Think of those who of old at the banquet
Did their weapons in garlands conceal,
The patriot heroes who hallow'd

The entwining of myrtle and steel!
Then hey for the myrtle and steel,
Then ho for the myrtle and steel,

Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid,
Fill round to the myrtle and steel!

"Tis in moments like this, when each bosom
With its highest-toned feeling is warm,
Like the music that's said from the ocean
To rise ere the gathering storm,

That her image around us should hover,

Whose name, though our lips ne'er reveal, We may breathe mid the foam of a bumper, As we drink to the myrtle and steel. Then hey for the myrtle and steel,

Then ho for the myrtle and steel,

Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid,
Fill round to the myrtle and steel!

Now mount, for our bugle is ringing
To marshal the host for the fray,
Where proudly our banner is flinging
Its folds o'er the battle-array;
Yet, gallants-one moment-remember,
When your sabres the death-blow would deal,
That MERCY wears her shape who's cherish'd
By lads of the myrtle and steel.

Then hey for the myrtle and steel,
Then ho for the myrtle and steel,

Let every true blade that e'er loved a fair maid,
Fill round to the myrtle and steel!

ROSALIE CLARE.

WHO Owns not she's peerless, who calls her not fair,

Who questions the beauty of ROSALIE CLARE?

Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field, And, though harness'd in proof, he must perish or yield;

For no gallant may splinter, no charger may dare The lance that is couch'd for young RoSALIE

CLARE.

When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is

pour'd,

And fond wishes for fair ones around offer'd up From each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup, What name on the brimmer floats oftener there, Or is whisper'd more warmly than ROSALIE CLARE?

They may talk of the land of the olive and vine,
Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine;
Of the houris that gladden the East with their

smiles,

Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles;

But what flower of far-away clime can compare With the blossom of ours-bright ROSALIE CLARE?

Who owns not she's peerless, who calls her not fair?

Let him meet but the glances of ROSALIE CLARE!

Let him list to her voice, let him gaze on her form, And if, seeing and hearing, her soul do not warm, Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air Than that which is bless'd by sweet ROSALIE CLARE.

LE FAINEANT.

"Now arouse thee, Sir Knight, from thine indolent ease,

Fling boldly thy banner abroad in the breeze, Strike home for thy lady-strive hard for the prize, And thy guerdon shall beam from her love-lighted eyes!"

"I shrink not the trial," that bluff knight replied"But I battle-not I-for an unwilling bride; Where the boldest may venture to do and to dare, My pennon shall flutter-my bugle peal there!

"I quail not at aught in the struggle of life,
I'm not all unproved even now in the strife,
But the wreath that I win, all unaided-alone,
Round a faltering brow it shall never be thrown!"

"Now fie on thy manhood, to deem it a sin That she loveth the glory thy falchion might win, Let them doubt of thy prowess and fortune no more,

Up, Sir Knight, for thy lady-and do thy devoir!'

"She hath shrunk from my side, she hath failed in

her trust;

Not relied on my blade, but remember'd its rust; It shall brighten once more in the field of its fame, But it is not for her I would now win a name.'

The knight rode away, and the lady she sigh'd, When he featly as ever his steed would bestride, While the mould from the banner he shook to the

wind

Seem'd to fall on the breast he left aching behind.

But the rust on his glaive and the rust in his heart

Had corroded too long and too deep to depart,
And the brand only brightened in honour once

more,

When the heart ceased to beat on the fray-trampled shore.

N. P. WILLIS.

MR. WILLIS was born in Portland in 1807. His principal works are, "Pencillings by the Way," "Inklings of Adventure," "Loiterings of Travel," "Letters from under a Bridge," "Bianca Visconti," "Tortesa the Usurer," and a volume of miscellaneous poems. He is now editor of the "New Mirror," in New York.

SPRING.

THE Spring is here, the delicate footed May,
With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers;
And with it comes a thirst to be away,

Wasting in wood-paths its voluptuous hours;
A feeling that is like a sense of wings,
Restless to soar above these perishing things.

We pass out from the city's feverish hum,
To find refreshment in the silent woods;
And nature, that is beautiful and dumb,

Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods ;
Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal,
To teach the indolent heart it still must feel.

Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon,
The waters tripping with their silver feet,
The turning to the light of leaves in June,
And the light whisper as their edges meet:
Strange, that they fill not, with their tranquil tone,
The spirit, walking in their midst alone.