THE WARRIOR'S GRAVE.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

GREEN wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest!
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest,
And, in the stillness of thy country's breast,
Thy place of memory, as an altar, keepest!
Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills were poured,
Thou of the Lyre and Sword!

Rest bard! rest, soldier!

By the father's hand,

Here shall the child of after years be led,
With his wreath-offering, silently to stand
In the hushed presence of the glorious dead!
Soldier and hard! for thou thy path hast trod
With freedom and with God!

The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial-rite,
On thy crowned bier to slumber warriors bore thee,
And with true hearts, thy brethren of the fight
Wept as they veiled the drooping banners o'er thee,
And the deep guns, with rolling peals, gave token
That Lyre and Sword were broken!

Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying;
The gentle girl, that bowed her fair young head,
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
Brother! true friend! the tender and the brave!
She pined to share thy grave.

Fame was thy gift from others but for her,
To whom the wide earth held that only spot,
She loved thee! - lovely in your lives ye were,
And in your early deaths divided not!

Thou hast thine oak

thy trophy, what hath she? Her own blessed place by thee!

It was thy spirit, brother! which had made
The bright world glorious to her thoughtful eye,
Since first in childhood 'midst the vines ye played,
And sent glad singing through the free blue sky!
Ye were but two! - and when that spirit passed,
Woe for the one,-
the last!

Woe, yet not long! She lingered but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast;
Once, once again to see that buried face
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest!
Too sad a smile! - its living light was o'er,
It answered hers no more!

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled;
What then was left for her, the faithful hearted?
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead!
Softly she perished-be the flower deplored
Here, with the Lyre and Sword!

Have ye not met ere now? - So let those trust

That meet for moments but to part

for years;

That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust,
That love where love is but a fount of tears!

Brother sweet sister! - peace around ye dwell!
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell!

A PAINT BRUSH SKETCH.

ANONYMOUS.

MANY people in this country have an idea that the private personal characters of celebrated authors are not easily to be got at; but I assure all such that this is a very mistaken notion. The hospitably entertained visitor has only to take notes of what transpires in his presence, and any newspaper editor will be happy to print his remarks and retail his experiences. Much that is related will perhaps appear fabulous or overstated, but I am confident MY readers will take for truth what they read from my pen.

My family had but recently moved from London into the pleasant town of Bedford, and as yet had become known to very few of its inhabitants. One day my elderly maiden aunt, a somewhat noted character in our family circle, sent me into the interior of the town, some distance from our house, in pursuit of a tinker's shop, where I was to leave a small brass kettle for repairs. Not knowing the way, I made bold to ask one of a group of boys whom I found playing at what was