THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. BY D. M. MOIR. Man comes into the world like morning mushrooms, soon thrusting up their heads into the air, and conversing with their kindred of the same production, and as soon they turn into dust and forgetfulness.-JEREMY TAYLOR. WHO sleeps below?-who sleeps below?— Ask of the breezes as they blow, Say, do they heed, or hear thy call? A hundred summer suns have showered Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright; With piercing floods, and hues of night, Was he of high or low degree? Did grandeur smile upon his lot? Dwelt he within some lonely cot, Say, died he ripe, and full of years, 100 THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. Like a ripe apple falling down, When all the friends that blessed his prime, Like snow-flakes melting in the sea: Or, 'mid the summer of his years, When round him thronged his children young, When bright eyes gushed with burning tears, And anguish dwelt on every tongue, Was he cut off, and left behind A widowed wife, scarce half resigned? Or 'mid the sunshine of his spring, In beauty, deemed him all her own, Question no more, alas !-'tis vain The summer flowers in beauty blow, Then, what is life, when thus we see A moral lesson liveth here; 'Tis doomed that dust shall mix with dust. THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. What doth it matter, then, if thus, We float not on the breath of fame; The soul decays not; freed from earth, And spurning off its bonds of clay, Do good; shun evil; live not thou To draw thy steps from truth aside: 101 THE RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST FROM CAPTIVITY. BY MISS JEWSBURY. The restoration of Francis the First to his liberty took place beside the little river Andaye, which divides the kingdoms of France and Spain. The moment his Spanish escort drew up on one side of the river, an equal number of French troops appeared on the opposite bank, and immediately afterwards Francis leaped into the boat which awaited him, and reached the French shore. He then mounted his horse, and gallopped off at full speed, waving his hand over his head, and crying aloud with a joyful voice, “I am yet a king.!" O GLORIOUS is that morning sky! Those vine-clad hills and valleys, lie As yet that sky, ere dimmed by night, And France exultant see, More glorious than her vine-clad hills, And yet amid the landscape fair On river, vale, and hill; While low sweet sounds that murmur there, Seem, as they rise, to melt in air, And make repose more still. RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST. But, hark!—a tumult on the plain ! The hope of France, the prize of Spain,- Many a day, in dark Madrid, Hath he borne the captive's thrall, But now he views, with raptured glance, Now, o'er the stream, with eager prow, Glad shouts arise! and warrior vows- And helms are doffed from stately brows, Each Knight and Noble waves his brand, But joy alone is in the glance Of him who treads the turf of France- And now he mounts his gallant steed, 103 |