And the startled deer to their coverts flew, And the spray of the lake as a fountain's dew. 'Tis fallen! but think thou not I weep But by that sign too well I know, A youthful head, with its shining hair, But on his brow the mark is set Oh! could my life redeem him yet! He bounded by me as I gazed Alone on the fatal sign, And it seemed like sunshine when he raised His joyous glance to mine! With a stag's fleet step he bounded by, So full of life-but he must not die ! He must, he must! in that deep dell, By that dark water's side, 'Tis known that ne'er a proud tree fell, I've borne him in these arms, that now And must I see on that fair brow, I must!-yon green oak, branch and crest, The noble boy!-how proudly sprung The falcon from his hand! It seemed like youth to see him young, A flower in his father's land! But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh, For the tree hath fallen, and the flower must die. Say not 'tis vain !-I tell thee, some Mrs Hemans. THE DEATH OF ELLA. On Ella's cheek the rose was seen, But soon the storm began to lower, In sorrow, o'er his lowly bed, And fading, like her cheek's soft bloom, Sank like a lily to the tomb! Still will the tears soft pity gave, Refresh the flowers that deck her grave! Anon. THE LAST MAN. All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, Before this mortal shall assume I saw a vision in my sleep, That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of time! I saw the last of human mould, That shall creation's death behold, The sun's eye had a sickly glare, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight,-the brands Still rusted in their bony hands; In plague and famine some! Earth's cities had no sound nor tread'; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb! Yet, prophet like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm passed by, Saying, we are twins in death, proud sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood and earth The vassals of his will; Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day: For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again. |