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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,
Swift from the valley the warrior fled,
That morning the rose was bright of hue :
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
Bid her come forth,
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,
And teach the maid
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.
BY JOHN STERLING.
Mossy rose on mossy stone,
Baby germ of freshest hue,
Thus may still, while fades the past,
Tear the garb, the spirit flies,
Ever thus together live,
Moss, that covers dateless tombs;
Moss and Rose, and Age and Youth,
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.