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THE DEATH OF REICHSTADT.

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No! round her heart
Children of humbler, happier lineage twined,
Thou couldst but bring dark memories to mind

Of pageants where she bore a heartless part;
She who shared not her monarch-husband's doom
Cared little for her first-born's living tomb.

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Thou art at rest!
Child of Ambition's martyr :-life had been
To thee no blessing, but a dreary scene

Of doubt and dread and suffering at the best;
For thou wert one, whose path, in these dark times,
Would lead to sorrows it may be to crimes.

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Thou art at rest!
The idle sword has worn its sheath away,
The spirit has consumed its bonds of clay,-

And they, who with vain tyranny comprest
Thy soul's high yearnings, now forget their fear,
And fling ambition's purple o'er thy bier !

BY JONES VERY.

I THANK thee, Father, that the night is near When I this conscious being may resign; Whose only task thy words of love to hear, And in thy acts to find each act of mine ; A task too great to give a child like me, The myriad-handed labors of the day, Too many for my closing eyes to see, Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say; Yet when thou seest me burthened by thy love, Each other gift more lovely then appears, For dark-robed night comes hovering from above, And all thine other gifts to me endears; And while within her darkened couch I sleep, Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep.

TO AN OLD MAN.

BY PHILIP FRENEAU.

Why, dotard, wouldst thou longer groan
Beneath a weight of years and won
Thy youth is lost, thy pleasures flown,
And age proclaims, “ 'Tis time to go.”

To willows sad and weeping yews
With us awhile, old man, repair;
Nor to the vault thy steps refuse,
Thy constant home must soon be there.

To summer suns and winter moons
Prepare to bid a long adieu,
Autumnal seasons shall return
And spring shall bloom, but not for you.

Why so perplexed with cares and toil
To rest upon this darksome road;
'Tis but a thin, a thirsty soil,
A barren and a bleak abode.. .

TO AN OLD MAN.

Constrained to dwell with pain and care,
These dregs of life are bought too dear;
'Tis better far to die, than bear
The torments of life's closing year.

Subjected to perpetual ills
A thousand deaths around us grow :
The frost the tender blossom kills,
And roses wither as they blow.

Cold, nipping winds your fruits assail,
The blasted apple seeks the ground,
The peaches fall, the cherries fail,
The grape receives a mortal wound.

The breeze, that gently ought to blow, Swells to a storm, and rends the main ; The sun, that charmed the grass to grow, Turns hostile, and consumes the plain;

The mountains waste, the shores decay,
Once purling streams are dead and dry:
'Twas Nature's work—'tis Nature's play,–
And Nature says, that all must die.

Yon flaming lamp, the source of light,
In chaos dark may shroud his beam

TO AN OLD MAN.

And leave the world to mother Night,
A farce, a phantom, or a dream.

What now is young, must soon be old,
Whate'er we love, we soon must leave:
'Tis now too hot, 'tis now too cold-
To live, is nothing but to grieve.

How bright the morn her course begun,
No mists bedimmed the solar sphere-
The clouds arise—they shade the sun,
For nothing can be constant here.

Now hope the longing soul employs,
In expectation we are blest;
But soon the airy phantom flies,
For, lo! the treasure is possessed.

Those monarchs proud that havoc spread, (While pensive REASON dropped a tear,) Those monarchs have to darkness fled, And ruin bounds their mad career.

The grandeur of this earthly round,
Where folly would for ever stay,
Is but a name, is but a sound-
Mere emptiness and vanity.

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