A still sad life was thine!-long years,
With tasks unguerdoned fraught,
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,
Vigils of anxious thought;

Prayers at the cross in fervor poured,
Alms to the pilgrims given;

O happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven!

GERTRUDE.

The Baron Von der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which she afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled Gertrude Von der Wart, or Fidelity unto Death.

Dark lowers our fate,

And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us;

But nothing, till that latest agony

Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose

This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house,

In the terrific face of armed law,

Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be,

I never will forsake thee.

Joanna Baillie.

HER hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised,

The breeze threw back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed—

All that she loved was there.

The night was round her clear and cold,

The holy heaven above,
Its pale stars watching to behold
The might of earthly love.

"And bid me not depart," she cried,

"My Rudolph, say not so! This is no time to quit thy side-

Peace, peace, I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear,
When death is on thy brow?

The world! what means it?—mine is here

I will not leave thee now.

"I have been with thee in thine hour

Of glory and of bliss;

Doubt not its memory's living power,
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honored love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!

We have the blessed heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest wo
She bore her lofty part;

But, oh! with such a glazing eye,

With such a curdling cheek—

Love! love! of mortal agony,

Thou, only thou shouldst speak!

The wind rose high,—but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:

Perchance that dark hour brought repose

To happy bosoms near,

While she sat striving with despair

Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,
Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
Had stilled his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,

And on his cheek such kisses pressed
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

She had her meed-one smile in death-
And his worn spirit passed.

While e'en as o'er a martyr's grave

She knelt on that sad spot, And, weeping, blessed the God who gave Strength to forsake it not!

THE STRANGER'S HEART.

THE stranger's heart! oh, wound it not! A yearning anguish is its lot;

In the green shadow of thy tree

The stranger finds no rest with thee.

:

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone-
The stranger's heart is with his own.

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;

Then are the stranger's thoughts oppressed-
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim-
Far, far are those who prayed with him.

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land-
The voices of thy kindred band:—
Oh, 'midst them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart!

EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRL'S SCHOOL.

Now in thy youth beseech of Him,

Who giveth, upbraiding not,

That his light in thy heart become not dim,

And his love be unforgot;

And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.

Bernard Barton.

HUSH! 't is a holy hour-the quiet room
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds
A faint and starry radiance through the gloom,

And the sweet stillness down on fair young heads,

With all their clustering locks, untouched by care, And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer.

Gaze on 't is lovely!-childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought—
Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
Thou seest what Grief must nurture for the sky,
What Death must fashion for Eternity.

Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest
Lightly, when these pure orisons are done
As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed,
Mid the dim folded leaves at set of sun-
Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs
Of Hope make melody where'er ye tread,

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread—
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness-how soon her wo!

Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep, Το pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower! And to make idols, and to find them clay, And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!

Her lot is on you—to be found untired,
Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,
And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain: