On the same young, flowery tree Narrow shores of flesh and sense, Calling shapes and shadows to her, THE MOSS ROSE. THE Angel of the flowers one day Still fairest found where all is fair, For the sweet shade thou hast given me, Ask what thou wilt, 't is granted thee." Then said the Rose, with deepened glow,"On me another grace bestow; The Angel paused in silent thought, - A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. Mrs. Hemans. A MONARCH* on his death-bed lay, — And soft lamps, from their silvery ray, Had he then fallen as warriors fall, A buckler for his bier? Not so, nor cloven shields nor helms Had strewn the bloody sod, Where he, the helpless lord of realms, Yielded his soul to God. Were there not friends, with words of cheer, And priests, the crucifix to rear Before the fading eye? A peasant-girl that royal head Upon her bosom laid; And, shrinking not for woman's dread, The face of death surveyed. Alone she sat, - from hill and wood - Red sank the mournful sun; Fast gushed the fount of noble blood, *Albert of Hapsburg, Emperor of Germany, who was assassi nated by his nephew, was left to die by the way-side, and was supported in his last moments by a peasant-girl, who happened to be passing. With her long hair she vainly pressed The wounds, to stanch their tide, Unknown, on that meek, humble breast, Imperial Albert died. ON TIME. SAY, is there aught that can convey An image of its transient stay? 'Tis an hand's-breath; 't is a tale; 'Tis a vessel under sail; 'Tis a conqueror's straining steed; 'Tis a shuttle in its speed; 'Tis an Darting down upon its prey; Tis an arrow in its flight, 'Tis a rainbow "Tis a on a shower; momentary ray, 'Tis a torrent's troubled stream; Smiling in a winter's day; 'Tis a shadow 't is a dream; 'Tis the closing watch of night, Dying at approaching light; Tis a landscape vainly gay, 'Tis a lamp that wastes its fires; Painted upon crumbling clay; 'Tis a smoke that quick expires; 'Tis a bubble; 't is a sigh; Be prepared, O man, to die! SWEET day! So cool, so calm, so bright, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses, Thy music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! To the last point of vision and beyond, Mount, daring warbler! - that love-prompted strain ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain; |