But from the dying flowers a voice seem'd breathing THE LAST OF THE JAGELLONS. BY FRANCES BROWN. "Oh, minstrel, wake thy harp once more, Around me gather fast For still with twilight shadows come The shadows of the past. "Then wake thy lyre, my faithful bard, The songs that in my land was heard, The lays of old romantic times, When hearts and swords were true They will recall the dazzling dreams Twas thus the noble matron spake Awoke her lyre and lay: The shout hath ceased in Volla's field, But still its echoes ring With the last thunder-burst that hail'd For young Jagellon now ascends "A lovely form is by his side, That well might be a monarch's bride, For never fairer form was seen In Poland's princely dames. "Oh, many a princely dame is there, And many a noble knight The flower of Poland's famed and fair--. The glory of her might. But there is pride in every face, And wrath in every tone, As on that fair young brow, their gaze Of gather'd scorn is thrown. "There came an ancient senator, With firm and stately tread, And to the silent monarch there In courtly phrase he said: The love that cannot grace a throne A king should cast aside Then let Jagellon reign alone, Or choose a royal bride.' "The monarch yet more closely clasp'o That small and snowy hand; Then like a knightly warrior grasp'd His own unrivall'd brand; And from his dark eye flash'd the pride Of all his martial line, As By my father's sword,' he cried, 'Such choice shall ne'er be mine: "My land hath seen her ancient crown Bestow'd for many an age, While other nations have bow'd down To kingly heritage; And now the crown she freely gave, I render back as free; For, if unshared by her I love, 'He said—but from the throng arose, O'er Tartar bow and Paynim shield, He led the Polish spears. "And thus they said, "The flower whose worth Inspired a soul so great With love like this, whate'er her birth, Should be a monarch's mate; And as thy tameless heart was found To love and honor true Oh, early tried and far renowned, Be true to Poland, too!"" The minstrel ceased, and with a sigh, "Alas, for Europe's chivalry- Such faithful love is known, But when will earth behold again Its truth so near a throne!" THE SPECTRE OF THE HEARTH. BY FRANCES BROWN. Old Europe boasts of the broad low lands But the wasting wave and the whelming sands Long and fierce is the war they wage The song of the billows' sounding march, And fills the waste of the sterile shore, No trace doth the bare, gray summit keep But still, 'tis said, where the drifted heap Lies high o'er a peasant's home, The place of the hearth may yet be known For there, when stars through the deep'ning gray, Shine far over wave and height, Or their crests give back the ruddy ray Of the hamlet-fires of night, A spectre-woman pours her woe O'er the cold and the quench'd of long ago. Old is the tale--aye, old and strange As the peasant's lore of dreams; Yet how hath it kept through fear and change In the power of its undecaying proof, Are there not hearts-the worn, the wise- To some spot where their old love-memory lies, The dust and the debris piled between Their souls and the rest they might have seen! The sands! oh, the severing sands upflung And the lights that shine on its lonely ways, The winters wane, and the ruins grow How many a dream by the hearth might rest, THE LONELY MOTHER. BY FRANCES BROWN. My home is not what it hath been, When the leaves of other years were green, Though its hearth is bright and its chambers fair, And the summer beams fall lightly there; But they fall no more on the clear, young eye, And the lip of pleasant song, And the gleaming night that wont to lie On the curls so dark and long. |