THE DEATH OF REICHSTADT.

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.

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.

C

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THE DEATH OF REICHSTADT.

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!

TO AN OLD MAN.

BY PHILIP FRENEAU.

WHY, dotard, wouldst thou longer groan Beneath a weight of years and woThy 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.

C⭑

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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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