THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE.

Why mourn ye, why strew ye those flowerets

around To yon new-sodded grave as ye slowly advance ? In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground) Lies the stranger we loved, the poor exile of

France.

And is the poor exile at rest from his woe,

No longer the sport of misfortune and chance ? Mourn on, village mourners, my tears too shall flow

[France. For the stranger we loved, the poor exile of Oh, kind was his nature, though bitter his fate, And gay was his converse, though broken his

heart; No comfort, no hope his own breast could elate,

Though comfort and hope he to all could impart. Ever joyless himself, in the joys of the plain

Still foremost was he mirth and pleasure to raise ; How sad was his soul, yet how blithe was his strain, When he sung the glad song of more fortunate

days! One pleasure he knew, in his straw-cover'd shed

The way-wearied beggar recruited to see ; One tear of delight he would drop o'er the bread Which he shared with the poor, the still poorer And when round his deathbed profusely we cast

Every gift, every solace our hamlet could bring, He bless'd us with sighs which we thought were his last,

and king. But he still breathed a prayer for his country Poor exile, adieu! undisturb'd be thy sleep

From the feast, from the wake, from the village

green dance

How oft shall we wander at moonlight to weep O'er the stranger we loved, the poor exile of

France, To the church-bidden bride shall thy memory im

part One pang as her eyes on thy cold relics glance; One flower from her garland, one tear from her

heart Shall drop on the grave of the exile of France.

HON. W. R. SPENCER,

STANZAS

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE PLEASURES OF

MEMORY.

PLEASURES of Memory!-oh supremely bless’d,

And justly proud beyond a poet's praise,
If the pure confines of thy tranquil breast
Contain, indeed, the subject of thy lays !

By me how envied !—for to me,
The herald still of misery,
Memory makes her influence known

By sighs and tears and grief alone :
I greet her as the fiend to whom belong [song,
The vulture's ravening beak, the raven's funeral

She tells of time mispent, of comfort lost,

Of fair occasions gone for ever by;
Of hopes too fondly nursed, too rudely cross'd,
Of many a cause to wish, yet fear to die;

For what, except the instinctive fear
Lest she survive, detains me here,
When all the life of life' is filed?

What but the deep inherent dread,
Lest she beyond the grave resume her reign,
And realize the hell that priests and beldams
feign?

ANONYMOUS.

DEATH.

WHEN I am lulld in Death's long sleep,

As soon perhaps these eyes may be, How very few will turn to weep,

Or cast one sorrowing thought on me! Soon is the debt of outward mourning paid, Soon springs the poppy ’neath the cypress shade. The winds which hurtle o'er my grave

May breathe faint echoings of a sigh; Around my turf the flowers that wave

May shed their dewdrops where I lie; The plaintive bird who waits upon the spring May swell my requiem chant, and nightly sing. But hush'd for ever 'neath the clay

Are the fond words by Friendship spoken; And dim to me is Heaven's own ray,

'he holy spell of Love broken; I have not now the One who by my side Would pour the tear which never can be dried !

Mysterious state! I once had fear'd

To tempt thine unacquainted shade, The couch where no man's voice is heard,

The cell no living steps invade!
I once had wish'd youth's opening scenes to try,
Not unknown live, nor unregarded die!

I did not wish this head should bow
So soon a nameless tomb beneath:-
The myrtle leaf is wither'd now,

What care I for the laurel wreath! [near, Come, thou dread Power, which ever tread'st more Come when thou wilt, I hail thee without fear!

E. SMEDLEY, JUN.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN THE SPRING.

RETURNING Spring, with gladsome ray,

Adorns the earth and smooths the deep;
All Nature smiles serene and gay,

It smiles, but yet, alas, I weep!
But why, why flows the unbidden tear ?

When Fate such precious boons has lent;
The lives of those who life endear,

And though scarce competence-content. Sure when no other bliss was mine,

But that which still kind Heaven bestows,
Yet then could Peace and Hope combine,

To promise joy, and give repose.
Then have I wander'd through the plain,

And bless'd each flower that met my view; Thought Fancy's power would ever reign,

And Nature's charms be ever new.

I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt

That happy bosom knew no ill;
That those who scorn'd me Time would melt,

And those I loved be faultless still :
Enchanting dreams! kind was your art,

That bliss bestow'd without alloy ; Or if soft sadness claim'd a part,

'Twas sadness sweeter far than joy. Ah! whence the change that now alarms,

Fills this sad heart and tearful eye, And conquers the once powerful charms

Of youth, of hope, of novelty ? 'Tis harsh Experience! fatal power,

That clouds the gay illumined sky,
That darkens life's meridian hour,

And bids each fairy vision fly.
She paints the scene, how different far

From that which youthful Fancy drew;
Shows Joy and Prudence oft at war,

Our woes increased, our comforts few; See in her train cold Foresight move,

Shunning the rose to scape the thorn, And Prudence every fear approve,

And Pity harden into scorn. The glowing tints of Fancy fade,

Life's distant prospects charm no more. Alas! are all my hopes betray'd ?

Ah! what can now my bliss restore ?
Relentless power! at length be just,

Thy better skill alone impart;
Give caution—but withhold distrust;
And guard—but harden not my heart.

ANONYMOUS.