But

young

Henri's darker lot was cast

Amid the hapless brave;

The hour of conflict was his last,
The battle-field his grave!

And his spirit sank in lone despair
As he looked on his feeble throng,

For they were but a handful there,
And their foes were thousands strong.

Alas! a weak and wasted band

Was all that cause could bring;

And few there were in all the land
For God and for their king!

And there, 'mid pause of eye and breath,

Ere yet the thunders woke,

Their leader gave the charge of death,

And thus brave Henri spoke :

'If, soldiers, in yon hostile ranks

Your leader's form ye see,

Then rush like rivers o'er their banks,

And comrades follow me!

"But should I play a coward part,

And shrink in yonder strife,

Then plunge your sabres in my heart,
And take a traitor's life.

"But, brethren, if I brave my lot,
And find a glorious doom;

If my knell be yonder cannon-shot,
And this green sward my tomb;

"Then, comrades, vent no idle woes,
Nor waste in sighs your breath;
But on! and let your slaughtered foes
Avenge your leader's death!"

THE IVY.

BY THOMAS DOUBLEDAY, ESQ.

METHINKS I hate the ivy: for it clings
Not in affection. Like the parasite,
Its close embrace brings but a surer blight.
Death lurks amid the intertwisted strings,
And round about its treacherous arms it flings,
As Delilah the unsuspecting might

Of Samson. Ay; and say it mocks the sight
With specious greenness, when the winter brings
Its withering breath o'er all the world beside,
Then least of all the ivy pleaseth me,
Despite its seeming. 'Tis still envy's way,
Smiling the desolation round to see,
When others droop, to wax in double pride,
And, only in their fruitage, find decay.

BALLAD.

BY JOHN CLARE.

I.

THERE is a tender flower,

Yet found in every clime, That decks the rudest bower, Nor stays for place or time. In caves and desert sands,

Unblest with sun or shower, Wherever life expands,

Is found this tender flower.

II.

Where storms with keenest breath
Bid stronger flowers decay-
Where suns even shun its birth,
It is content to stay.

In sunshine and in gloom,

As if 'twere sorrow's dower,

In Grief's lap it will bloom,
Or die a lovely flower.

III.

Within life's wilderness

This fond and tender flower
Doth every bosom bless,

And garlands Sorrow's bower.
Rude Falsehood may despise
Its bloom when in its power,
And idle themes devise

To mock this injured flower.

IV.

Yet Truth hath long agreed
To call it first of flowers,
Though treated like a weed
Too oft in Folly's bowers.
On earth it loves to dwell,

Though blest with heavenly power,

And sure I need not tell

That Love's the lauded flower.

TO A BROKEN WATCH.

BY MISS HOLFORD.

I.

Oн, mute machine, what figurest thou ?—
Thou hast no tongue to tell me now:
The symbol thou art

Of a broken heart,

Which no more can tremble or glow.

II.

Some blow has crushed thy master-spring, Thou art a senseless, speechless thing! And the voice that told

How time grew old,

Has done with its answering.

III.

Silent wreck of the power of art,

Yes, thou art like a broken heart,

Which lies in the breast

With its pulse at rest,

And has ceased to quiver and smart!