And o'er the heart-pulse rings! A Monarch by his dying child

Prays to the King of Kings.

It is a sight most beautiful
For earthly pride, to see

The faith that lights her dying brow,
And shines so gloriously.

The Monarch clasps her blue-vein'd hands,

With gentle pressure given;

His filling eyes are fixed on hers,

And hers are rais'd to Heaven.

Seek thou the Sovereign on his throne,
The Conqueror in his power,
The Statesman, organ of a world,

In his successful hour;

But cold, O! cold the picture seems,
Of light and grace beguil'd,

When on the Monarch's form I gaze,
Kneeling beside his child.

1834.

THE OLD MAN'S LOVE SONG.

'Tis fifty years, my Edith,

And more, since we were one, And many a man, and many a babe, Their mortal course have run.

Thou fanciest that thine eye is dim,
And that thy locks are gray,
O! Edith, dear are they to me,
As on our wedding day!

Thou wert proud of me, my Edith,
When first I sought thy side,
And I believ'd that naught on earth,
Was worthy of my bride.

Thou hast been true and tender,
In the sunny hours of life,
In sickness and in sorrow too,
A kind and faithful wife.

Our children's children circle

Around our aged knee,

And God has blest us still with sight
Their little ones to see.

Their silken hands, endearingly
My trembling fingers press,
But not less dear, my Edith, is
Thy matronly caress.

The world has dealt full kindly,
As we've trod our earthly way,
And many blessings from above,

Have crown'd each passing day.

And death has seem'd to linger,

As loth to bid us part,

Because we have, thro' weal and woe,
Kept ever but one heart.

O, well we know, my Edith,

Who has spar'd us on the road;

And night and morn our thoughts as one Have risen to our God.

Yes, on the private altar,

We've laid our humble prayer,

And hand in hand have sought His courts, To pay our worship there.

But the term of life is ending,
For eighty years have past,
Since you and I in infancy,
Upon the world were cast.

One prayer to God we offer,
As life draws near its close,
That we may still together rest,
And in one grave repose,

That when his awful summons
Shall call us to the sky,

Still undivided to his throne,
Our faithful souls may fly.

ROSALIE.

'Tis fearful to watch by a dying friend,
Though luxury glistens nigh;

Though the pillow of down be softly spread
Where the throbbing temples lie; -

Though the loom's pure fabric enfold the form, Though the shadowy curtains flow,

Though the feet on sumptuous carpets tread

As "lightly as snow on snow;

Though the perfum'd air as a garden teems
With flowers of healthy bloom,

And the feathery fan just stirs the breeze
In the cool and guarded room;

Though the costly cup for the fever'd lip

With grateful cordial flows,

While the watching eye and the warning hand Preserve the snatch'd repose.