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THOUGHTS OF HOME. How my heart is ever turning

To my distant birthplace fair!
Sister, in our France, the morning

Smileth so rare !
Home! my love is on thy shore

For evermore!
Dost remember how our mother

Oft, our cottage fire beside,
Bless’d the maiden and her brother,

In her heart's pride,
And they smooth'd her silver bair

With tender prayer ?
Dost remember still the palace

Hanging o'er the river Dore ?
And tbat giant of the valleys,

The Moorish tower,
Where the bell, at dawning gray,

Did waken day ?
And the lake, with trees that hide it,

Where the swallow skimmeth low !
And the slender reeds beside it,

That soft airs bow ?
How the sunshine of the west

Lovéd its calm breast!
And Hélène, that one belovéd

Friend of all my early hours,
How through greenwood we two roved,

Playing with flowers,
Listening at the old oak's feet,

Our two hearts beat!
Give me back my oaks and meadows,

And my dearly loved Hélène ;
One and all are now but shadows,

Bringing strange pain.
Home! my love is on thy shore
For evermore!

Chateaubriand.

THE CHILD'S VISION.
“ WHAT sounds so sweet awake me ?

What fills me with delight ?
O mother, look! who sings thus

So sweetly through the night?”
“I hear not, child, I see not;

Oh, sleep thou softly on!
Comes now to serenade thee,

Thou poor sick maiden, none!”
“It is not earthly music

That fills me with delight;
I hear the angels call me:

O mother dear, good night!”.

Uhland

TO A CHILD, AFTER AN INTERVAL OF

ABSENCE.
I miss thee from my side,

With thy merry eyes and blue;
From thy crib, at morning tide,

Oft its curtains peeping through
In the kisses, not a few,

Thou wert wont to give me then;
In the sleepy, sad adieu,

When 'twas time for bed again!
I miss thee from my side,

With thy query oft repeated ;
On thy rocking-horse astride,

Or beneath my table seated ;Or, when tired and overheated

With a summer day's delight,
Many a childish aim defeated,

Sleep hath overpower'd thee quite !
I miss thee from my side,

When the light of day grows palc;
When, with eyelids opened wide,
· Thou wouldst list the oft-told tale,

And the murder'd babes bewail ;

Yet so greedy of thy pain,
That when all my lore would fail,

I must needs begin again!
I miss thee from my side,

In the haunts that late were thine;
Where thy twinkling feet would glide,

And thy clasping fingers twine;
Here are chequer'd tumblers nine-

Silent relics of thy play-
Here the mimic tea-things shine,

Thou wouldst wash the live-long day !
Thy drum hangs on the wall;

Thy bird-organ sounds are o'er,
Dogs and horses, great and small,

Wanting some a leg or more;
Cows and sheep-a motley store-

All are stabled 'neath thy bed ;
And not one but can restore

Memories sweet of him that's fled.
I miss thee from my side,

Blithe cricket of my hearth!
Oft in secret have I sigli'd

For thy chirping voice of mirth;
When the low-bred cares of earth

Chill my heart or dim my eye,
Grief is stifled in its birth
If my little prattler's nigh!

A. A. Watts.

SONG OF THE IRISH PEASANT'S WIFE. COME, Patrick, clear up the storms on your brow; You were kind to me once-will you frown on me now; Shall the storm settle here when from heaven it departs, And the cold from without finds its way to our hearts P No, Patrick, no! sure the wintriest weather Is easily borne when we bear it together.

Though the rain's dròpping through, from the roof to

the floor, And the wind whistles free where there once was a

door, Can the rain or the snow, or the storm wash away All the warm vows we made in our love's early day? No, Patrick, no! sure the dark stormy weather

Is easily borne if we bear it together. Soon, soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by, And our hearts be lit up with a beam from the sky! Ob, let not our spirits, embitter'd with pain, Be dead to the sunshine that came to us then! Heart in heart, hand in hand, let us welcome the

weather, And sunshine or storm, we will bear it together.

Hon. Mrs. Norton.

MEMORY.
Oh, come! thou sadly pleasing power-
Companion of the twilight hour
Come, with thy sable garments flowing,
Thy tearful smile, all brightly glowing-
Come, with thy light and noiseless tread
As one belonging to the dead !
Come, with thy bright, yet pensive eye,
Grant me thine aid, sweet Memory!
She comes, and pictures all again,
The wood-fringed lake—the rugged plain-
The mountain flower-the valley's smile,
And lovely Inisfallen's isle ;
The rushing waters roaring by,
Our ringing laugh-our raptured sigh-
The waveless sea—the varied shore
The dancing boat-the measured oar;
The lofty bugle's rousing cry,
The awaken'd mountain's deep reply.
Silence resuming then her reign,
In awful power o'er hill and plain :-
She paints, and her unclouded dyes
Can never fade in feeling's eyes.

G. Griffin.

TO A BOY FOUR YEARS OLD.

A NURSERY SONG. Au ! little ranting Johnny! For ever blithe and bonny, And singing “nonny, nonny,”. With hat just thrown upon ye; Or whistling like the thrushes With voice in silver gushes ; Or twisting random posies With daisies, weeds, and roses ; And strutting in and out so, Or dancing all about so, With cock-up nose so lightsome, And sidelong eyes so brightsome, And cheeks as ripe as apples, And head as rough as Dapple's, And mouth that smiles so truly, Heaven seems t' have made it newly, It breaks into such sweetness, With merry tipp'd completeness One cannot turn a minute, But mischief-there, you're in it! A getting at my books, John, With mighty bustling looks, John, Or poking at the roses, In midst of which your nose is; Or climbing on a table, No matter how unstable ; And turning up your quaint eye And balf-shut teeth, with “Mayn't I!” Or else you're off at play, John, Just as you'd be all day, John, With hat or not, as happens, And there you dance and clap hands, Or on the grass go rolling, Or plucking flowers, or bowling, And getting me expenses With losing balls o'er fences. Or,-as the constant trade is,Are fondled by the ladies

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