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When by the hamlet last

Through dim wood-lanes we pass'd, Where dews were glancing to the glow-worm's spark.

Haste! to my pillow bear

Those fragrant things, and fair-
My hand no more may bind them up at eve;

Yet shall their odor soft

One bright dream round me waft,
Of life, youth, summer-all that I must leave !

And oh ! if thou wouldst ask,

Wherefore thy steps I task
The grove, the stream, the hamlet-vale to trace ;

_'Tis that some thought of me,

When I am gone, may be
The spirit bound to each familiar place.

I bid mine image dwell,

(Oh! break thou not the spell :) In the deep wood, and by the fountain side

Thou must not, my belovd !

Rove where we two have rov’d, Forgetting her that in her spring-time died.


The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the way-side, and was supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.

A MONARCH on his death-bed lay

Did censers waft perfume,
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray,

Through his proud chamber's gloom?
He lay upon a greensward bed,

Beneath a darkening sky-
A lone tree waving o'er his head,

A swift stream rolling by.

Had he then fallen, as warriors fall,

Where spear strikes fire from spear?-
Was there a banner for his pall,

A buckler for his bier?

Not sonor cloven shields nor helms

Had strewn the bloody sod,
Where he, the helpless lord of realms,

Yielded his soul to God.

Were there not friends, with words of cheer,

And princely vassals nigh ? Aud priests, the crucifix to rear

Before the fading eye?--
A peasant girl, that royal head

Upon her bosom laid;
And, shrinking not for woman's dread,

The face of death survey'd.

Alone she sat-from hill and wood

Red sank the mournful sun;
Fast gush'd the fount of noble blood,

Treason its worst had done!
With her long hair she vainly press'd

The wounds, to stanch their tideUnknown, on that meek humble breast,

Imperial Albert died !


LEAVES have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Day is for mortal care,
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayerBut all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears—but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those
That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,

And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grainBut who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when Spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? —
They have one seasonall are ours to die !

Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air ;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth—and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

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