« PreviousContinue »
THE MOSS ROSE.
Narrow shores of flesh and sense,
THE MOSS ROSE.
The Angel of the flowers one day
A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. --- Mrs. Hemans,
A MONARCH* on his death-bed lay,
Did censers wast perfume,
Through his proud chambers gloom?
Beneath a darkening sky, -
A swift stream rolling by.
Had he then fallen as warriors fall,
Where spear strikes fire from spear?
nor cloven shields nor helms
Yielded his soul to God.
Were there not friends, with words of cheer,
And friendly vassals, nigh?
Before the fading eye?-
Upon her bosom laid;
The face of death surveyed.
Alone she sat, — from hill and wood
Red sank the mournful sun;
Treason its worst had done!
* 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.
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; 'T is an eagle in its way, Darting down upon its prey; 'Tis an arrow in its flight, Mocking the pursuing sight; 'T is a vapor in the air; 'Tis a whirlwind rushing there; 'T is a short-lived, fading flower; 'Tis a rainbow on a shower; 'T is a momentary ray, Smiling in a winter's day; 'Tis a torrent's troubled stream; 'Tis a shadow it is a dream; 'Tis the closing watch of night, Dying at approaching light; 'Tis a landscape vainly gay, Painted upon crumbling clay; 'Tis a lamp that wastes its fires; "T is a smoke that quick expires; 'Tis a bubble; 't is a sigh; Be prepared, O man, to die!
VIRTUE. — George Herbert.
For thou must die.
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
And thou must die.
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Then chiefly lives.
TO A SKYLARK. - Wordsworth.
ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
TO THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER.
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
TO THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER.- Elliot.
Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows,
Wild bramble of the brake!
I love it for his sake.
O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thy satin-threaded flowers;
That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful,
Thy tender blossoms are !
How rich thy branchy stem !
And thou sing'st hymns to them;
And, 'mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush! The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead ;