Then turning on Don Carlos, like a lion in his wrath,

He stretched him with one desperate blow all stiff across his path.

Nine Spaniards still remained behind, but motionless they stood, And looked with silent wonder on that young knight's hardihood; "Come one-come all!" Sir Eustace cried, "I neither yield nor fly;

But for the Lady Isabel, or you or I must die."

Then the Count Alcaras recognised Sir Eustace D'Argencourt, His favoured rival in the love of Isabel D'Etours ;

And on he urged his dastard friends, and as a cloud they

came

"Base traitors!" shouted D'Argencourt, "how can ye fight, for shame!

Such odds were never seen before-nine armed men 'gainst one! God guard thee, Lady Isabel-my race of life is run!"

Yet fiercely did Sir Eustace fight, and fast flowed Spanish gore, Till the Count Alcaras came behind-he dared not come beforeAnd stabbed that brave Knight in the back-a false, dishonest

blow ;

Sir Eustace turned him round, and fixed one long gaze on his foe,

Then feeble fell his gallant arm, and clouds swam round his head, And the Spaniards raised a joyful shout, for they thought Sir Eustace dead.

They bound his arms behind his back, they tied him to a tree, And beside him stuck his broken lance, in graceless mockery;"And now, Sir Knight," Alcaras cried, "I'll wear this gewgaw too,

Methinks I guess who wove this scarf-this scarf of gold and blue.

Away! my friends, there's little breath in proud Sir D'Argencourt,

Away! my friends, I'll win her yet-Fair Isabel D'Etours!"

Bright shines the sun upon the waves-the waves of blue Garonne,

But brighter shine those diamond eyes in the lists at Roussilon;

And trumpets bray, and banners stream, and chargers gallop

round,

And noble hearts beat quick for praise, with many an aching bound;

But who is she, who wins all looks-for whom all ride the ring—
To gain a smile of whose dark eye were glory for a king!
Ha! did you mark her sudden blush — the paleness of the

trance

That followed quick, as on that knight she bent her eager glance"It was the Count Alcaras!" for his Spanish crest she knew, "But why wore he that plighted scarf”—that scarf of gold and blue?"

"I took it, lady," boastingly, the crafty Spaniard said,

"From one I forced to yield beneath my more victorious blade; He gave it me with right good will, his life was all he sought, Too cheaply with the coward's death so rich a prize I bought.”

Now, by St. Louis! braggart base!" fair Isabel replied, "I tell thee in thy craven teeth, that loudly thou hast lied!" Then bared she straight her snow-white hand, and down she threw her glove,

"Oh! is there any knight who here, for honour or for love,

Will make the Count Alcaras his unhallowed falsehood rue, And win me back that well-known scarf-that scarf of gold and blue!"

A hundred swords leaped forth at once to do her proud behest,
A hundred lords were at her feet, a hundred spears in rest;
But she has singled from them all that solitary Knight
Who wears his coal-black vizor down, nor yet has proved his
might.

The heralds sound the onset, and they meet with deadly shock;-
The Count has fallen from his horse, the Knight sits as a rock;-
But when he saw Alcaras down, he staid not on his steed,-
And when he saw Alcaras' lance was shivered as a reed,
Away, without one word, the Knight that instant cast his own;-
And forth he drew his glittering sword, that as a sunbeam shone,
With one fierce blow he cleft the casque the Spaniard proudly wore,
And with the next struck off the arm on which the scarf he bore:

Then thrice he kissed that well-won scarf-that scarf of gold

and blue,

And raised his vizor as he knelt to her he found so true;

O! dearly was that scarf beloved by Sir Eustace D'Argencourt,
But dearer far the prize he won in Isabel D'Etours!
Literary Souvenir.

BALLAD.

BY THOMAS HOOD, ESQ.

It was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast!

It was the time of roses,

We plucked them as we passed!

That churlish season never frowned
On early lovers yet!—

Oh no-the world was newly crowned
With flowers, when first we met.

"T was twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;-

It was the time of roses,—

We plucked them as we passed!

What else could peer my glowing cheek
That tears began to stud?—
And when I asked the like of Love,

You snatched a damask bud,—

And oped it to the dainty core,
Still glowing to the last:-
It was the time of roses,

We plucked them as we passed!

MY HOME.

BY THE REV. E. BARNARD.

YON old grey wall, whose gable high
Lifts the Redeemer's sign,
Whose tendrils green like tracery
O'er arch and mullion twine,—

It is, in truth, a holy place;

For God himself hath deigned to grace
That humble Home of mine:

And thoughts of Him are blended fair
With every joy I've tasted there.

The one best friend, whose modest worth
Even from my praises flies ;

The babe, whose soul is budding forth
From her blue smiling eyes;

And prattling still, the sturdy boy,
Who climbs my knee with heart of joy
To gain his little prize-

Their looks of love how can I see,

Nor think, great Sire of Love, on thee?

Pride enters not yon peaceful room;
But books and arts abound;
Nor there do vain Penates come
To reign-'tis holy ground!
And duly, Lord, when evening brings
Release from toil on balmy wings,
An household band is found
To raise thy throne, and offer there
The gift thou lov'st, domestic prayer.

Within, all studies end in thee;
And when abroad I rove,

There's not a herb, a flower, or tree,

That speaks not of thy love:

There's not a leaf, that whirled on high
Wanders along the stormy sky,

That hath not words to prove,—
How like would be my restless lot,
If grace divine upheld me not!

Oh! look upon yon glorious scene;
Wood, hill, and wave survey:
Mark every path where God hath been,
And own his wondrous way.

For

me, I daily come to bless,

Dear landscape, all thy loveliness;

And dare not turn away,

-Till I have said the Psalmist's line—

"These gracious works, dread Lord, are thine.”

My Home! my Home! I've paused awhile
In many a stranger land,

And seen in all "boon nature" smile

Beneath her Maker's hand:

But never, since calm reason took
From Fancy's clutch, her rhyming book,
A joyful resting planned-

Till here the blessed scene I laid,
Here in mine own romantic shade.

My Home! my Home! oh, ever dear
Thy hallowed scenes shall be ;

In joy or grief, in hope or fear,
My spirit clings to thee.

I deem my Home an emblem meet
Of that enduring last retreat,

From pain and passion free,

Where Peace shall fix her bright abode,
And yield her followers up to God.