A SERENADE.

BY EDWARD C. PINCKNEY.

Look out upon the stars, my love,
And shame them with thine eyes,
On which, than on the lights above,
There hang more destinies.
Night's beauty is the harmony

Of blending shades and light;

Then, lady, up-look out, and be
A sister to the night!

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,
The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee,
And in thy look, my Columbine !
Each fond-remembered spot she bade me see.

I see the hill's far-gazing head,
Where gay thou noddest in the gale;
I hear light-bounding footsteps tread
The grassy path that winds along the vale.

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,

With look of anger, leaps again,

And, hastening to each flowery nook,

Its distant voice is heard far down the glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,

Touched by the withered hand of Time;

And hushed the music of that day,

When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime;

But on my heart thy cheek of bloom
Shall live when Nature's smile has fled;
And, rich with memory's sweet perfume,
Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed.

There shalt thou live and wake the glee
That echoed on thy native hill;
And when, loved flower! I think of thee,
My infant feet will seem to seek thee still.

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-
Child of strange destinies e'en from thy birth,

When kings and princes round thy cradle came, And gave their crowns, as playthings, to thine hand,Thine heritage the spoils of many a land!

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,
And deemed himself the Rodolph of his race!

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,
And led on half the world to stirring fight;

Bidding whole seas of blood and carnage flow?
Alas! when foiled on his last battle plain,

Its shattered fragments forged thy father's chain.

Far worse thy fate

Than that which doomed him to the barren rock;
Through half the universe was felt the shock,

When down he toppled from his high estate;
And the proud thought of still acknowledged power,
Could cheer him e'en in that disastrous hour.

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?

She who first gave, and should have watched thy life, Trebling a mother's tenderness for thee,

Despoiled heir of empire? On her breast

Did thy young head repose in its unrest?