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النشر الإلكتروني

THE COUNT OF GREIERS.

"Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein,

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Thy soft touch on my fingers; oh, press them not again! Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track, And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back."

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SONG.

If man comes not to gather

The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage; They cannot seek his hand.

13*

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SONNET.

(FROM THE PORtuguese of seMEDO.)

It is a fearful night; a feeble glare

Streams from the sick moon in the o'erclouded sky;
The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry,

Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare;

No bark the madness of the waves will dare ;

The sailors sleep; the winds are loud and high;

Ah, peerless Laura! for whose love I die,
Who gazes on thy smiles while I despair?
As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried,

I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright,
A messenger of gladness, at my side :
To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light,
And as we furrowed Tago's heaving tide,

I never saw so beautiful a night.

LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY.

(FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBadour.)

THE earth was sown with early flowers,
The heavens were blue and bright—
I met a youthful cavalier

As lovely as the light.

I knew him not—but in my heart
His graceful image lies,

And well I marked his open brow,

His sweet and tender eyes,
His ruddy lips that ever smiled,
His glittering teeth betwixt,
And flowing robe embroidered o'er,

With leaves and blossoms mixed.

He wore a chaplet of the rose,
His palfrey, white and sleek,

Was marked with many an ebon spot,
And many a purple streak ;
Of jasper was his saddle-bow,
His housings sapphire stone,
And brightly in his stirrup glanced
The purple calcedon.

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