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
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,
66 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.
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,-
66
"A King-yet, yet a King!"
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one house with glee-
Their graves are severed 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 dressed
Above the noble slain,
He wrapped his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned,
She faded, 'midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus, they rest who played
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth—
Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond on earth!
O! My love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,—
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,-
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee!
Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom, and matron wit→→
Fair, gentle, as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
|