THE COUNT OF GREIERS. "Rose of the Alpine valley! I feel, in every vein, 147 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." SONG. If man comes not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage; They cannot seek his hand. 13* 149 SONNET. (FROM THE PORtuguese of seMEDO.) It is a fearful night; a feeble glare Streams from the sick moon in the o'erclouded sky; 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, I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright, 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, As lovely as the light. I knew him not—but in my heart And well I marked his open brow, His sweet and tender eyes, With leaves and blossoms mixed. He wore a chaplet of the rose, Was marked with many an ebon spot, |