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But when her love lay cold in death,

Sunk in the black and silent tomb, All sere and withered was the wreath

That wont so bright to bloom.

Yet still the withered wreath she wore;

She wore it at her dying hour; When, lo! the wondrous garland bore

Both leaf, and fruit, and flower!

THE KING ON THE TOWER.

UHLAND.

“Da liegen sie alle, die grauen Höhen.”

The cold gray hills they bind me around,

The darksome valleys lie sleeping below, But the winds as they pass o'er all this ground,

Bring me never a sound of wo!

Oh! for all I have suffered and striven,

Care bas embittered my cup and my feast; But here is the night and the dark blue heaven,

And my soul shall be at rest.

O golden legends writ in the skies !

I turn towards you with longing soul, And list to the awful harmonies

Of the Spheres as on they roll.

My hair is gray and my sight nigh gone ;

My sword it rusteth upon the wall; Right have I spoken, and right have I done : · When shall I rest me once for all ?

O blessed rest! O royal night!

Wherefore seemeth the time so long Till I see yon stars in their fullest light,

And list to their loudest song?

TO A VERY OLD WOMAN.

LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ.

“Und Du gingst einst, die Myrt im Haare.”

And thou wert once a maiden fair,

A blushing virgin, warm and young, With myrtles wreathed in golden hair, And glossy brow that knew no care

Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung.

The golden locks are silvered now,

The blushing cheek is pale and wan; The spring may bloom, the autumn glow, All's one-in chimney corner thou

Sitt'st shivering on.

A moment—and thou sink'st to rest !
To wake, perhaps an angel blest,

In the bright presence of thy Lord.
Oh, weary is life's path to all!
Hard is the strife, and light the fall,

But wondrous the reward !

IMITATION OF HORACE.

TO HIS SERVING BOY.

Persicos odi,
Puer, apparatus;
Displicent nexæ
Philyrâ coronæ:
Mitte sectari
Rosa quo locorum
Sera moretur.

Simplici myrto
Nihil allabores
Sedulus cura:
Neque te ministrum
Dedecet myrtus,
Neque me sub arctâ
Vite bibentem.

AD MINISTRAM.

DEAR Lucy, you know what my wish is,

I hate all your Frenchified fuss : Your silly entrées and made dishes

Were never intended for us.

No footman in lace and in ruffles

Need dangle behind my arm-chair ; And never mind seeking for truffles,

Although they be ever so rare.

But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy,

I pr’ythee get ready at three : Have it smoking, and tender and juicy,

And what better meat can there be ? And when it has feasted the master,

'Twill amply suffice for the maid ; Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster,

And tipple my ale in the shade.

AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW FACE.*

THE KNIGHTLY GUERDON.

UNTRUE to my Ulric I never could be,
I vow by the saints and the blessed Marie
Since the desolate hour when we stood by the shore,
And your dark galley waited to carry you o'er,
My faith then I plighted, my love I confess'd,
As I gave you the BATTLE-AXE marked with your crest !

* WAPPING OLD STAIRS.

“Your Molly has never been false she declares,

Since the last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs ;
When I said that I would continue the same,
And gave you the 'bacco-box marked with my name.
When I passed a whole fortnight between decks with you,
Did I e'er give a kiss, Tom, to one of your crew ?
To be useful and kind to my Thomas I stay'd,
For his trowsers I washed, and his grog too I made.

• Though you promised last Sunday to walk in the Mall
With Susan from Deptford and likewise with Sall,
In silence I stood your unkindness to hear,
And only upbraided my Tom with a tear.
Why should Sall, or should Susan, than me be more prized ?
For the heart that is true, Tom, should ne'er be despised ;
Then be constant and kind, nor your Molly forsake,
Still your trowsers I'll wash and your grog too I'll make.”

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