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?—
It is a question idle all !

Ask of the breezes as they blow,

Say, do they heed, or hear thy call?
They murmur in the trees around,
And mock thy voice, an empty sound!

A hundred summer suns have showered

Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright;
A hundred winter storms have loured

With piercing floods, and hues of night,
Since first this remnant of his race
Did tenant his lone dwelling-place.

Was he of high or low degree?

Did grandeur smile upon his lot?
Or, born to dark obscurity,

Dwelt he within some lonely cot,
And, from his youth to labour wed,
From toil-strung limbs wrung daily bread?

Say, died he ripe, and full of years,
Bowed down and bent by hoary eld,
When sound was silence to his ears,
And the dim eyeball sight withheld;

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THE UNKNOWN GRAVE.

Like a ripe apple falling down,
Unshaken 'mid the orchard brown;

When all the friends that blessed his prime,
Were vanished like a morning dream;
Plucked one by one by spareless Time,
And scattered 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 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,
Came the swift bolt that dashed him down;
When she, his chosen, blossoming

In beauty, deemed him all her own,
And forward looked to happier years,
Than ever blessed 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 doomed that dust shall mix with dust.

THE UNKNOWN GRAVE.

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.

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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!
And gloriously beneath

Those vine-clad hills and valleys, lie
Fair France's living wreath!

As yet that sky, ere dimmed 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.

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 longed 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 doffed 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!

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