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Why move ye thus-with lingering tread,
A doubtful mournful band?

Why faintly hangs the drooping head?
Why fails the feeble hand?

Oh! wish to know the Saviour's power,
To feel a father's care;

A moment's toil, a passing shower
Is all the grief ye share.

The Lord of Light, though veiled awhile,
He hides his noon-day ray,

Shall soon in lovelier beauty smile
To gild the closing day;

And bursting through the dusky shroud,
That dared his power invest,
Ride throned in light o'er every cloud,
And guide you to his rest.

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A rose in yonder garden grew
In summer beauty bright;
It fed upon the fragrant dew,

And bathed in beams of light.
The gentlest zephyrs still would creep
Warm o'er it from the west;
And the night spirit loved to weep
Upon its beauteous breast;
And all the host of insect beaux
Would pause to trifle with the rose.

Alas! the flower, one fatal night,
The mildew rode the gale,
And from his pinions scattered blight
O'er garden, bower, and vale.

I saw it in the sunny morn,

'Twas dying on its stem;

Yet wore, though drooping and forlorn,
Its dewy diadem!

But every roving butterfly

Looked on the rose and wandered by!

The beams of morning had no power
Upon its faded cheek ;

The breezes came, and found the flower,
They once had loved, a wreck.

They were old friends, and when they fled
Who used to linger here,

The rose would bow its gentle head

And shake away a tear: But never raised its timid eye To gaze again upon the sky.

It withered in the noon-day flame,
And when the shadows fell,

The spirit of the evening came,

But vain its dewy spell.

The moon gleamed sad, the night breeze sighed,

Above the hapless flower,

But none who loved its day of pride

Watched o'er its fading hour.

The flatterers-they had long been gone,

It died neglected and alone.





<God speed thee, Eustace D'Argencourt,-be brave as thou art true,

And wear the scarf I've woven for thee-this scarf of gold and blue !'

He bent his knee, he kissed her hand, and fervently he


That till his sword had lost its might, till life's last pulse was o'er,

That scarf should never leave his arm, in tournament or fight;

That scarf should be his pride by day, his dream of joy by night

Then bounded he upon his steed, and with one parting glance,

Forth rode Sir Eustace D'Argencourt-the bravest knight in France.



Scarce had he ridden one short week-one short week

and a day

When he saw twelve Spanish knights approach, all bent to cross his way;


And his squire said to his master bold, I pray thee turn thy steed,

For little hope is left us now, save in our coursers' speed.' • How ! think'st thou, craven-hearted squire,' Sir D'Arcourt replied,

'That from the lance of mortal foe I e'er have turned aside? Twelve Spaniards are there in the field, and we are only two,

But wear I not my lady's scarf-her scarf of gold and blue?'


Then up rode Don Pedrillo, and tauntingly spoke he,

' I envy thee thy fortune, Knight, whate'er thy name may


For if thou'rt slain by my right hand, a happy death thou❜lt die.'

Sir Eustace placed his lance in rest, but deigned him no reply;

As thunder rides the lightning's wings, so rode he his good steed,

And soon beneath his charger's feet, he saw Pedrillo bleed.



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