GINEVRA.

If ever you should come to Modena,
(Where among other relics you may see
Tassoni's bucket,-but 'tis not the true one,)
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Donati.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you; but, before you go,
Enter the house,-forget it not, I pray you,—
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
Done by Zampieri,-but by whom I care not.
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 heirloom, 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 ancestors,—
That by the way,—it may be true or false,—
But don't forget the picture; and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child,-her name Ginevra,-
The joy, the pride of an indulgent father,
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 gayety,

Her pranks the favorite 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 nuptial feast,
When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting,
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 couid anything be guessed
But that she was not.

Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.

Donati lived,-and long might you 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 passed, and all forgotten,
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 wedding 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 forever.

Samuel Rogers.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." Deut. xxxiv.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
But no man dug that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the tramping,
Or saw the train go forth;
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek
Grows into the great sun,-

Noiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves,-
So, without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain crown
The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,
On gray Beth-peor's height,
Out of his rocky eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous sight.
Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns the hallowed spot;
For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

Lo when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed, and muffled drum,
Follow the funeral car.

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land
Men lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honored place,
With costly marble dressed,
In the great minster transept,
Where lights like glories fall,
And the choir sings, and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword;
This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Traced, with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?
The hill side for his pall;

To lie in state while angels wait,

With stars for tapers tall;

And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave;

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave,—

In that deep grave, without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again,—O wondrous thought!--
Before the judgment day;

And stand, with glory wrapped around,
On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life,
With the incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land!

O dark Beth-peor's hill!

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.

God hath his mysteries of grace,-
Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep
Of him he loved so well.

C. F. Alexander.

GRATTAN'S REPLY. TO MR. CORRY.

Has the gentleman done? Has he completely done? He was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of his speech. There was scarce a word he uttered that was not a violation of the privileges of the House. But I did not call him to order,-why? because the limited talents of some men render it impossible for them to be severe without being unparliamentary. But before I sit down I shall show him how to be severe and parliamentary at the same time.

On any other occasion, I should think myself justifiable in treating with silent contempt anything which might fall from that honorable member; but there are times, when the insignificance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of the accusation. I know the difficulty the honorable gentleman labored under when he attacked me, conscious that, on a comparative view of our characters, public and private, there is nothing he could say which would injure me. The public would not believe the charge. I despise the falsehood. If such a charge were made by an honest man, I would answer it in the manner I shall do before I sit down. But I shall first reply to it when not made by an honest man.

The right honorable gentleman has called me "an unimpeached traitor." I ask why not "traitor," unqualified by any epithet? I will tell him: it was because he durst not. It was the act of a coward, who raises his arm to strike, but has not courage to give the blow. I will not call him villain, because it would be unparliamentary, and he is a privy counsellor. I will not call him fool, because he happens to be chancellor of the exchequer. But I say, he is one who has abused the privilege of Parliament and the freedom of debate, by uttering language which, if spoken out of the House, I should answer only with a blow. I care not how high his situation, how low his character, how contemptible his speech; whether a privy counsellor or a parasite, my answer would be a blow.

He has charged me with being connected with the rebels. The charge is utterly, totally, and meanly false.