"The blood-red flag, and trampling march Of Montreal's Companie !"

Oh, the sunshine of your life,

Oh, the thunders of your strife!
Wild Lances of the Free!

"Ho, scutcheons o'er the vaulted tomb,
Where Norman valour sleeps,
Why shake ye so? Why quake ye so?
What wind the trophy sweeps?"
"We shake without a breath-below
The dead are stirr❜d to see,
The Norman's fame revived again
In Montreal's Companie."
Since Roger won his crown,
Who hath equall'd your renown,
Brave Lances of the Free?

"Ho, ye who seek to win a name,
Where deeds are bravest done-
Ho, ye who seek to pile a heap,
Where gold is lightest won ;
Ho, ye who loathe the stagnant life,
Or shun the law's decree,

Belt on the brand, and spur the steed,

To Montreal's Companie;

And the maid shall share her rest,

And the miser share his chest,

With the Lances of the Free!

The Free!

The Free!

Oh, the Lances of the Free!"

LORD LYTTON.

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.

LADY Clara Vere de Vere,

Of me you shall not win renown : You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name : Your pride is yet no mate for mine,

Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms

A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find; For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love,— And my disdain is my reply.— The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you, than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead.

Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies—
A great enchantress you may be :—
But there was that across his throat
Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view,— She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed, I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear ;— Her manners had not that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door ;— You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth ; And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens, above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

'Tis only noble to be good:— Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere,—

You pine among your halls and towers :

The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied of the rolling hours.

In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,

You know so ill to deal with time,

You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands ?— Oh! teach the orphan boy to read,

Or teach the orphan girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

EULALIE.

(From the "Harp of the Valley.")

In the summer sky, I behold her eye,

In the deeps of celestial blue;

Who folded her hands on her high white breast, And went to a frigid, rigid rest,

For a heart so warm and true.

And Death, the terrible Eidolon,

Turn'd my blood to ice, and my heart to stone,
And over the form of the sainted dead

Not a sigh was drawn, not a tear was shed;
There were only weird and beautiful dreams
Of golden harps and eternal streams,

And, dim from the rim of Eternity,

The angel skirts of my Eulalie,

The altar of God and the throne between,
The lustrous robe of my Eulalie,
And voices from out the sinless sheen

Pronouncing the name of my Eulalie.
On her breast fell cold the graveyard mould,
And the heaven received her soul;

For sever'd for aye was the silver thread,
And broken the golden bowl!

She lives in the land where I send my prayer,
Through the starry sheen of the midnight air;
And from this valley of grief and groan,

On the awful steps of the Great White Throne,
The prayer from the lips of sinful me
Is laid by the beautiful Eulalie-
On Jehovah's throne from sinful me,
By the angel-hand of my Eulalie !

But the virgin-eye of the snow-white rose

Is wet with a dew-cold tear;

Oh, the white rose weeps where the maiden sleeps. Weeps-weeps o'er the gentle Eulalie,

The maiden we held so dear,

On the grass o'er the breasts of Eulalie,
The maiden we held so dear!

WILLIAM STEWART ROSS.

IN THE SEA.

(From the Atlantic Monthly.)

THE salt wind blows upon my cheek,

As it blew a year ago,