With cautious tread, and movement mute,
As if he feared a foe's pursuit?

Is it to view the day-light burst
With glory from night's womb,
To hail the ray that struggles first
The mountain to illume,

That ARTHUR COURTENAY hastes to leave
That spot, where since the dews of eve

Had fallen with refreshing pow'r

He lingered many a weary hour?

That spot, the Lady of his love
Was wont to call her summer's bow'r;
And oft when moonlight bright above
Had led him on his thorny way,
With soothing beam and dreamy ray,
He left his Father's hall afar,
And lover-like, with gay guitar,
Had paid his homage to that star
Which shone on all with gentle light-
On him with love, and beauty bright:

But now this night, when ARTHUR's heart

Had warned him that the time was come When from that scene he must depart, To hear the music of the drum; To whirl the lance in fierce careerHis country's flag in pride to rearAnd win in glory's tented field

The fame that war's rude contests yield:
Now when to seek the laurel wreath,
His last farewell he hoped to breathe,
And speak the faint, the parting word,
With speechless grief by lovers heard-
No airy form is seen to-night,

No step is heard which fell like light,
No voice breathes forth that tender tone
Which love can give, and love alone-
No smile illumes that pensive face,
Where melancholy strove with grace
And diguity, and love combined,
Shone there reflected from her mind.
Why comes she not? this night, the last,
That might in gladness have been past—
Could dearer joys its time require?
Or hast her stern and rugged sire
Discovered, with a parent's ire,

Their love, that like the springs first flower
Hath flourished spite of wind and shower,
And into fuller beauty burst,

Because in shame and secret nurst:

Or is that form, so lightly frail,
It seemed to shrink before the gale,
As airy as the moonlit cloud,
By pain and anguish is it bowed?
For such in timid maiden's breast
Is love in secret long repressed;

The feelings that the passion brings
Not always come on pleasure's wings;
And well may gentle woman doubt
If love be holy, when its ray
No pure and steady flame gives out,
But burns in darkness and dismay,
And seems to shun the eye of day.
Why comes she not? the morn's first ray
Hath dawned upon the mountains gray-
The lingering nfoon with lessened light
Reluctant leaves her reign o'er night:
But ARTHUR, ere he goes, essays
To wake the maiden, if perchance
The music of his once-loved lays

May win for him one parting glance

One smile to give his soul delight,
One word to cheer him in the fight-
And thus with saddened thoughts, forlorn,
He woke the echoes of the morn:-

NIGHT is decaying, and day is arraying

The peaks of the mountain with glory and light; Starlight is waning, the moon has ceased reigning In beauty and stillness as queen of the night; Flowers are blooming, around us perfuming

With night's gather'd odours the air and the breeze; Birds are awaking, their joyous flight taking, And dew-drops are sparkling on flowers and trees. Then wake, maiden, wake!

Cloudless the morning, is gaily adorning
Forest and lake with its beautiful light;

Rill, brook, and fountain-hill, dale, and mountain,
Seem rising in joy from the darkness of night.
WAKE, oh awake, love! thy slumber forsake, love!
Oh gladden mine ear with thy voice's soft tone;
Vain to my feelings are Nature's revealings,
If I wander among them forsaken and lone.
Then wake, maiden, wake!

Daylight is beaming, awake from thy dreaming-
One look of love from my heart's worshipped star;
Thro' paths of danger, a heart-stricken ranger,

For one word from thee I have wandered thus far. The lover that's weary, feels nothing so dreary

As unheeded to wait on the flow'r of his heart: The dews have ascended, night's reign has ended, Uncheered by thy presence, in grief I depart. Then wake, maiden, wake!

WHEN civil war o'er England bore
Her banner, drenched with English gore,
And England's best and bravest blood
Sank in the plain, or dyed the flood;
While Yorkists and Lancastrians fell
Alike beneath its wasting spell,
And discord's flambeau, fiery red,
Her baleful ruin loved to shed

And cast around the lurid light

That thro' that awful time burnt bright:
When peace and plenty left the plain
To treason's sad and dismal reign,
And brother against brother fought,
And sires their children's life-blood sought-
And all the calm delights of life
Were lost amid the direful strife;
While factious YORK ambition fired
To gain Old England's throne aspired-
And strove on his own brow to place
The crown his Sovereign wore with grace-
But not with dignity and might
To aid him in his strife for right:
That strife in bitter satire called
The war of roses red and white-
As if mid dangers unappalled,

Mau felt a stern, a proud delight
To blend with war's ensanguined train
The peaceful flow'rets of the plain.
Alas! those roses shed their bloom
In strife, in darkness, and in gloom;
And where they spring, and odour shed,
To nurture them bold hearts have bled.
The Earl of DEVON, ARTHUR'S sire,
With hoary head, but youthful fire,
Fearless in danger, wise and brave,
His arms and influence freely gave,
And bade his banners proudly wave