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The maiden exclaimed—" Thou see'st, Sir

Knight, Thy fingers of iron can only smite; And, like the rose thou hast torn and scatter'd, I in thy grasp should be wreck'd and shatter'd.”

She trembled and blush'd, and her glances fell; But she turn'd from the Knight, and said “Fare

well;" “Not so," he cried, “ will I lose my prize, I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes.

He lifted her up in his grasp of steel,
And he mounted and spurr'd with furious heel;
But her cry drew forth her hoary sire,
Who snatch'd his bow from above the fire.

Swift from the valley the warrior fled,
Swifter the bolt of the cross-bow sped:
And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot

Was the living man, and the woman's corse.

That morning the rose was bright of hue :
That morning the maiden' was fair to view :
But the evening sun its beauty shed
On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead.



Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time on me,

That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired ;

Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ;

And teach the maid
That goodness time's rude hand defies;
That virtue lives when beauty dies.


I USED to love thee, simple flower,

To love thee dearly when a boy ; For thou didst seem in childhood's hour,

The smiling type of childhood's joy.

But now thou only work'st my grief,

By waking thoughts of pleasures fled, Give me-give me the wither'd leaf,

That falls on Autumn's bosom dead.

For that ne'er tells of what has been,

But warns me what I soon shall be ; It looks not back on pleasure's scene,

But points unto futurity.

I love thee not, thou simple flower,

For thou art gay, and I am lone ; Thy beauty died with childhood's hour

The Heart's-ease from my path is gone. THE MOSS-ROSE.


Mossy rose on mossy stone,
Flowering 'mid the ruins lone,
I have learnt, beholding thee,
Youth and Age may well agree.

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Baby germ of freshest hue,
Out of ruin issuing new;
Moss a long laborious growth,
And one stalk supporting both :


Thus may still, while fades the past,
Life come forth again as fast;
Happy if the relics sere
Deck a cradle, not a bier.

Tear the garb, the spirit flies,
And the heart unshelter'd, dies ;
Kill within the nursling flower,
Scarce the green survives an hour.

Ever thus together live,
And to man a lesson give,
Moss, the work of vanished years,
Rose, that but to-day appears.


Moss, that covers dateless tombs;
Bud with early sweet that blooms;
Childhood thus, in happy rest,
Lies on ancient Wisdom's breast.

Moss and Rose, and Age and Youth,
Flush and Verdure, Hope and Truth,
Yours be peace that knows not strife,
One the root and one the life.



Child of the Spring, thou charming flower,

No longer in confinement lie, Arise to light, thy form discover,

Rival the azure of the sky.

The rains are gone, the storms are o'er;

Winter retires to make thee way; Come then, thou sweetly blooming flower,

Come, lovely stranger, come away.

The sun is dress'd in beaming smiles,

To give thy beauties to the day : Young zephyrs wait with gentlest gales,

To fan thy bosom as they play.

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