of the third day, his frame having become exhausted by the intensity of his sufferings, he murmured faintly the words, "Gertrude, this is fidelity until death," and expired. His unhappy lady retired soon afterwards to a convent at Basle, where she died of a broken heart.

'Tis morn: o'er Kyburg's castled crag day's first faint streak

appears,

Like the ray of Truth through Error's mists, or the smile through Woman's tears;

With gradual step it glides along, from cloud to cloud, and

now

Bathes in a flood of living light Mongarten's frowning brow.

The sun looks out, the heavens are gay, the earth beneath them shines,

And the fitful breeze hath ceased to toss yon broad, black sea of pines;

The storm that lately ravaged earth hath sunk into its lair, And left "a scene of power to charm all sadness save de

spair!"

Beneath yon mountain's gloomy crest a crowd is gathering

fast,

To see, on murder's hellish wheel, a hero breathe his last: What though his quivering clay be cold before that sun hath

set,

Draw near, a noble lesson learn, it is not soulless yet!

Mangled, and bleeding at each pore, denied the bliss to die, Coiled 'round that dread machine he lies in fearful agony; Two days exposed to sun and storm, and bleaching in the

blast,

Those ghastly limbs have struggled there, but this will be the last.

WOMAN'S LOVE.

189

Not his the crime for which he writhes, not his the 'vengeful

dart,

Launched with unerring aim, that lodged in Albert's tyrant

heart;

He would have braved him in the field, defied him in his

might,

Not tracked his lone, defenceless steps with felon shaft to

smite.

His innocence availed him not, they knew the quenchless

hate

He bore that despot's iron rule, and dragged him to his

fate;

Then stormed his undefended towers, and left of all his

train

Of friends or vassals, kin or kind, but ONE to soothe his

pain.

And not in pity was she spared from that remorseless slaughter,

'Twas but to glut the rage refined of Austria's wolfish daughter;

But ere her vengeance was complete, she glided from her

power,

And flew to lighten with her prayers her Rudolph's parting hour.

And bending o'er her dying lord that faithful woman stands, With pallid cheek, dishevelled hair, and clasped, beseeching

hands;

The aid denied to her on earth she craves from One above; And sure, if mortal prayers avail, hers will not bootless

prove!

They brained her babe before her eyes, even smiling in its

sleep!

They wrenched her Rudolph from her arms, she shrieked, but did not weep;

She heard the sentence of their hate, but still she shed no

tear;

They marred her beauty with their chains; she burst them, and is here!

Awed by such more than mortal love, the ruthless slaves around,

Even to the minister of death, are silent and spell-bound; They dare not for their souls approach what to their wondering

eyes

Shows like some radiant seraph form descended from the skies.

Well may they deem her not of earth, for earth hath seldom

seen

Such holy love, such fervid faith, so suffering yet serene;
But when the cloud of blight descends, of darkness and despair,
Upon the trusted head and heart, what will not Woman dare!

That scene is all deserted now, that martyr's pangs no more; And she who soothed his parting hour, her vigil too is o'er; For when her last sad hope was gone, her stricken heart to hide,

She sought a covert from her foes, wrenched out the dart, and died.

AMIENS CATHEDRAL.

191

AMIENS CATHEDRAL.

"The House of God is the HOME of the sorrowful."

ANNA MARIA PORTER.

THE doors unfold! I gaze with breathless thrill;
All that my fancy pictured there appears;
Strange that stone walls should have the power to fill
The heart with gladness, and the eye with tears:
Like a tired child that gains its mother's breast,
I enter in, and feel my soul at rest!

I might not speak, too sacred seemed the spot;
I could not sigh, for peace was with me then;
The world with all its idle cares forgot:

Oh, were thine architects but sinful men!

An atmosphere of heaven seemed breathing 'round,
Thy walls bade welcome, though without a sound.

Silence descended like a brooding dove;

Pontiff, procession, all had passed away;
Motion was not, save that the hand of love

Pointed from twilight to the perfect day!
I stilled my heart, and held my breath to hear
Words that seemed whispering in my dreaming ear.

"Hath love of glory taught thine heart to sigh,

Honour's bright wreath, the thirst for high renown, Lured thee, from step to step, to climb on high, Then dashed the chalice and the votary down?

Foiled, crushed, and trampled spirit, draw thee near, A world-rejected heart is cherished here!

"Hath love beguiled thee with his promise fair,
Bliss unalloyed, affection's self unchilled,
Won thy young heart to give thee back despair,—
A poisoned cup from sweetest flowers distilled?
Leave withered hopes for those that ne'er grow sere,
A love unchangeable is promised here.

"Gifted of nature, spendthrift of the mind,
A golden idol is thy master-taste;

Let go each cherished sin, howe'er refined,
The hidden talent, feelings run to waste:
Dreamer, awake, shake off thy coward fear,
Gird up thy loins, and know thy strength is here!

"Regretful spirit, brooding o'er the past,

Achievements high conceived, but never won; Draw near and down thy heavy burthen cast, Remorse for good received, and evil done :' Give passion utterance and free way the tear, Sorrow that worketh joy awaits thee here!

"Heart-broken prodigal, why stand afar!

This House of Refuge, is it not for thee? World-spent and wearied with life's ceaseless jar, Shake off thy bondage, triumph, and be free: Welcome awaits thee, plenteous is the cheer; Peace to thee, weary one, thy rest is here!

"Sorrowful spirit, whatsoe'er the grief

That forged thy fetter, make that grief thy plea ;