THE WARRIOR'S GRAVE. BY MRS. HEMANS. GREEN wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest! Rest bard! rest, soldier! By the father's hand, Here shall the child of after years be led, The oak waved proudly o'er thy burial-rite, Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying; Fame was thy gift from others but for her, Thou hast thine oak thy trophy, what hath she? Her own blessed place by thee! It was thy spirit, brother! which had made Woe, yet not long! She lingered but to trace The earth grew silent when thy voice departed, 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, Brother sweet sister! - peace around ye dwell! 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 |