the sunbright ring

Might scare him with its ray.

And the hawk's wild scream, as the sudden gleam

Flashed on his dazzled sight,

Was like the cry of agony

From a wreck on a starless night.

ROBERT BELL.

The dove flies on-- his errand is done;

He nears the wood at last;

And the glorious sun and the clouds of dun
Are safely and wondrously past.

And a falconer stood in Ardennes' wood,

Of gallant mien and air;

He was bold and free, and his courtesy

Was a jewel of value rare.

His plume was jet, and its roots were set
In a cap of the deep green hue;

And a true-love knot on his scarf was wrought,
And tinged with gold all through;

And a sunny braid, and a silken thread,

And a motto and a crest,

As tokens inwove of a lady's love,

Were hung on that falconer's breast.

Now haste thy flight to that gallant knight,
Fair dove, o'er stream and green;

For the knight doth play with his arrows to-day,
And they're falling the trees between.

With his arrows he plays through the forest's maze, And the shafts fly rapidly;

And his watchful eye is fixed on high,

And rests, fair dove, on thee.

Stay, stay thy hand, at thy lady's command,
And attend to her behest;-

Sir knight, sir knight, that bird of light

By thy lady was plumed and blest.

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