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When by the hamlet last
Through dim wood-lanes we pass'd, Where dews were glancing to the glow-worm's spark.
Haste! to my pillow bear
Those fragrant things, and fair-
Yet shall their odor soft
One bright dream round me waft,
And oh ! if thou wouldst ask,
Wherefore thy steps I task
_'Tis that some thought of me,
When I am gone, may be
I bid mine image dwell,
(Oh! break thou not the spell :) In the deep wood, and by the fountain side
Thou must not, my belovd !
Rove where we two have rov’d, Forgetting her that in her spring-time died.
A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED.
The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the way-side, and was supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.
A MONARCH on his death-bed lay
Did censers waft perfume,
Through his proud chamber's gloom?
Beneath a darkening sky-
A swift stream rolling by.
Had he then fallen, as warriors fall,
Where spear strikes fire from spear?-
A buckler for his bier?
Not sonor cloven shields nor helms
Had strewn the bloody sod,
Yielded his soul to God.
Were there not friends, with words of cheer,
And princely vassals nigh ? Aud priests, the crucifix to rear
Before the fading eye?--
Upon her bosom laid;
The face of death survey'd.
Alone she sat-from hill and wood
Red sank the mournful sun;
Treason its worst had done!
The wounds, to stanch their tideUnknown, on that meek humble breast,
Imperial Albert died !
THE HOUR OF DEATH.
LEAVES have their time to fall,
And stars to set-but all,
Day is for mortal care,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayerBut all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth.
The banquet hath its hour,
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears—but all are thine.
Youth and the opening rose
And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set—but all,
We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee?
Is it when Spring's first gale
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? —
Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air ;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth—and thou art there.
Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.