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I know how softly bright,
Steep'd in that tender light,
The water-lilies tremble there, e'en now ;
Go to the pure stream's edge,
And from its whispering sedge
Bring me those flowers, to cool my fever'd brow.
Then, as in hope's young days,
Track thou the antique maze
Of the rich garden, to its grassy mound;
There is a lone white rose,
Shedding, in sudden snows,
Well know'st thou that fair tree!
—A murmur of the bee
Dwells ever in the honied lime above;
Bring me one pearly flower,
Of all its clustering shower—
For on that spot we first reveal’d our love
Gather one woodbine bough, Then, from the lattice low Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark,
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—
My hand no more may bind them up at eve;
Yet shall their odor soft
One bright dream round me wast,
Of life, youth, summer—all that I must leave :
And oh! if thou wouldst ask,
Wherefore thy steps I task
The grove, the stream, the hamlet-vale to trace;
—"Tis that some thought of me,
When I am gone, may be
The spirit bound to each familiar place.
I bid mine image dwell,
(Oh break thou not the spell!)
In the deep wood, and by the fountain side—
Thou must not, my belov’d
Rove where we two have rov’d,
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died.
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,
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray,
Through his proud chamber's gloom?
He lay upon a greensward bed,
Beneath a darkening sky—
A lone tree waving o'er his head,
A swift stream rolling by.
Had he then fallen, as warriors fall,
Where spear strikes fire from spear –
Was there a banner for his pall,
A buckler for his bier *-
Not so—nor cloven shields nor helms
Had strewn the bloody sod,
Where he, the helpless lord of realins,
Were there not friends, with words of cheer,
And princely vassals nigh
And priests, the crucifix to rear
Before the fading eye 2–
A peasant girl, that royal head
Upon her bosom laid;
And, shrinking not for woman's dread,
The face of death survey’d.
Alone she sat—from hill and wood
Red sank the mournful sun;
Fast gush'd the fount of noble blood,
Treason its worst had done!
With her long hair she vainly press'd
The wounds, to stanch their tide—
Unknown, on that meek humble breast,
LEAVEs have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.
Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer—
But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth.
The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,
A time for softer tears—but all are thine.
Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee—but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.