170 TRUE RICHES. On the same young, flowery tree Fruits refined, of noble taste; Narrow shores of flesh and sense, THE MOSS ROSE. THE Angel of the flowers one day 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 Had strewn the bloody sod, 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 Red sank the mournful sun; *Albert of Hapsburg, Emperor of Germany, who was assassinated by his nephew, was left to die by the way-side, and was sup ported in his last moments by a peasant-girl, who happened to be passing. With her long hair she vainly pressed The wounds, to stanch their tide, Unknown, on that meek, humble breast, Imperial Albert died. ON TIME. 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; "T is 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 prepared, O man, to die! 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, 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; |