I know the blight is there, And slowly it is spreading in my youth; And trembles every limb, As never trembled they in happier years, Thou dost not know, when pale My cheek appears, that to my heart the blood O, from the laughing earth, And all its glorious things, I could depart, Yet come not when the drear Last hour of life is passing over me; I cannot yield my breath if thou art near, But come when I am dead: No terror shall be pictured on my face; And come thou to my grave: Ay, promise that: come on some beauteous morn, When lightly in the breeze the willows wave, And spring's first flowers are born; Or on a summer's eve, When the rich snowy wreaths of clouds are turned To crimson in the west, when waters heave As if they lived and burned; Or in the solemn night, When there's a hush upon the heavens and deep, Weep yet not bitter tears; Let them be holy, silent, free from pain: A chain that let it gaze On the earth's lovely things, and yet, whene'er And bring sometimes a flower To scatter on the turf I lie beneath, And gather it in that beloved bower That round us used to wreathe. And whatsoe'er the time Thou comest,-at the morn, or eve, or night, When dewdrops glisten, when the faint bells chime Or in the moon's pale light, Still keep this thought, (for sweet It was to me when such bright hope was given,) That the dear hour shall come when we shall meet, Ay, surely meet, in heaven. Lydia Jane Pierson. THE WILD-WOOD HOME. OH, show me a place like the wild-wood hom :, Where the air is fragrant and free, And the first pure breathings of Morning come. She lifts the soft fringe from her dark-blue eye And the diamonds that o'er her bosom lie Where noon lies down in the breezy shade And the beautiful birds from the sunny glades While the holy child of the mountain-spring And the honey-bees sleep in the bells that swing Where Day steals away, with a young bride's blush. And the Moon throws o'er, with a holy hush, And the seraph that sings in the hemlock dell Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell There are sumptuous mansions with marble walls, Where fountains play in the perfumed hall They are suitable homes for the haughty in mind, Where the pure bright streams, and the mountain-wind, And the bounding heart, are free! Albert G. Greene. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. O'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay— The stern old Baron RUDIGER, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. "They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er That I snall mount my noble steed and lead more; my band no They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege-lord and master born, that I-ha! ha!— must die. "And what is Death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear; Think ye he's entered at my gate-has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot ; I'll try his might I'll brave his power; defy, and fear him not! "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the cul verin; Bid each retainer arm with speed: call every vassal in. pare, Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armour there!" A hundred hands were busy then: the banquet forth was spread, And rang the heavy oaken floor with tread; many a martial While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, 1ights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board; While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state, Armed cap-à-pie, stern RUDIGER, with girded falchion, sate. 'Fill every beaker up, my men—pour forth the cheering wine! There's life and strength in every drop-thanksgiving to the vine! |