But oh, what words may serve to tell
The heart's sad thrill, the bosom's swell,
That AGNES felt, when she heard first
Those awful tidings on her burst!
She had not heard that he was dead-
Her hope was he was 'mongst the fled;
But then his high-born soul she knew
Would brook no more the perils dread,
That if from her in fear he flew,

Would hover o'er her fated head.
As thus her soul with fear distraught,
Was swayed by every bitter thought,
She heard afar the muffled drum-
Of voices low, the distant hum:
Anon, the slow and stately tread
Gave token that they bore the dead!

The first they brought his snow-white crest,
The red rose drenched upon his breast,
Told to beholder's eye that clay
Had own'd the lost Lancastrian sway.
They placed it on a lowly bier-
They wiped the clay-cold brow,
To find if features known perchance
Its lineage might avow:

And there it lay, while moonbeams shone
Thro' the dim aisle that corpse upon!

Saw ye that form in vestal white

Come gliding in the moonbeams' light?

Saw ye it bend beside that bier

Heard ye

that shriek, as shrill and clear

It broke upon the startled ear?

No other sound was heard-no tear

Gushed forth to ease the throbbing smart

That chilled the blood-then broke the heart"!
His pallid lips to her's she prest,

Then sank upon his bleeding breast!

They raised her-but that beauteous form
Was not with life or feeling warm:
And thus they nestled side by side,
In beauty's light, and manhood's pride!
They laid them in a common grave—
That maiden fair, that warrior brave!
And ere the mournful tomb could close
Upon them for the last repose,

The monks gave forth, with mournful tone,
This Requiem for their spirits flown:-

WE bear them to the silent tomb-the beautiful, the brave

We give them to the cold repose and stillness of the grave;

And tho' above their biers we raise the low and solemn hymn,

The tears we shed are not the tears that hope's bright star bedim!

WE thank thee, Death! in kindness; thou hast wis thered in one stroke

The lily that in beauty bloomed, and the lordly forest

oak;

Thy lightning glance hath smote the elm, and the ivy that clung there

'Twas mercy in that blast to waste-'twere cruelty to spare!

We mourn not that their lives were brief, as is the springs first flower

We joy that thus they pass'd away, e'er sin or sorrow's pow'r

Had shed its baleful light abroad-its misery and gloom

And given clouds, not stars, to guide their pathway to the tomb.

And thus when hearts, on earth's dim sphere are close and purely twined,

Think

ye that death can sever them-that love is left behind?

Oh no! the love that blooms on earth, upborne upon

its wings,

In Heaven's unfading loveliness, in purer beauty springs!

We bear them to the silent tomb--in beauty and in youth

In the glory of their constancy-the majesty of truth. Tread softly! blend with peaceful strains the reverential hymn—

The tears we shed are not the tears that hope's bright star bedim!

THE MINSTREL OF SORROW.

My harp so long hath sung of woes,

I cannot change its strain-
For grief alone its music flows,
It only tells of pain.

I would that notes of joy unsought,
Could softly o'er me steal:
But no! with sorrow deeply fraught,
I cannot grief conceal.

Should I of war and warriors sing,

Of glory and of fame

The laurell'd chief, the patriot king—
The hero's deathless name-

The thrilling chords with varied range,
Might lift to Heav'n the soul-
But soon the strain would sadly change,
And gloom around me roll.

My harp would sing the soldier dead,
The ties he left behind-

The bride with hope's gay visions fed,
To misery consigned: