THE HUGUENOT'S FAREWELL.

I STAND upon the threshold stone

Of mine ancestral hall;

I hear my native river moan;

I see the night o'er my old forests fall.

I look round on the darkening vale
That saw my childhood's plays:

The low wind in its rising wail

Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days.

But I must rule my swelling breast:

A sign is in the sky;

Bright o'er yon grey rock's eagle nest

Shines forth a warning star-it bids me fly.

My father's sword is in my hand,

His deep voice haunts mine ear;

He tells me of the noble band

Whose lives have left a brooding glory here.

He bids their offspring guard from stain

Their pure and lofty faith;

And yield up all things, to maintain

The cause for which they girt themselves to death.

And I obey.-I leave their towers

Unto the stranger's tread;

Unto the creeping grass and flowers;

Unto the fading pictures of the dead.

Their banners to the dust;

I go, and only bear away

Their old majestic name a solemn trust!

I go up to the ancient hills,

Where chains may never be,

Where leap in joy the torrent rills,

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Where man may worship God, alone and free.

There shall an altar and a camp

Impregnably arise;

There shall be lit a quenchless lamp,

To shine, unwavering, through the open skies.

And song shall 'midst the rocks be heard,
And fearless prayer ascend;

While, thrilling to God's holy word,

The mountain pines in adoration bend.

And there the burning heart no more
Its deep thought shall suppress,
But the long-buried truth shall pour

Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness.

Then fare thee well, my mother's bower,
Farewell, my father's hearth;

Perish my home! where lawless power
Hath rent the tie of love to native earth.

Perish! let deathlike silence fall
Upon the lone abode :

Spread fast, dark ivy, spread thy pall;-
I go up to the mountains with my God.

THE ENGLISH BOY.

"Go, call thy sons; instruct them what a debt
They owe their ancestors; and make them swear
To pay it, by transmitting down entire

Those sacred rights to which themselves were born."

Look from the ancient mountains down,
My noble English boy!

Thy country's fields around thee gleam
In sunlight and in joy.

Ages have roll'd since foeman's march
Pass'd o'er that old firm sod;
For well the land hath fealty held
To freedom and to God!

Gaze proudly on, my English boy!
And let thy kindling mind
Drink in the spirit of high thought
From every chainless wind!

There, in the shadow of old Time,
The halls beneath thee lie,
Which pour'd forth to the fields of yore
Our England's chivalry.

How bravely and how solemnly
They stand, 'midst oak and yew!
Whence Cressy's yeomen haply framed
The bow, in battle true.

AKENSIDE.

THE ENGLISH BOY.

And round their walls the good swords hang
Whose faith knew no alloy,

And shields of knighthood, pure from stain-
Gaze on, my English boy!

Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church
Gleams by the antique elm,

Or where the minster lifts the cross
High through the air's blue realm.

Martyrs have shower'd their free hearts' blood
That England's prayer might rise,
From those grey fanes of thoughtful years,
Unfetter'd, to the skies.

Along their aisles, beneath their trees,
This earth's most glorious dust,
Once fired with valour, wisdom, song,
Is laid in holy trust.

Gaze on-gaze farther, farther yet-
My gallant English boy!

Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag,

The billows' pride and joy!

Those waves in many a fight have closed

Above her faithful dead;

That red-cross flag victoriously

Hath floated o'er their bed.

They perish'd-this green turf to keep
By hostile tread unstain'd;
These knightly halls inviolate,

Those churches unprofaned.

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And high and clear, their memory's light

Along our shore is set,

And many an answering beacon-fire
Shall there be kindled yet!

Lift up thy heart, my English boy!
And pray, like them to stand,
Should God so summon thee to guard
The altars of the land.

ANTIQUE GREEK LAMENT.

By the blue waters-the restless ocean waters,
Restless as they with their many-flashing surges,
Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

I pine for thee through all the joyless day
Through the long night I pine: the golden sun
Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the Spring
Seems but to weep. Where art thou, my beloved?
Night after night, in fond hope vigilant,

By the old temple on the breezy cliff,

These hands have heap'd the watch-fire, till it stream'd
Red o'er the shining columns-darkly red—
Along the crested billows!-but in vain;

Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles-
Yet thou wert faithful ever. Oh! the deep
Hath shut above thy head-that graceful head;
The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks;
The white sail never will bring back the loved!