"Why do my children dead, thus stamp dishonour on their clay,

And the living ones arraign themselves against me in the fray!

Ah! it is true, that as we plant, so we shall also reap, And evil deeds, like winged birds, come home at night

It

to sleep.

may be that my rebel son may yet lament for me, When he looks upon the fast closed eyes he never more

may see,

And Coeur de Lion's tears may fall o'er dreams of child

hood joy

Oh! might my spirit by him stand and bless the reckless

66

boy.

'Here, take this ring, my loving child, thou hast thy mother's glance,

That I should die upon thy breast, a fugitive in France! Remember I have said forgiven, to those who sought my life,

And Ellenore of Aquitaine, my lovely erring wife— Thousands have envied me, my son, envied a broken heart

Envied the countless thorns and woes that round a sceptre

start,

Yet odours will be round me flung, minstrels will sweet

ly sing,

And they'll bury me in Fontevraud, with the burial of a king."

There came a pause, a burst of tears, the cowled monks nearer trod,

And Henry of Plantagenet had passed before his God; And through the bright stained panes of glass the moon looked gently down

Upon the royal brow grown pale, that yielded up its

crown;

And the sleeping dust, the voiceless lips could speak a loud Amen,

To the vainless trust of riches, and the broken hearts of

men,

Yet odours rich were round him flung, minstrels did sweetly sing,

And they buried him in Fontevraud, with the burial of a

king.

UNDER THE SNOW.

Suggested by the receipt of some early Spring Violets, gathered in their full beauty from under the snow.

N

OT with the hot-house air around them,
Wove these leaves their purple woof—
Damp and darkness closely bound them,
Snow and ice their only roof;

Yet they grew, well nursed for duty,

When tempests blow,

Smiling in their maiden beauty,

Under the snow.

Yes, their velvet cheeks were pressing
Close against the sunny fold,
That with its congealed caressing,
Sheltered them from fiercer cold;

Like some friend, whose kind direction
Banisheth woe,

From the hearts which seek protection
Under the snow.

We have looked on nature blighted,
Sighed for summer days swept past,

Like the mariner benighted

By the storm and tempest blast;

Passing onward, little knowing

That as we go,

Prisoners of sweet hope are growing

Under the snow.

Ah! how oft our woes we number
Wrongly judging in this world,
Friendship seems in gloom to slumber,
Truth's bright banner closely furl'd,
Till some sunbeam's calm revealing,
Sheddeth its glow,

On true hearts their love concealing,
Under the snow.

Are we not like summer flowers?
Youth and childhood pass away;
Leaves are falling from the bowers;
Care and toil make up the day.
Heavy rains and frost-winds teach us
Trouble to know.

Courage; God's warm breath can reach us

Under the snow.

Mourner, hast thou laid no treasures,

With the mould upon each breast? While the rough wind takes its pleasures, They are in a dreamless rest;

Cease those swoll'n eyes from weeping,

Buried so low,

God will keep His darling sleeping

Under the snow.

Farewell Spring's first violet,

Thy sweet work of love is o'er ;

In the angels' alphabet,

Thou hast spoken of that shore
Where the quenchless sun burns stronger,
Life in its glow;

Flowers bloom, but bloom no longer,
Under the snow.

FESTIVAL OF ST. JOHN THE BAPTIST.

"The fire shall ever be burning; it shall never go out."—Bible.

HOUSANDS of hearts to day

Will interchange the grasp of Friendship's
hand,

Will round Love's altar celebrate their vows,
The Altar whose bright fire ne'er burns out,
The Altar at whose shrine the weary bows,
And rises nerved for strife,