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THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. Like a ripe apple falling down, Unshaken 'mid the orchard brown;
When all the friends that bless’d his prime,
Were vanish'd like a morning dream;
And scatter'd in oblivion's stream;
Or, 'mid the summer of his years,
When round him throng'd his children young, When bright eyes gush'd with burning tears,
And anguish dwelt on every tongue,
Or, 'mid the sunshine of his spring,
Came the swift bolt that dash'd him down; When she, his chosen, blossoming
In beauty, deem'd him all her own, And forward look'd to happier years, Than ever bless'd their vale of tears?
Question no more, alas !_tis vain
The summer flowers in beauty blow, And sighs the wind, and floods the rain,
O’er the poor bones that rot below; No mouldering record can we trace, Of fame or fortune, rank or race!
Then, what is life, when thus we see
No trace remain of life's career ?Mortal! whoe'er thou art, for thee
A moral lesson liveth here; Place not on aught of earth thy trust; 'Tis doom'd that dust shall mix with dust.
What doth it matter then, if thus,
Without a stone, without a name,
We float not on the breath of fame;
And earthly toils, it bursts away ;-
And spurning off its bonds of clay, It soars and seeks another sphere, And blooms through Heaven's eternal year.
Do good ; shun evil; live not thou,
As if in death thy being died ; Nor Error's siren voice allow
To draw thy steps from truth aside : Look to thy journey's end—the grave! And trust in Him whose arm can save.
THE RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST
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 galloped 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!
And gloriously beneath
Fair France's living wreath!
And France exultant see,
Her captive King set free.
And yet amid the landscape fair
Glides Andaye like a dream; And the single bark at anchor there
Seems sleeping on the stream.
On river, vale, and hill;
And make repose more still.
RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST.
105 But hark !-a tumult on the plain!
Plumes, banners, floating gay, And the gathering of a gallant train
On the banks of fair Andaye!
A hostile realm is known;
King Francis from his throne.
Hath he borne the captive's thrall,
Beneath a funeral pall;
In glorious hues expand !
The monarch leaps to land !
Vows for a King to share ;
And knees are bending there ;
“ Revenge! and hate to Spain !" But joy alone is in the glance Of him who treads the turf of France
A King—a King again.
And now he mounts his gallant steed,
His plume waves on the wind-
RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST.
Helm, brand, and banner, gleam around,
Far o'er the landscape ring !
“ A King—yet, yet a King !"
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
They grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill’d one house with gleeTheir graves are sever'd far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea !
The same fond mother bent at night
O’er each fair sleeping brow,
Where are those dreamers now?
One 'midst the forests of the west
By a dark stream is laid ;
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd
Above the noble slain,
On a blood-red field of Spain.