THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE.

WHY mourn ye, why strew ye those flowrets around
To yon new-sodded grave, as ye slowly advance?
In yon new-sodded grave (ever dear be the ground)
Lies the stranger we lov'd, 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
For the stranger we lov'd, the poor exile of France.

Oh! kind was his nature, tho' bitter his fate,
And gay was his converse, tho' 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 sang 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 shar'd with the poor, the still poorer than he.

And when round his death-bed profusely we cast
Every gift, every solace, our hamlet could bring,
He blest us with sighs which we thought were his last,
But he still breath'd a prayer for his Country and King.

Poor exile, adieu! undisturb'd be thy sleep-
From the feast, from the wake, from the village-
green dance,

How oft shall we wander at moonlight to weep
O'er the stranger we lov'd, 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!

N

ΤΟ

THE HON. MISS CREWE

(NOW MRS. CUNLIFFE),

WITH THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE.

SOON the tear shall be dry, soon the flow'r shall be sere, Which mourners on earth to these ashes have giv'n, But Heav'n from thy lips the sad story will hear, For music like thine is the language of Heav'n!

Oh! then shall this turf-bed with flow'rs ever crown'd, And with tears ever dew'd, time's inclemency brave, For hands more than mortal will garden the ground, And angels will weep o'er the Emigrant's Grave.

GOOD-BYE, AND HOW-D'YE-DO.

ONE day, Good-bye met How-d'ye-do,

Too close to shun saluting,

But soon the rival sisters flew,

From kissing, to disputing.

Away," says How-d'ye-do, "your mien Appals my cheerful nature,

No name so sad as your's is seen
In sorrow's nomenclature.

"Whene'er I give one sunshine hour,
Your cloud comes o'er to shade it;
Where'er I plant one bosom flow'r,

Your mildew drops to fade it.

"Ere How-d'ye-do has tun'd each tongue

To hope's delightful measure,

Good-bye in friendship's ear has rung

The knell of parting pleasure!

"From sorrows past, my chemic skill
Draws smiles of consolation,

Whilst you from present joys distil
The tears of separation."-

Good-bye replied, "Your statement's true,
And well your cause you've pleaded;
But pray, who'd think of How-d'ye-do,
Unless Good-bye preceded?

"Without my prior influence
Could yours have ever flourish'd?
And can your hand one flow'r dispense
But those my tears have nourish'd?

"How oft, if at the court of Love
Concealment be the fashion,

When How-d'ye-do has fail'd to move,

Good-bye reveals the passion!

"How oft, when Cupid's fires decline,

As ev'ry heart remembers,

One sigh of mine, and only mine,

Revives the dying embers!

66

Go, bid the timid lover choose,
And I'll resign my charter;

If he, for ten kind How-d'ye dos,
One kind Good-bye would barter!