d weaving silk,
were brought into England about the middle of the fifteenth century, and
were practised by a company of women in London, called silk women. About
1480, men began to engage in the silk manufacture, and in the year 1686,
nearly 50,000 manufacturers, of various descriptions, took refuge in
England, in consequence of the revocation of the Edict of Nantz, by
Louis le Grand, who sent thousands (says Pennant) of the most
industrious of his subjects into this kingdom to present his bitterest
enemies with the arts and manufactures of his kingdom; hence the origin
of the silk trade in Spittlefields.

P.T.W.

* * * * *

THE BIRD OF THE TOMB.

BY LEIGH CLIFFE.

(_For the Mirror_.)

In "Lyon's attempt to reach Repulse Bay," the following passage, which
suggested these verses, may be met with. "Near the large grave was a
third pile of stones, covering the body of a child. A Snow-Buntin (the
Red-Breast of the Arctic Regions) had found its way through the loose
stones which composed this little tomb, and its now forsaken, neatly
built nest, was found placed on the neck of the child."

Beneath the chilly Arctic clime,
Where Nature reigns severe, sublime,
Enthron'd upon eternal snows,
Or rides the waves on icy floes--
Where fierce tremendous tempests sweep
The bosom of the rolling deep,
And beating rain, and drifting hail
Swell the wild fury of the gale;
There is a little, humble tomb,
Not deckt with sculpture's pageant pride,
Nor labour'd verse to tell by whom
The habitant was lov'd who died!
No trophied 'scutcheon marks the grave--
No blazon'd banners round it wave--
'Tis but a simple pile of stones
Rais'd o'er a hapless infant's bones;
Perchance a mother's tears have dew'd
This sepulchre, so frail and rude;--
A father mourn'd in accents wild,
His offspring lost--his only child--
Who might, in after years, have spread
A ray of honour round his head,
Nor thought, as stone on stone he threw,
His child would meet a stranger's view.

But, lo! upon its clay-cold breast,
The Arctic Robin rais'd its nest,
And rear'd its little fluttering young,
Where Death in awful quiet slept,
And fearless chirp'd, and gaily sung
Around the babe its parents wept.
It was the guardian of the grave,
And thus its chirping seem'd to say:--
"Tho' naught from Death's chill grasp could save,
Tho' naught could c