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 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 sleepFrom the feast, from the wake, from the villagegreen 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 impart 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. STANZAS WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE PLEASURES OF PLEASURES of Memory!-oh supremely bless'd, Memory makes her influence known 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 hopes too fondly nursed, too rudely cross'd, What but the deep inherent dread, Lest she beyond the grave resume her reign, feign? DEATH. ANONYMOUS. WHEN I am lull'd in Death's long sleep, Or cast one sorrowing thought on me! The winds which hurtle o'er my grave 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, The holy spell of Love is broken; I have not now the One who by my side Mysterious state! I once had fear'd To tempt thine unacquainted shade, The couch where no man's voice is heard, I once had wish'd youth's opening scenes to try, I did not wish this head should bow 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. It smiles, but yet, alas, I weep! But why, why flows the' unbidden tear? And though scarce competence-content. Sure when no other bliss was mine, But that which still kind Heaven bestows, Then have I wander'd through the plain, I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt That those who scorn'd me Time would melt, 'Twas sadness sweeter far than joy. Our woes increased, our comforts few; The glowing tints of Fancy fade, Life's distant prospects charm no more. Ah! what can now my bliss restore? ANONYMOUS. |