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"Father! I'm going home!

To the good home you speak of, that blest land

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Morning spread over earth her rosy wingsWhere it is one bright summer always, and And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory Storms do not come.

I must be happy then:

From pain and death you say I shall be free

That sickness never enters there, and we Shall meet again!"

" Brother! the little spot

I used to call my garden, where long hours

pale,

Lay on his couch asleep! The gentle air Came through the open window, freighted

with

The savoury odours of the early springHe breathed it not! The laugh of passers by

Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune, But marred not his slumbers-He was dead! ANON.

DEAD on the battle field
Lies one in silence sealed,
Grasping his lance and shield
Tightly around:

True to his lord and trust,
Crouched in the gory dust,
Licking the armour rust,

See the brave hound. Vultures, with instinct rare, Sail through the tainted air, Shrieking with lust, to tear

Open the wound:

THE HOUND.

Still a safe watch he keeps,
E'en while his spirit weeps-
Guarding the slaughtered heaps,
Stands the bold hound.
When thrice the moonbeams rise,
Glazed are his loving eyes;

Down, down he sinks, and dies,

Prone on the ground.

Eager for reeking food,
Swoop down the cursed brood,
Rending with talons rude,

Master and hound.

ANON.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

THE stately homes of England!

How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam;

And the swan glides by them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths, by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!

The cottage homes of England!

By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep. Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath the eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!

Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared, To guard each hallowed wall! And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God! MRS. HEMANS.

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR?

THY neighbour? It is he whom thou

Hast power to aid and bless;
Whose aching heart and burning brow

Thy soothing hand may press.

Thy neighbour? 'Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim;
Whom hunger sends from door to door;-
Go thou and succour him.

Thy neighbour? "Tis that weary man,
Whose years are at their brim,
Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain;-
Go thou and succour him.
Thy neighbour? "Tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem;

Widow and orphan, helpless left;-
Go thou and shelter them.
Thy neighbour? Yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave;→
Go thou and ransom him.

Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favoured than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm,

Thy brother, or thy son.

Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by;
Perhaps thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery;-
Go share thy lot with him.

ANON.

A MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE.

WHAT can a mother's heart repay,

In after years,
For watchful night and weary day
Beside the cradle passed away,
And anxious tears?-

To see her dear one tread the earth
In life and health, and childish mirth.

What can a mother's heart repay

For later care,

For counsel against passion's sway,
And earnest prayer?-
To watch her little pilgrims press
Along the road to holiness.
This will a mother's heart repay,
If that loved band,

Amidst life's doubtful battle-fray, By grace sustained, shall often say, "Next to God's hand,

For words that heavenward point the All of true happiness we know,

way,

Mother, to thy dear self we owe."
REV. W. CALVERT

FIDELITY.

A BARKING Sound the shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;

He halts, and searches with his eye
Among the scattered rocks:

And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.
The dog is not of mountain breed;
Its motions, too, are wild and shy;
With something, as the shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry:

Nor is there any one in sight

All round, in hollow or on height;
Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear-
What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn below;

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,

Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land;
From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The crags repeat the raven's croak,
In symphony austere :

Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud
And mists that spread the flying shroud,
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,
That if it could would hurry past--
But that enormous barrier holds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while
The shepherd stood; then makes his way
O'er rocks and stones, following the dog
As quickly as he may;

Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground!
The appalled discoverer with a sigh
Looks round to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fallen-that place of fear!
At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear:

He instantly recalled the name,
And who he was, and whence he came:
Remembered, too, the very day
On which the traveller passed that way.

But here a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell;-

A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well:

The dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,

This dog had been, through three months' space,

A dweller in that savage place!

Yes, proof was plain that since the day
When this ill-fated traveller died,
The dog had watched about the spot,
Or by his master's side:

How nourished there through that long time
He knows who gave that love sublime;
And gave that strength of feeling great,
Above all human estimate.

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ALL night the booming minute-gun

Had pealed along the deep, And mournfully the rising sun

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. A bark, from India's coral strand, Before the rushing blast,

THE WRECK.

Had veiled her top-sails to the sand,
And bowed her noble mast.

And near him, on the sea-weed, lay
Till then we had not wept,

But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept!

For her pale arms a babe had pressed
With such a wreathing grasp,

Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp!

The queenly ship! brave hearts had striven, Her very tresses had been flung
And true ones died with her!

We saw her mighty cable riven

Like floating gossamer:

We saw her proud flag struck that morn,
A star once o'er the seas,

Her helm beat down, her deck uptorn-
And sadder things than these.

We saw her treasures cast away

The rocks with pearl were sown; And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray

Flashed out o'er fretted stone;

And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze;

And gorgeous robes-but, oh! that shore
Had sadder sights than these!

We saw the strong man, still and low,
A crushed reed thrown aside !
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died!

To wrap the fair child's form,

Where still their wet, long streamers clung,
All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene,
Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
Like slumber, trustingly serene,

In melancholy grace.

Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye;
He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony !

Oh, human love! whose yearning heart,
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part

Its passionate adieu!

Surely thou hast another lot,
There is some home for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not
The moaning of the sea!

MRS. HEMANS.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee;—
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid-
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed
Above the noble slain;

He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth--
Alas for love! if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, O Earth!

MRS. HEMANS.

THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT.

OUTSTRETCHED beneath the leafy shade Of Windsor Forest's deepest glade

A dying woman lay;

Three little children round her stood,
And there went up from the greenwood
A woful wail that day.

O mother!" was the mingled cry, "O mother, mother! do not die

And leave us all alone."— "My blessed babes!" she tried to say, But the faint accents died away

In a low sobbing moan.

And then life struggled hard with death,
And fast and strong she drew her breath,
And up she raised her head;
And peering through the deep wood maze
With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,
Will he not come?" she said.

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'I will go with you, child,' he said;
'God sends me to this dying bed.'
Mother, he's here, hard by.
While thus the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye.

The bridle on his neck flung free,
With quivering flank and trembling knee,
Pressed close his bonny bay;

A statelier man, a statelier steed,
Never on greensward paced, I rede,

Than those stood there that day.

So, while the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,

Looked on with glistening eye
And folded arms; and in his look
Something that, like a sermon book,
Preached "All is Vanity."

But when the dying woman's face Turned toward him with a wishful gaze, He stepped to where she lay; And kneeling down, bent over her, Saying, "I am a minister

My sister, let us pray."

And well, withouten book or stole,
(God's words were printed on his soul)
Into the dying ear

He breathed, as 'twere an angel's strain,
The things that unto life pertain,

And death's dark shadows clear.

He spoke of sinners' lost estate,
In Christ renewed-regenerate;
Of God's most blest decree,
That not a single soul should die
Which turns repentant with the cry,
"Be merciful to me."

He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, Endured but for a little while

In patience, faith, and loveSure, in God's own good time, to be Exchanged for an eternity Of happiness above.

Then as the spirit ebbed away---
He raised his hands and eyes, to pray
That peaceful it might pass;
And then-the orphans' sobs alone
Were heard as they knelt every one

Close round on the green grass.

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