GERTRUDE.

The Baron Von der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing hours, with the most heroic devotedHer own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled Gertrude Von der Wart, or Fidelity unto Death.

ness.

Dark lowers our fate,

And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us;
But nothing, till that lat st ag ny

Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose

This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house,

In the terrific face of armed law,

Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be,

I never will forsake thee.

Joanna Baillie.

HER hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised,

The breeze threw back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed

All that she loved was there.

The night was round her clear and cold,

The holy heaven above,

Its pale stars watching to behold

The might of earthly love.

"And bid me not depart," she cried,

"My Rudolph, say not so!

This is no time to quit thy side

Peace, peace, I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear,
When death is on thy brow?

The world! what means it ?-mine is here-
I will not leave thee now.

"I have been with thee in thine hour
Of glory and of bliss ;

Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honor'd love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!

We have the blessed heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;

But, oh! with such a glazing eye,

With such a curdling cheek — Love! love! of mortal agony,

Thou, only thou should'st speak!

The wind rose high,

but with it rose

Her voice, that he might hear:

Perchance that dark hour brought repose

To happy bosoms near,

While she sat striving with despair

Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,

Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
Had still'd his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press'd
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

And his worn spirit pass'd.

While e'en as o'er a martyr's grave

She knelt on that sad spot,

And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not!

THE STRANGER'S HEART.

THE stranger's heart! oh, wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;

In the green shadow of thy tree

The stranger finds no rest with thee.

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;

To him that sound hath sorrow's tone
The stranger's heart is with his own.

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;

Then are the stranger's thoughts opprest-
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend Beneath one roof in prayer may blend:

Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim—
Far, far are those who prayed with him.

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land-
The voices of thy kindred hand :-

Oh, midst them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart!

EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRL'S SCHOOL.

Now in thy youth beseech of Him,

Who giveth, upbraiding not,

That his light in thy heart become not dim,

And his love be unforgot;

And thy God, in the darkest of days will be

Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.

HUSH!—'t is a holy hour

the quiet room

Bernard Barton.

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance through the gloom, And the sweet stillness down on fair young heads, With all their clust'ring locks, untouched by care, And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer.

Gaze on 't is lovely! - Childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought-
Gaze- yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
Thou seest what Grief must nurture for the sky,
What Death must fashion for Eternity.

Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest
Lightly, when these pure orisons are done,

As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppress'd,
Mid the dim folded leaves at set of sun

Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs
Of Hope make melody where'er ye tread,
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread –
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness - how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you - silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affections deep,

To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!

Her lot is on you— to be found untir'd,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain:
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And oh! to love through all things — therefore pray !

And take the thought of this calm vesper time,

With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-oh! happy to have given
Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.