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And with submissive love to count the flowers

Which yet are spared, and thro' the future hours

To send no busy dream !-- She had not learn'd
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd,

In weariness from life : then came th’ unrest,

The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast,
The haunting sounds of voices far away,
And household steps ; until at last she lay
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft
Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft,
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught
of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught.
To strangers ?-Oh! could strangers raise the head
Gently as hers was rais'd ?-did strangers shed
The kindly tears which bath'd that feverish brow

And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow?

Something was there, that thro' the lingering night Outwatches patiently the taper's light,

Something that faints pot thro' the day's distress,
That fears not toil, that knows not weariness ;
Love, true and perfect love!—Whence came that power,
Uprearing thro' the storm the drooping flower ?
Whence ?—who can ask ?—the wild delirium pass'd,
And from her eyes the spirit look'd at last
Into her mother's face, and wakening knew
The brow's calm grace, the hair's dear silvery hue,
The kind sweet smile of old and had she come,
Thus in life's evening, from her distant home,
To save her child ?—Ev'n somnor yet in vain :
In that young heart a light sprung up again,
And lovely still, with so much love to give,
Seem'd this fair world, tho' faded; still to live
Was not to pine forsaken. On the breast
That rock'd her childhood, sinking in soft rest,
6 Sweet mother, gentlest mother! can it be ?”
The lorn one cried, " and do I look on thee?
Take back thy wanderer from this fatal shore,

Peace shall be ours beneath our vines



“This tomb is in the garden of Charlottenburgh, near Berlin. It was not without surprise that I came suddenly, among trees, upon a fair white Doric temple. I might, and should have deemed it a mere adornment of the grounds, but the cypress and the willow declare it a habitation of the dead. Upon a sarcophagus of white marble lay a sheet, and the outline of the human form was plainly visible beneath its folds. The person with me reverently turned it back, and displayed the statue of his Queen. It is a portrait-statue recumbent, said to be a perfect resemblance-not as in death, but when she lived to bless and be blessed. Nothing can be more calm and kind than the expression of her features. The hands are folded on the bosom ; the limbs are sufficiently crossed to show the repose of life.--Here the King brings her children annually, to offer garlands at her grave. These hang in withered mournfulness above this living image of their departed mother."-SHERER's Notes and Reflections during a Ramble in Germany.


In sweet pride upon that insult keen
She smiled; then drooping mute and broken-hearted,
To the cold comfort of the grave departed.


IT stands where northern willows weep,

A temple fair and lone ;

Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep,

From cypress-branches thrown; While silently around it spread,

Thou feel'st the presence of the dead.

And what within is richly shrined ?

A sculptur'd woman's form,

Lovely in perfect rest reclined,

As one beyond the storm :
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies

The solemn sweetness on those eyes.

The folded hands, the calm pure face,

The mantle's quiet flow,
The gentle, yet majestic grace,

Throned on the matron brow ;

These, in that scene of tender gloom, With a still glory robe the tomb.

There stands an eagle, at the feet

Of the fair image wrought ; A kingly emblem--nor unmeet

To wake yet deeper thought : She whose high heart finds rest below, Was royal in her birth and wo.

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