Where the long-lost things lie hid, where the

bright ones have their home,

We will sleep among the ocean's dead-stay for

me, stay!—I come!”

There was a sullen plunge below,

A flashing on the main,

And the wave shut o'er that wild heart's wo,

TO WORDSWORTH.

THINE is a strain to read among the hills,

The old and full of voices ;-by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course

Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the still breast, in sunny garden-bowers,

Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken,

And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,

When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds, There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet

As antique music, link'd with household words. While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move, And the rais'd eye of childhood shine in love.

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground, Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse A breath, a kindling, as of spring, around; From its own glow of hope and courage high, And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard, and holy !—thou art ev'n as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,
In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters lie :
Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touch'd by thee,

Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer free.

A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED.

The Emperor Albert of Hapsburgh, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the way-side, and only supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.

A MONARCH on his death-bed lay-
Did censers waft perfume,

And soft lamps pour their silvery ray,
Thro' his proud chamber's gloom?

He lay upon a greensward bed,

Beneath a darkening sky—

A lone tree waving o'er his head,

A swift stream rolling by.

Had he then fall'n as warriors fall,

Where spear strikes fire with spear? Was there a banner for his pall,

A buckler for his bier?

Not so ;-nor cloven shields nor helms

Had strewn the bloody sod,

Where he, the helpless lord of realms,

Yielded his soul to God.

Were there not friends with words of cheer,

And princely vassals nigh?

And priests, the crucifix to rear
Before the glazing eye?

A peasant girl that royal head

Upon her bosom laid,

And, shrinking not for woman's dread,

The face of death survey'd.