THE LOST ONE.

And years pass'd by,—while her sweet face,

Was smiling in her picture still,

When gone were all the noble race
Who once those halls did fill

A gossip's evening tale it grew,

Of the lost Gertrude,-fair and true!

They whisp'ring told, how some beside,

The ruins lone and old,

Saw the lost lady slowly glide,

A vision bright and cold!

And listening heard, or seem'd to hear,

Her gentle footstep rustling near!

Long centuries pass'd, and Gertrude's grave,
Deep in the treacherous moor was found.
None had been near, that form to save,

A skeleton alone was found:

But o'er that dust no mourners bow,

Unknown her love,-unknown her woe!

K

129

BOSCOBEL.*

THE morn is fair, for the summer air,
Wanders the greenwood through,

And every leafy alley there,

Glitters with early dew:

Where branches close o'er many a dell,
In the old wood of Boscobel.

And there "sweet echo," dwells alone,

In fairy coverts green,—

Where noon-day sun has seldom shone,

Or step of mortal been:

And yet, she all the sounds can tell,

That haunt the wood of Boscobel.

* A wood in Staffordshire, famous for being the scene of King Charles the Second's concealment after the battle of Worcester.

BOSCOREL.

Oh! wilt thou sylvan nymph, but say,

What in old time has been,

In dark rebellion's stormy day,

Among these arches green?

Tell us, of scenes that once befell,

In this old wood of Boscobel.

Nought but the woodman's axe is heard,

As the grey morn is breaking,
And, save the music of a bird,
No other sound is waking:-
A form is there, that graces well,
Thy stately groves,-old Boscobel!

But he has donn'd the peasant's guise;

No other roof has he,

When darkness veils the frowning skies,

But a spreading oaken tree :

:

The princely head! that slumber'd well,

In thy thick shade, old Boscobel.

131

And there, a true and faithful few,

His weary way attend:

:

To Pendrill be each honour due,

The royal wanderer's friend: No courtly gift had he to swell His honest love, in Boscobel.

But he, a crown'd and lawful King,
An exile there was 'biding,-
Where two alone, around him cling,
From traitor's malice hiding;-

Sure truth and honour then did dwell,
In thy dim bowers, old Boscobel.

And aye the oak shall honour'd be,

For in its shelter green,

Beneath a leafy canopy,

The exile slept serene :

A King dethron'd,-who once could tell,

Of safety found in Boscobel!

THE BRIDAL AND THE FUNERAL.

AN INCIDENT FROM LIFE.

FAIR broke the morning, shining dew, glitter'd on flower and tree,

And as the day advanced, was heard, the murmur of the bee,

Humming around the opening rose, the honeysuckle's flower;

There was no shadow in the sky, in that auspicious hour.

And from the old Cathedral's towers, peal'd out

a joyous note,

Waking lone echo, that had slept in vallies far remote,

And gladness was in ev'ry sound,—the Gothic doors

flew wide,

And down the steps light gliding came two sisters

side by side.