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THOUGHTS OF HOME. How my heart is ever turning
To my distant birthplace fair!
Smileth so rare !
Oft, our cottage fire beside,
In her heart's pride,
With tender prayer ?
Hanging o'er the river Dore ?
The Moorish tower,
Did waken day ?
Where the swallow skimmeth low !
That soft airs bow ?
Lovéd its calm breast!
Friend of all my early hours,
Playing with flowers,
Our two hearts beat!
And my dearly loved Hélène ;
Bringing strange pain.
THE CHILD'S VISION.
What fills me with delight ?
So sweetly through the night?”
Oh, sleep thou softly on!
Thou poor sick maiden, none!”
That fills me with delight;
O mother dear, good night!”.
TO A CHILD, AFTER AN INTERVAL OF
With thy merry eyes and blue;
Oft its curtains peeping through
Thou wert wont to give me then;
When 'twas time for bed again!
With thy query oft repeated ;
Or beneath my table seated ;Or, when tired and overheated
With a summer day's delight,
Sleep hath overpower'd thee quite !
When the light of day grows palc;
And the murder'd babes bewail ;
Yet so greedy of thy pain,
I must needs begin again!
In the haunts that late were thine;
And thy clasping fingers twine;
Silent relics of thy play-
Thou wouldst wash the live-long day !
Thy bird-organ sounds are o'er,
Wanting some a leg or more;
All are stabled 'neath thy bed ;
Memories sweet of him that's fled.
Blithe cricket of my hearth!
For thy chirping voice of mirth;
Chill my heart or dim my eye,
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.
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