A SERENADE. BY EDWARD C. PINCKNEY. Look out upon the stars, my love, Of blending shades and light; Sleep not!-thine image wakes for aye, Within my watching breast: Sleep not!-from her soft sleep should fly, Who robs all hearts of rest. Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, And make this darkness gay With looks, whose brightness well might make Of darker nights a day. TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. BY JONES VERY. BRIGHT image of the early years When glowed my cheek as red as thou, And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-winged shadows o'er my sunny brow! Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart. The morning's blush, she made it thine, I see the hill's far-gazing head, 22 TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well-known tree, And on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. O'er the dark rock the dashing brook, And, hastening to each flowery nook, Its distant voice is heard far down the glen. Fair child of art! thy charms decay, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime; But on my heart thy cheek of bloom There shalt thou live and wake the glee STANZAS On the Death of the Duke of Reichstadt. BY EMMA C. EMBURY. HEIR of that name Which shook with sudden terror the far earth- When kings and princes round thy cradle came, How were the schemes Of human foresight baffled in thy fate, Thou victim of a parent's lofty state! What glorious visions filled thy father's dreams, When first he gazed upon thy infant face, Scarce had thine eyes Beheld the light of day, when thou wert bound With power's vain symbols, and thy young brow crowned With Rome's imperial diadem :-the prize From priestly princes by thy proud sire won, To deck the pillow of his cradled son. 24 THE DEATH OF REICHSTADT. Yet where is now The sword that flashed as with a meteor light, Bidding whole seas of blood and carnage flow? Far worse thy fate Than that which doomed him to the barren rock; When down he toppled from his high estate; But thou, poor boy! Hadst no such dreams to cheat the lagging hours, Thy chains still galled, tho' wreathed with fairest flowers; Thou hadst no images of by-gone joy, No visions of anticipated fame, To bear thee through a life of sloth and shame. And where was she, Whose proudest title was Napoleon's wife? Despoiled heir of empire? On her breast Did thy young head repose in its unrest? |