The water-lilies tremble there, e'en now;

Go to the pure stream's edge,

And from its whispering sedge

Bring me those flowers, to cool my fever'd brow.

Then, as in hope's young days,
Track thou the antique maze
Of the rich garden, to its grassy mound;
There is a lone white rose,

Shedding, in sudden snows,

Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around.

Well know'st thou that fair tree!

-A murmur of the bee

Dwells ever in the honied lime above;
Bring me one pearly flower,

Of all its clustering shower-
For on that spot we first reveal'd our love!

Gather one woodbine bough,

Then, from the lattice low

Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark,
When by the hamlet last

Through dim wood-lanes we pass'd,

Where dews were glancing to the glow-worm's spark.

Haste! to my pillow bear

Those fragrant things, and fair

My hand no more may bind them up at eve;
Yet shall their odour soft

One bright dream round me waft,
Of life, youth, summer-all that I must leave!

And oh! if thou wouldst ask,
Wherefore thy steps I task

The grove, the stream, the hamlet-vale to trace; -"Tis that some thought of me,

When I am gone, may be

The spirit bound to each familiar place.

I bid mine image dwell,

(Oh! break thou not the spell!) In the deep wood, and by the fountain sideThou must not, my beloved!

Rove where we two have roved,

Forgetting her that in her spring-time died.

A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED.

The Emperor Albert of Hapsburg, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the way-side, and was supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.

A MONARCH on his death-bed lay-
Did censers waft perfume,

And soft lamps pour their silvery ray,

Through his proud chamber's gloom?
He lay upon a greensward bed,
Beneath a darkening sky—
A lone tree waving o'er his head,
A swift stream rolling by.

Had he then fallen, as warriors fall,

Where spear strikes fire from spear

Was there a banner for his pall,

A buckler for his bier ?

Not so-nor cloven shields nor helms
Had strewn the bloody sod,
Where he, the helpless lord of realms,

Yielded his soul to God.

?

Were there not friends, with words of cheer,

And princely vassals nigh?

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 survey'd.

Alone she sat-from hill and wood
Red sank the mournful sun;
Fast gush'd the fount of noble blood,
Treason its worst had done!

With her long hair she vainly press'd

The wounds, to staunch their tideUnknown, on that meek humble breast, Imperial Albert died!

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer

But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming

power,

A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.

?