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But from the dying flowers a voice seem'd breathing
Of higher hopes; it whisper'd sweet and low“When spring again her sunny smile is wreathing,
We will return to thee-but thou must go To seek life’s blighted blossoms on that shore
Where flowers can fade no more!"
THE LAST OF THE JAGELLONS.
BY FRANCES BROWN
"Oh, minstrel, wake thy harp once more,
For winter's twilight falls,
My lonely heart and halls :
Around me gather fast
The shadows of the past.
“Then wake thy lyre, my faithful bard,
And breathe again for me
While yet that land was free
When hearts and swords were true They will recall the dazzling dreams
That youth and childhood knew."
Twas thus the noble matron spake
To one whose tuneful strains
To Poland's pleasant plains ;
Far distant scenes portray,
Awoke her lyre and lay :
The shout bath ceased in Volla's field,
But still its echoes ring
Sarmatia's chosen king.
His father's ancient throne;
Uncrown'd-but not alone!
"A lovely form is by his side,
A hand is clasp'd in his, That well might be a monarch's bride,
Even in an hour like this; For never fairer form was seen
In saint's or poet's dreams, Nor ever shone a nobler mein
In Poland's princely dames.
"Oh, many a princely dame is there,
And many a noble knight--
The glory of her might
And wrath in every tone,
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 throno
A king should cast aside Then let Jagellon reign alone,
Or choose a royal bride.'
“The monarch yet more closely clasp'a
That small and snowy hand;
His own unrivall'd brand;
And from his dark eye flash'd the pride
Of all his martial line,
'Such choice shall ne'er be mine:
“.My land hath seen her ancient crown
Bestow'd for many an age,
To kingly heritage;
I render back as free;
It shines no more for me.'
'He said-but from the throng arose,
Ere yet his speech was done,
That told of conquests won-
Through long, victorious years, 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
Should be a monarch's mate;
To love and honor true
Be true to Poland, too l'”
THE SPECTRE OF THE HEARTH.
BY FRANCES BROWN.
Old Europe boasts of the broad low lands
She won from the western main;
Are winning them back again:
The song of the billows' sounding march,
Is heard where the anthem rose
The dreary sand-hill grows,
No trace doth the bare, gray summit keep
Of buried spire or dome;
Lies high o'er a peasant's home,
For there, when stars through the deep'ning gray,
Shine far over wave and height,
Of the hamlet-fires of night,
Old is the tale--aye, old and strange
As the peasant's lore of dreams;
That changeless truth, which seems,
Are there not hearts—the worn, the wise
That ever in vain return
Though they only come to mourn
The sands! oh, the severing sands upflung
By the world's wide sea of fears !
By thé solitude of years!
The winters wane, and the ruins grow
With the wrecks of wave and mind;
And the stars above more kind,
THE LONELY MOTHER.
BY FRANOES BROWN.
My home is not what it hath been,
And the lip of pleasant song,
On the curls so dark and long.