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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
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
[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
How oft shall we wander at moonlight to eep 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.
WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE PLEASURES OF
PLEASURES of Memory !-oh supremely bless'd,
And justly proud beyond a poet's praise,
By me how envied !—for to me,
By sighs and tears and grief alone :
She tells of time mispent, of comfort lost,
Of fair occasions gone for ever by;
For what, except the instinctive fear
What but the deep inherent dread,
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,
The holy spell of Love is 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 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.
RETURNING Spring, with gladsome ray,
Adorns the earth and smooths the deep;
It smiles, but yet, alas, I weep!
When Fate such precious boons has lent;
And though scarce competence-content. Sure when no other bliss was mine,
But that which still kind Heaven bestows,
To promise joy, and give repose.
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,
And bids each fairy vision fly.
From that which youthful Fancy drew;
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 ?
Thy better skill alone impart;