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Narrow shores of flesh and sense,
Picking shells and pebbles thence;
Or she sits at Fancy's door,
Calling shapes and shadows to her,
Foreign visits still receiving,
And to herself a stranger living.
Never, never, would she buy
Indian dust, or Tyrian dye,
Never trade abroad for more,
If she saw her native store;
If her inward worth were known,
She might ever live alone.

THE MOSS ROSE. The Angel of the flowers one day Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay, — That spirit to whose charge is given To bathe young buds in dew from heaven. Awakening froin his slight repose, The Angel whispered to the Rose, “O fondest object of my care, 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, What grace was there the flower had not? 'T was but a moment, — o'er the Rose A veil of moss the Angel throws, And, robed in Nature's simplest weed, Could there a flower that Rose exceed?

172

A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED.

A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. --- Mrs. Hemans,

A MONARCH* on his death-bed lay,

Did censers waft perfume,
And soft lamps, from their silvery ray,

Through his proud chambers 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 realms,

Yielded his soul to God.

Were there not friends, with words of cheer,

And friendly vassals, nigh?
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,

Treason its worst had done!

* Albert of Hapsburg, Emperor of Germany, who was assassi. pated 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?
'T is 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 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,
'T is a rainbow on a shower;
'Tis a momentary ray,
Smiling in a winter's day;
'Tis a torrent's troubled stream;
'Tis a shadow 't 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 ;
'Tis a smoke that quick expires;
'Tis a bubble; 't is a sigh;
Be prepared, O man, to die!

174

TO A SKYLARK.

VIRTUE. - George Herbert.
Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;

For thou must die.
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
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,

Then chiefly lives.

TO A SKYLARK. – Wordsworth. ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth, where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 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;

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood, -
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam;
True to the kindred points of heaven and home:

TO THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER. - Elliot.

Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows,

Wild bramble of the brake!
So put forth thy small, white rose;

I love it for his sake.
Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow,

O'er all the fragrant bowers,
Thou need'st not be ashamed to show

Thy satin-threaded flowers;
For dull the eye, the heart is dull,

That cannot feel how fair,
Amid all beauty beautiful,

Thy tender blossoms are!
How delicate thy gauzy frill!

How rich thy branchy stem!
How soft thy voice, when woods are still,

And thou sing'st hymns to them;
While silent showers are falling slow,

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;

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