Woman! whose sculptured form at rest With meek hands folded o'er thy breast, What was thy tale ? — Oh, gentle mate He woo'd a bright and burning star; The heart-sick listening while his steed 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, O happy, happier than thy lord, 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, The world! what means it?-mine is here- "I have been with thee in thine hour Doubt not its memory's living power We have the blessed heaven in view, And were not these high words to flow 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 To happy bosoms near, While she sat striving with despair Beside his tortured form, And pouring her deep soul in prayer She wiped the death-damps from his brow, Whose touch upon the lute-chords low She spread her mantle o'er his breast, Oh! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, She had her meed-one smile in death – And, weeping, bless'd the God who gave THE STRANGER'S HEART. THE stranger's heart! oh, wound it not! In the green shadow of thy tree Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves Thou think'st thy children's laughing play Then are the stranger's thoughts opprest Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend Beneath one roof in prayer may blend: Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim- Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land The voices of thy kindred band: Oh, midst them all when blest thou art, 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, Gaze on 't is lovely! - Childhood's lip and cheek, Oh! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest |