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Narrow shores of flesh and sense,
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?
A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED.
A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. --- Mrs. Hemans,
A MONARCH* on his death-bed lay,
Did censers waft 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?
A buckler for his bier ?
Had strewn the bloody sod,
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. 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.
Say, is there aught that can convey
TO A SKYLARK.
VIRTUE. - George Herbert.
For thou must die.
And thou must die.
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,
And all must die.
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
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,
Thy tender blossoms are!
How rich thy branchy stem!
And thou sing'st hymns to them;
And, 'mid the general hush,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The hawthorn flower is dead;