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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;
Pluck'd one by one by spareless Time,

And scatter'd in oblivion's stream;
Passing away all silently,
Like snow-flakes melting in the sea :

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,
Was he cut off, and left behind
A widow'd wife, scarce half resign'd?

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,
To impotently herald us,

We float not on the breath of fame;
But, like the dew-drop from the flower,
Pass, after glittering for an hour.
The soul decays not; freed from earth,

And earthly toils, it bursts away ;-
Receiving a celestial birth,

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

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 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
Those vine-clad hills and valleys, lie

Fair France's living wreath!
As yet that sky, ere dimm'd by night,
Shall canopy a fairer sight,

And France exultant see,
More glorious than her vine-clad hills,
Or cloudless skies, or sunny rills,

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.
Far as the roving eye may sweep,
Broods stirless beauty-quiet, deep,

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.

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!
Yet calmly flows its silver tide,
Unconscious that on either side

A hostile realm is known;
Unconscious that its waves detain
The hope of France,--the prize of Spain,--

King Francis from his throne.
Many a day in dark Madrid

Hath he borne the captive's thrall,
And often long'd his head were hid

Beneath a funeral pall;
But now he views, with raptured glance,
His own bright realm, his darling France,

In glorious hues expand !
Now, o'er the stream, with eager prow,
His bark speeds swiftly on,--and now

The monarch leaps to land !
Glad shouts arise! and warrior vows-

Vows for a King to share ;
And helms are doff'd from stately brows,

And knees are bending there ;
Each Knight and Noble waves his brand,
And swears by Heaven and his own right hand,

“ 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-
And he flashes on with lightning speed,
While his train sweeps fast behind !

RETURN OF FRANCIS THE FIRST.

106

Helm, brand, and banner, gleam around,
And victor shout, and trumpet sound,

Far o'er the landscape ring !
But heard through all is the monarch's cry,
And echo peals it to the sky,

“ 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,
She had each folded flower in sight-

Where are those dreamers now?

One 'midst the forests of the west

By a dark stream is laid ;
The Indian knows his place of rest,

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,
He wrapp'd his colours round his breast,

On a blood-red field of Spain.

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