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On the same young, flowery tree
There are endless beauties more
Narrow shores of flesh and sense,
THE MOSS ROSE.
The Angel of the flowers one day
a rose-tree sleeping lay, That spirit to whose charge is given To bathe
buds in dew from heaven. Awakening from 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,
strikes fire from spear?
- nor cloven shields nor helms
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 assassidated by his nephew, was left to die by the way-side, and was sup ported in his last moments by a peasant-girl, wbo happened to be passing.
With her long hair she vainly pressed
The wounds, to stanch their tide, Unknown, on that meek, humble brea:st,
Imperial Albert died.
Say, is there aught that can convey An image of its transient stay? 'Tis an hand's-breath ; 't is a tale ; 'Tis a vessel under sail ; 'Tis a conqueror's straining steed; 'Tis a shuttle in its speed; 'Tis an eagle in its way, Darting down upon its prey; 'Tis an arrow in its flight, Mocking the pursuing sight; 'Tis a vapor in the air; 'Tis a whirlwind rushing there; 'T is a short-lived, fading flower ; 'Tis a rainbow on a shower; 'Tis a momentary ray, Smiling in a winter's day; 'Tis a torrent's troubled stream; 'Tis a shadow 't is a dream; 'Tis the closing watch of night, Dying at approaching light; 'Tis a landscape vainly gay, Painted upon crumbling clay; 'Tis a lamp that wastes its fires ; 'Tis a smoke that quick expires; 'Tis a bubble ; 't is a sigh ; Be prapared, O man, to die !
TO A SKYLARK.
VIRTUE. — George Herbert.
For thou must die.
Sweet rose ! whose hue, angry and brave,
And thou must die.
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Then chiefly lives.
ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky !