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But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe Down, down with every foreigner! but let your brethren

go.”

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Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of

Navarre! Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never

shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor

spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms

be bright: Ho! burghers of St Genevieve, keep watch and ward to

night, For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath

raised the slave, And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of

the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre !

COCXLVI. ANONYMOUS.

LINES ON A SKELETON.*
ehold this ruin ! was a skull
Once of the ethereal spirit full.
This narrow cell was life's retreat,
This space was thought's mysterious seat.
What beauteous visions filled this spot,
What dreams of pleasure long forgot.
Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,
Have left one trace of record here.
Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye;
But start not at the dismal void---

If social love that ege employed, * This poem was found about the year 1823 near a skeleton in the Museum of the College of Surgeons, London The curator sent it to the “Morni g Chronicle." A reward of fifty guineas was offered in vain to discover the writer,

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If with no lawless fire it gleamed,
But through the dews of kindness beamed,
That
eye

shall be for ever bright
When stars and sun are sunk in night.
Within this hollow cavern hung
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue.
If falsehood's honey it disdained,
And when it could not praise, was chained,
If bold in virtue's cause it spoke,
Yet gentle concord never broke!
This silent tongue shall plead for thee
When time unveils eternity.
Say, did these fingers delve the mine ?
Or with the envied rubies shine ?
To hew the rock or wear the gem
Can little now avail to them.
But if the page of truth they sought;
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that wait on wealth or fame.
Avails it, whether bare or shod
These feet the paths of duty trod ?
If from the bowers of ease they fled,
To seek affliction's humble shed,
li grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to virtue's cot returned,
These feet with angel's wings shall vie,

And tread the palace of the sky.
C'CCXLVIS. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON,

1802-1838.

THE ORPHAN.
Alone, alone!—no other face

Wears kindred smile, or kindred line;
And yet they say my mother's eyes,

They say my father's brow, is mine;
And either had rejoiced to see

The other's likeness in my face,
But now it is a stranger's eye,

That finds some long forgotten trace.

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I heard them name my father's death,

His home and tomb alike the wave; And I was early taught to weep,

Beside my youthful mother's grave. I wish I could recall one look,

But only one familiar tone ;
If I had aught of memory,

I should not feel so all alone.
My heart is gone beyond the grave,

İn search of love I cannot find,
Till I could fancy soothing words

Are whisper'd by the evening wind :
I gaze upon the watching stars,

So clear, so beautiful above,
Till I could dream they look on me

With something of an answering love.
My mother, does thy gentle eye

Look from those distant stars on me ?
Or does the wind at evening bear
A

message to thy child from thee? Dost thou pine for me, as I pine

Again a parent's love to share ? I often kneel beside thy grave, And pray to be a sleeper there.

. The vesper bell !—'tis eventide,

I will not weep, but I will pray: God of the fatherless, 'tis Thou

Alone canst be the orphan's stay ! Earth's meanest flower, heaven's mightiest star,

Are equal to their Maker's love, And I can say, “ Thy will be done,” With

eyes that fix their hopes above.

CCCXLVIII. JOHN KEBLE, 1805–

REFLECTIONS ON FLOWERS.

Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,

Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, What more than magic in you

lies To fill the heart's fond view ?

In chỉdhood's sports companions gay,
In sorrow, on life's downward way,
How soothing ! in our last decay,

Memorials prompt and true.
Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,

As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours

Of happy wanderers there.
Fall'n all beside—the world of life,
How is it stain'd with fear and strife!
In reason's world what storms are rife,

What passions rage and glare !
But cheerful and unchanged the while

Your first and perfect form ye show,
The same that won Eve's matron smile

In the world's opening glow.
The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our buman thought
Ye may

be found if ye are sought,
And as we gaze we know.
Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,

Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow,
And guilty man, where'er he roams,

Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of air before us fleet,
They cannot brook our shame to meet-
But we may taste your solace sweet,

And come again to-morrow.
Yę fearless in your nests abide-

Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
Your silent lessons, undescried

By all but lowly eyes;
For ye could draw th' admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys :
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,

He taught us how to prize.
Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,

As when he paused and own'd you good;

His blessing on earth's primal bower,

Ye felt it all renew'd :
What care ye now, if winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form?
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm,

Ye fear no vexing mood.
Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,

That daily court you and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of
your

calm loveliness.
“Live for to-day! to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight.
Go, sleep like closing flowers at night,

And heaven thy morn will bless."
CCCXLIX. WINTHROP MACWORTH PRAEN,

1802-1839.

LILLIAN.
In the cottage on the moor,

With none to watch her and caress,
No arms to clasp, no voice to bless,
The witless child grew up

alone,
And made all Nature's book her own.

.

Beautiful shade, with her tranquil air,
And her thin white arm, and her flowing hair,
And the light of her eye so boldly obscure,
And the hue of her cheeks so pale and pure !
Reason and thought she had never known,
Her heart was as cold as a heart of stone;
So you might guess from her eye's dim rays,
And her idiot laugh, and her vacant gaze.
She wander'd about all alone on the heather,
She and the wild heath birds together,
For Lillian seldom spoke or smiled,
But she sang as sweet as a little child.
Into her song her dreams would throng,

Silly, and wild, and out of place;
And yet that wild and roving song

Entranced the soul in its desolate graco.

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