Woman! whose sculptured form at rest
By the armed knight is laid,

With meek hands folded o'er thy breast,
In matron robes array'd;

What was thy tale ? — Oh, gentle mate
Of him the bold and free;
Bound unto his victorious fate,
What bard hath sung of thee?

He woo'd a bright and burning star;
Thine was the void, the gloom,
The straining eye that followed far
His oft receding plume;

The heart-sick listening while his steed
Sent echoes on the breeze;

The pang- but when did fame take heed Of griefs obscure as these?

Thy silent and secluded hours,

Through many a lonely day,

While bending o'er thy broider'd flowers, With spirit far away ;

Thy weeping midnight prayers for him Who fought on Syrian plains;

Thy watchings till the torch grew dim, These fillno minstrel trains.

A still sad life was thine! - long years,
With tasks unguerdon'd fraught,
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears,
Vigils of anxious thought;
Prayers at the cross in fervor pour'd,
Alms to the pilgrims given;

O happy, happier than thy lord,
In that lone path to heaven!

GERTRUDE.

The Baron Von der Wart, accused, though it is believed unjustly, as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his last agonizing hours, with the most heroic devotedness. Her own sufferings, with those of her unfortunate husband, are most affectingly described in a letter which he afterwards addressed to a female friend, and which was published some years ago, at Haarlem, in a book entitled Gertrude Von der Wart, or Fidelity unto Death.

Dark lowers our fate,

And terrible the storm that gathers o'er us;

But nothing, till that latest agony

Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose

This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house,

In the terrific face of armed law,

Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be,

I never will forsake thee.

Joanna Baillie.

HER hands were clasp'd, her dark eyes raised,

The breeze threw back her hair;

Up to the fearful wheel she gazed

All that she loved was there.

The night was round her clear and cold,

The holy heaven above,

Its pale stars watching to behold

The might of earthly love.

"And bid me not depart," she cried,

"My Rudolph, say not so!

This is no time to quit thy side

Peace, peace, I cannot go.

Hath the world aught for me to fear,
When death is on thy brow?

The world! what means it?-mine is here-
I will not leave thee now.

"I have been with thee in thine hour
Of glory and of bliss ;

Doubt not its memory's living power
To strengthen me through this!
And thou, mine honor'd love and true,
Bear on, bear nobly on!

We have the blessed heaven in view,
Whose rest shall soon be won."

And were not these high words to flow
From woman's breaking heart?
Through all that night of bitterest woe
She bore her lofty part;

But, oh! with such a glazing eye,

With such a curdling cheek—

Love! love! of mortal agony,

Thou, only thou should'st speak!

The wind rose high, — but with it rose
Her voice, that he might hear:
Perchance that dark hour brought repose

To happy bosoms near,

While she sat striving with despair

Beside his tortured form,

And pouring her deep soul in prayer
Forth on the rushing storm.

She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
With her pale hands and soft,

Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
Had still'd his heart so oft.

She spread her mantle o'er his breast,
She bathed his lips with dew,
And on his cheek such kisses press'd
As hope and joy ne'er knew.

Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith,
Enduring to the last!

She had her meed-one smile in death –
And his worn spirit pass'd.
While e'en as o'er a martyr's grave
She knelt on that sad spot,

And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave
Strength to forsake it not!

THE STRANGER'S HEART.

THE stranger's heart! oh, wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;

In the green shadow of thy tree
The stranger finds no rest with thee.

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone-
The stranger's heart is with his own.

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;

Then are the stranger's thoughts opprest
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend Beneath one roof in prayer may blend:

Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim-
Far, far are those who prayed with him.

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land

The voices of thy kindred band:

Oh, midst them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart!

EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRL'S SCHOOL.

Now in thy youth beseech of Him,

Who giveth, upbraiding not,

That his light in thy heart become not dim,

And his love be unforgot;

And thy God, in the darkest of days will be

Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee.

Bernard Barton.

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance through the gloom,

And the sweet stillness down on fair young heads,
With all their clust'ring locks, untouched by care,
And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night, in prayer.

Gaze on 't is lovely! - Childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought -
Gaze- yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
Thou seest what Grief must nurture for the sky,
What Death must fashion for Eternity.

Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest
Lightly, when these pure orisons are done,