The Emperor Albert First, assassinated by his nephew, John, surnamed the Parricide, expired on the banks of the river Reuss, in the field afterwards called Königsfelden, supported only by a female peasant, who was accidentally passing at the time.

A MONARCH in his death-pangs lay-
Did censers breathe perfume,
And soft lamps pour their silvery ray,

Through his proud chamber's gloom ?-
He lay upon a greensward bed,

Beneath a darkening sky,

A lone tree waving o'er his head,
A swift stream rolling by.

Had he then fallen as warriors fall,
Where spear strikes fire with spear?

R

Was there a banner for his pall,

A buckler for his bier?

Not so:-nor cloven shields nor helms
Had strewn the bloody sod,

Where he, the helpless lord of realms,
Yielded his soul to God!

Were there not friends with words of cheer, And princely vassals nigh?

And priests, the crucifix to rear

Before the fading eye ?—

A peasant girl that royal head

Upon her bosom laid,

And, shrinking not for woman's dread,
The face of death surveyed.

Alone she sat :-from hill and wood
Red sank the mournful sun;

Fast gushed the fount of noble blood,
Treason its worst had done.
With her long hair she vainly prest

;

The wounds, to staunch their tide; Unknown, on that meek, humble breast, Imperial Albert died!

F. H.

AN ADVENTURE AMONG THE

ALPS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "GILBERT EARLE."

[The following letter is taken from a correspondence, which was kept up, for many years, between the gentleman by whom it was written, and one of his most intimate friends. We have every reason to believe the reality of the occurrence which it relates.]

MY DEAR

Berne, October.

I HAVE been wandering among the Alps, for the last three weeks, which has been the occasion of my not writing to you, during that time. Even now, you must expect from me no particular account of my peregrinations; for, during the last five days, I have been able to think, only, upon one subject; and am too eager to vent it upon you, to be inclined to talk about any thing else.

I had been above a fortnight out, and had visited most of the usual points in the tour of the Alps; and

had, already, begun to turn my face towards my headquarters, here. I had slept, the night before, at the hospice on the Great St. Bernard; and had set off, early in the morning, to have day-light to take me into the Valais, intending to get to Martigny that night, if I could. I had loitered, however, in the earlier part of the day; and, as it advanced, I began to fear I should not get clear of the mountains before night-fall. I was on foot, and alone; for, as I had, already, passed the road I purposed to go, I had not thought it necessary to take a guide; not doubting that I should arrive, in good time, at my inn. As the day advanced, however, I found I had, yet, several miles to go, and did not much relish the idea of performing the latter part of my journey in the dark, in a region sufficiently desolate and difficult, and with which, as the fogs of the evening drew around me, I began to find I had not so perfect an acquaintance as, in the bright sunshine of the morning, I had thought. The autumn wind, too, blew chill from the mountains, and added to the discomfort of the autumn twilight. I was exceedingly hungry, very cold, a little cross, and not quite at ease as to how I was to pass the night; when, shortly before it got dark, I heard a voice singing merrily behind me, and, on looking back, perceived a peasant trudging stoutly down the mountain, carolling as he came. He had a mountain-staff in his hand, and a dog trotting by his side. He came on at a pace which shewed he was well acquainted with the road and the