To shelter her bower in the noontide hour, When the summer fiercely shone. But joy will share itself with care She died, but the tree grows greenest there. To the Ivy brave, That changelessly flourishes on! He spreadeth the pride of his green-shoots wide, He loveth the haunt where the monk's grave chauut Once roll'd through the pillar'd aisle. Baron and knight, and lady bright, Sleep below 'neath the sculptured stone, And nothing is seen with life, I ween, But the tree that mourneth o'er what hath been. To the Ivy brave, That changelessly flourishes on! In his twenty-second year Schiller wrote his tragedy of "The Robbers," which at once raised him to the foremost rank among the dramatists of his country. His "Ballads" are reckoned among the finest compositions of their kind in any language. Maunder's Treasury. POOR JANE'S LAMENT. JANUARY SEARLE (GEORGE SEARLE PHILLIPS). AH, well-a-day! that thou should'st prove I loved thee, Robin, my false love! When first we met by Dungeon-wood, That skirts the bloomy crossland moor, I thought that thou wast kind and goodThat thou would'st love me evermore. For, kneeling on the purple heath, When thou did'st clasp my hand in thine, Thy vows seem'd truthful as the breath Of the pure heavens that truthful shine. And when we wander'd 'mongst the trees, All things conspired to lure my sense, Oh sad, sad day! oh, fatal gift! I cannot rest. I sing no more With thee for ever from my pain; Take, oh! take me to thy breast, And quench my aching heart and brain. THE BIRD OF PASSAGE. 6 SIR BEVIS OF HAMPTON. FROM THE LITERARY GAZETTE." AWAY! away! thou Summer Bird, Away! for vapours, damp and low, Are wreathed around the mountain's brow; And tempest-clouds their mantles fold Around the forest's russet gold. Away! away! o'er earth and sea, The wanderer now, with pinions spread, Nor casts one backward look, nor grieves Why should he grieve? the beam he loves Oh deem not that the tie of birth THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON, BORN AT HANS PLACE, CHELSEA, IN 1802, DIED AT CAPE COAST CASILE, OCTOBER 16, 1838. THE muffled drum roll'd on the air, That soldier had stood on the battle-plain, Where every step was over the slain; But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by, And he came to his native land to die. 'Twas hard to come to that native land, And not clasp one familiar hand! 'Twas hard to be number d amid the dead, Or ere he could hear his welcome said! |