O Lady ! on thy regal brow 



The shades of death are gathered now ! 



What matter, if in queenly bower, 



Was past of life thy fitful hour ? 



In cloister gray, where meets at eve 



The whispering winds that softly breathe ; 



Or, if in leafy glen afar, 



To some lone cot the guiding star 



Of him, who turn'd with weary feet 



Thy joyous answering smile to meet ? 



What matter, if in hut or hall, 



Was spread o'er thee the funeral pall ; 



If mutes and banners waited round, 



Or flowrets decked thy simple mound ? 



If wrought on earth thy Maker's will, 



No meddling fiend shall work thee ill : 



O blest thy waiting-place shall be, 



Till the grave shall set her captive free, 



Through His dear might who came to bless 



Man in his utter helplessness. M. R. 



WHAT see you in that old oak more than in any other 

 tree, except that its trunk is white with age, and that 

 gray lichens hang in tufts from out the interstices of the 

 bark ? That tree, stranger, was a silent witness of 

 scenes long past. It stood when England was rent 



L 



