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THINE is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices ;--by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken
To the still breast, in sunny garden-bowers, Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.
Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,
When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds, There from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet
As antique music, link'd with household words. While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move,
And the rais'd eye of childhood shine in love.
Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews
True bard, and holy !-thou art ev'n as one
Sees where the springs of living waters lie:
A MONARCH'S DEATH-BED.
The Emperor Albert of Hapsburgh, who was assassinated by his nephew, afterwards called John the Parricide, was left to die by the way-side, and only supported in his last moments by a female peasant, who happened to be passing.
A MONARCH on his death-bed lay---
Beneath a darkening sky-
Had he then fall'n as warriors fall,
Where spear strikes fire with spear?
Was there a banner for his pall,
A buckler for his bier?
Not so;-nor cloven shields nor helms
Where he, the helpless lord of realms,
Were there not friends with words of cheer,
And princely vassals nigh?
And priests, the crucifix to rear
Before the glazing eye?
A peasant girl that royal head
And, shrinking not for woman's dread,