LOUIS PHILIPPE AT THE HOSPITIUM, ST. GOTHARD.

Wrestling for life, and smiling as in scorn

At all the tempests mid the glaciers born;
They reach'd the portal, as the deaf'ning clang
Of midnight-thunders o'er St. Gothard's rang;
The wild wind rose and howl'd; the pine lay low,
Shiver'd and snapt, o'er desert fields of snow,
And arrowy lightnings gleam'd:-Ah! could it be
That at such fearful hour, while, reigning free,
The Spirit of the storm swept earth and sky,
Man to his fellow-man could aid deny!
Yet so it was; the royal wanderer turn'd

To seek a humbler home, where haply burn'd,
Cheering and bright, the flame of Christian love;
And He who dwelleth in the heaven above,
Who numbereth the wild birds ere they fly,
And feeds the hungry ravens when they cry,
He found the weary ones a place of rest,
Their lowly couch with slumbers calm He blest,
And led them on their wandering exile-way,
When morning's glories broke, and many a ray,
Glowing like ruby, tinged the mountains high,
Tinting their snow-clad peaks with rosy dye.
Then, royal exile, learn to trust that God,
Who, with a Father's eye, from his abode

In brighter worlds, gazes in mercy down.

On earth's poor children, while, 'neath human frown,
Or scorn and bitterness, they sadly bow,

And mourn their lone, deserted path below.

When the night-shades are thickest, lo! the dawn

Reddens the east; and soft the breaking morn

Shines out. When o'er the slumbering, ice-bound earth,

The chillest, keenest, wintry winds have birth,
Smile forth with trembling spring's first timid flowers,
Bright heralds of the blooms of summer hours.
So, on life's dreariest, most hopeless day,
Sunshine may rise, and melt the clouds away.
Then, stricken exiles! leave your cold despair,
Yet may the rainbow gleam, the skies be fair!
And if on earth your sun shall rise no more,
Eternal light beams from the heavenly shore.

83

THE YOUNG PRINCESS.

BRIGHT babe, I look on thee,

A laughing, happy child,
Singing thy songs in merry glee,

Like wood-birds' warbling wild :
Shelter'd within affection's bowers,
And rear'd amid life's fairest flowers.

Sweet buds of richest bloom

Are scatter'd round thee now,
Thy heart is light; no care or gloom

Hath dash'd thy cup of joy.

Long may'st thou keep thy youth's soft glow,
The calmness of thine infant brow.

No load of earthly care

Weighs thy soft eyelids down;

No dreams hast thou or rev'ries fair

Of coronet or crown.

Thy sceptre is the tall, green rush

That grows where sparkling streamlets gush.

Thou hast thy diadem,

Pressing thy shining curls,

But not of costly gold or gem,

Or pale and gleamy pearls:

Thy wreath is woven of bright flowers,

Thy gems are drops of May-dew showers.

When childhood's years are past,

How beauteous thou wilt be!
How rich the spell around thee cast,

How high thy destiny!

Earth's great ones thou wilt dwell among,

The theme of many a flattering tongue.