THE MOSS ROSE. Narrow shores of flesh and sense, 171 THE MOSS ROSE. THE Angel of the flowers one day 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,- 172 A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED. - Mrs. Hemans, A MONARCH on his death-bed lay,— And soft lamps, from their silvery ray, Had he then fallen as warriors fall, A buckler for his bier? Not so, — nor cloven shields nor helms Where he, the helpless lord of realms, Were there not friends, with words of cheer, And 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 surveyed. Alone she sat, from hill and wood *Albert of Hapsburg, Emperor of Germany, who was assassi nated 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. ON TIME. With her long hair she vainly pressed ON TIME. SAY, is there aught that can convey 'Tis a conqueror's straining steed; 'Tis a torrent's troubled stream; 173 174 TO A SKYLARK. VIRTUE. - George Herbert. SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; Sweet rose whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in its grave, eye, And thou must die. Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses, Thy music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. TO A SKYLARK. Wordsworth. ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! 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; TO THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER. Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing Leave to the nightingale her shady wood,- TO THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER. - Elliot. THY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, So put forth thy small, white rose; Though woodbines flaunt, and roses glow, O'er all the fragrant bowers, Thy satin-threaded flowers; For dull the eye, the heart is dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are! How delicate thy gauzy frill! How rich thy branchy stem! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, A sweet air lifts the little bough, 175 |