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I know how softly bright,
Steep'd in that tender light,
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
There is a lone white rose,
Shedding, in sudden snows,
Well know'st thou that fair tree!
-A murmur of the bee
Bring me one pearly Power,
Of all its clustering shower-
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--
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,
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.
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,
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,
Yielded his soul to God.
Were there not friends, with words of cheer,
And princely vassals nigh?
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