In olden times, so legends tell,
In lordly castle there did dwell
A lady fair, of noble birth,
Of beauty rare and matchless worth.
And she was flattered and caressed,--
The poor her generous bounty blessed;
Princes and lords, a gorgeous crowd,
Before her peerless beauty bow'd.
Lady and courtiers passed away,
This ivyed tower, these ruins gray
Are all that's left to tell the story,
Of grandeur, pomp, and former glory.
Thus, Time moves on, with ceaseless tread,
Still adding to the silent dead;
Nor power, nor splendor can withstand
The touch of its effacing hand.
The Myrtle.
This Myrtle wreath will never fade,
In sunshine or in gloom,
When wintry storms sweep o'er the glade,
Its flow'rs will brighter bloom,
So Virtue's lamp will brighter be,
'Mid storms of dark adversity.
Death.
Thou pale visitant of the spirit land, why dost thou hover ever round
the shades of time, and ever ply thy bark on yonder sluggish stream,
whose oozy waters bear thee on its bosom? Why dost thou ever bear away
a victim that returns not with thee? As we look for thy returning bark
"through the vista, long and dark it comes with thee alone." Thou
mysterious messenger, where dost bear those whom thou dost convey
away?--but hark! that voice! husky, hollow, but impressive, the spirit
shall return unto God who gave it. But now I see thee more distinctly,
thou grisly monster; I know thy form, thou conqueror of conquerors,
and thou king of kings.
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