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THE LADY ROSE.
BY HENRY SUMMERSETT. “ Sing, ancient bard, the song of sorrow; I may not hear thy harp to-morrow! Sing, ancient bard, my Harold's praise, Bright, but not many, were his days; Thou knew'st the warrior's virtues well, Şay how he lov’d, and fought, and fell ! The boy upon the widow's knee Will smile to hear thy minstrelsy, And act a blissful angel's part On his poor mother's breaking heart. Thou knew'st the warrior's virtues well; Say how he lov’d, and fought, and fell !" old Hubert dash'd a tear away; The lady said, " Play, minstrel, play; Thou shalt not hear me heave a sigh, There is no fountain in mine eye; Sing, ancient bard, the song of sorrow, I may not hear thy harp to-morrow !” Drooping and sad, with trembling hand, He touch'd the wires at her command: Wild were the notes; the rosy boy Held up his little hands with joy ; The widow strain’d him to her breast, The pillow of his nightly rest, And then a wandering look she gave, And said,-" Thy father's in the grave! Lost, lost, my blessed hope, to thee, Lost, lost, my smiling babe, to me, To friendship, love, and earthly minstrelsy!.. “ But there are harps in Heaven!”-Began, With gathering strength, the ancient man: “ Sweet is the voice of seraphim, Pouring the joyous praise of Him Who to the son of virtue says, Heed not the shortness of thy days
On earth, for thou wilt find with me ! The raptures of eternity! Has Harold left his precious love, And are they not to meet again? Hark, lady, hark! I hear above, An angel's voice, an angel's strain : It is mine honour'd lord's; and see ! He drops the veil of mystery; Smiling on Rose, he stands : No angry storms his breast invade, He comes not like a gloomy shade; Lo! now he lifts his hands. 0, son of light! with holy joy, I see thee bless thy wife and infant boy! The warrior speaks; hark, lady, hark ! · My Rose, why are thy thoughts so dark ! Why suffer grief to overthrow Thy noble mind? Why nourish woe? The worm that eats the human heart: O, mournful dove! one smile impart; A smile like that which deck'd thy cheek, When first thou heard'st thy llarold speak Of love, and all its witching powers, And breath'd a tremulous vow, that made Holy, wild Ruthen's mountain shade, And gave more sweetness to the honied flowers. Why are thy thoughts so dark, my Rose ? Let our dear boy dispel thy woes With his soft smiles; such smiles, in Heaven, Are by the glowing cherubs given To those fond mothers, now on high, Who nurs'd their tender infancy. Wherefore that look of strong despair, · The fearful gathering of thine eye? Why load thy snowy breast with care, And wildly wish to die? There is a stillness in thy grief That fills the soul with dread. v . Woman of misery! in The body of wild Ruthen's chief Lies calmly with the honour'd dead, His soul is now with thee.
He comes a soother to his Rose, ... I
The closing eye—the ashy cheek
STANZAS WRITTEN AT SEA.
BY MARIANNE MEGGETT, Oft on the lonely deck I've stood,
At evening's still and silent hour; Mark’d the last sun-beams on the flood,
Which closes day's warm genial power, Then have I mourn’d, with anguish keen,
That thus the days of youth fleet by;
To draw the retrospective sigh.
Peep'd o’er the ocean's distant verge ;
Tipp'd the white sail of yon proud barge. And as the waves in gentle swell
Heave as the breezes o’er them sweep; Its pale light on their curl'd tops fell,
And sparkled o'er th’ expansive deep. Then has my soul with joy confess'd,
That though the warmth of youth decays, Yet Providence has kindly bless'd
Our age with more congenial rays.
While leaning o'er the vessel's side,
As the ship cuts the glassy sea;
And thought on friends now far from me. Now midnight's awful gloom was spread;
The seamen change of watch proclaim; The deep-mouth'd heavings of the lead,
And noisy billows, chill'd my frame. But now to chase the dismal scene,
Behold from far, young morning peep,
Behold the vessels cut the deep.
He chases every midnight damp;
Warm’d by Aurora's blazing lamp. Joy fills my heart, all sorrow flies;
Farewell the shades and' damps of night, So shall the blessed morn arise
O'er death's dark shades in splendor bright.
BY MARIANNE MEGGETT.
List not to Pleasure's luring voice,
Who courts thee to her silken breast; Who strews with flowers the path to vice,
And tells thee ?tis the path to rest. When you, the rose's sweets would smell,
Beware the thorns which lurk below; But, oh! believe me, when I tell,
How thorns beneath gay pleasures grow. Fly ere you prove its baneful power;
Be wise and shun th' insidious bait, For pleasure is a poisonous flower,
Which cropt will bring remorse too late.