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And yet, you may depend upon't,
Ere half their days are told,
Their sons are taller than themselves,
And they are counted old.
Alas! alas! for years gone by,

And for the friends I've lost,
When no warm feeling of the heart
Was chill'd by early frost.

If these be Hymen's vaunted joys,
I'd have him shun my door,

Unless he'll quench his torch, and live
Henceforth a bachelor.

PIECES FOR RECITATION.

GINEVRA.-From Italy, a poem, by Samuel Rogers.
If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
TO MODENA, where still religiously

Among her ancient trophies is preserved
BOLOGNA'S bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the ORSINI.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,

Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance
And lovers, such as in heroic song,

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,

Read only part that day.—A summer-sun
Sets ere one-half is seen; but, ere thou go,
Enter the house-prythee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,

The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by ZAMPIERI-but I care not whom.

He, who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,

As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp ;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by ANTONY of Trent
With scripture stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from VENICE, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor.

That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancy

The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave,

That precious gift, what else remained to him?
The young GINEVRA was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, FRANCESCO DORIA,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to FRANCESCO.

Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sat down, the bride was wanting there.
Nor was she to be found! Her father cried,
""Tis but to make a trial of our love !"

And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left FRANCESCO,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed,
But that she was not!

Weary of his life,

FRANCESCO flew to VENICE, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
ORSINI lived; and long might'st thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find-he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
Mid the old lumber in the gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as GINEVRA,
"Why not remove it from its lurking-place ?"
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished-save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both,
"GINEVRA."

There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever!

LORD WILLIAM AND EDMUND.-Southey.
No eye beheld when William plunged

Young Edmund in the stream:
No human ear but William's heard
Young Edmund's drowning scream.

Submissive, all the vassals owned
The murderer for their lord:
And he, the rightful heir, possessed
The house of Erlingford.

But never could Lord William dare
To gaze on Severn's stream;

In every wind that swept its waves,
He heard young Edmund scream!

In vain, at midnight's silent hour,

Sleep closed the murderer's eyes:
In every dream, the murderer saw
Young Edmund's form arise!

Each hour was tedious long, yet swift
The months appeared to roll;
And now the day returned, that shook
With terror, William's soul.

A fearful day was that! the rains
Fell fast, with tempest roar,

And the swoln tide of Severn spread
Far on the level shore.

In vain Lord William sought the feast,
In vain he quaffed the bowl,

And strove, with noisy mirth, to drown

The anguish of his soul.

The tempest, as its sudden swell

In gusty howlings came,

With cold and death-like feelings seemed
To thrill his shuddering frame.

Reluctant, now, as night came on,
His lonely couch he pressed;
And, wearied out, he sunk to sleep,
To sleep-but not to rest.

Beside that couch, his brother's form,
Lord Edmund, seemed to stand-
Such, and so pale, as when in death
He grasped his brother's hand.

"I bade thee with a father's love
My orphan Edmund guard—

Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge?
Now take thy due reward."

He started up, each limb convulsed

With agonising fear

He only heard the storm of night—
'Twas music to his ear!

When, lo! the voice of loud alarm
His inmost soul appals-

"What, ho! Lord William, rise in haste! The water saps thy walls!"

He rose in haste-beneath the walls
He saw the flood appear;

It hemmed him round-'twas midnight now-
No human aid was near.

He heard the shout of joy! for now

A boat approached the wall;

And eager to the welcome aid

They crowd for safety all.

"My boat is small," the boatman cried,
""Twill bear but one away;
Come in, Lord William, and do ye
In God's protection stay."

The boatman plied the oar, the boat
Went light along the stream ;-
Sudden Lord William heard a cry,
Like Edmund's dying scream!

The boatman paused-" Methought I heard
A child's distressful cry!"

""Twas but the howling winds of night," Lord William made reply.

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