Oh the fireside's peace we well may prize!

For blood hath flow'd like rain,

Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries

Of England's homes again.

Heap the yule-fagots high,

Till the red light fills the room!

It is home's own hour when the stormy sky

Grows thick with evening-gloom,
Gather ye round the holy hearth,
And by its gladdening blaze,

Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,
With a thought of the olden days!

THE CALL TO BATTLE.

"Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs,
Which ne'er might be repeated."

BYRON.

THE Vesper-bell, from church and tower,
Had sent its dying sound;

And the household, in the hush of eve,

Were met, their porch around.

A voice rang through the olive-wood, with a sudden trumpet's power

"We rise on all our hills! come forth! 'tis thy country's gathering hour—

There's a gleam of spears by every stream, in each old battle-dell—

Come forth, young Juan! bid thy home a brief and proud farewell!"

Then the father gave his son the sword,
Which a hundred fights had seen—
"Away! and bear it back, my boy!
All that it still hath been!

"Haste, haste! the hunters of the foe are up, and who shall stand

The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land?

Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the clarion's blast,

With the flying footsteps of the Moor in stormy ages past."

Then the mother kiss'd her son with tears

That o'er his dark locks fell:

"I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er,

Yet I stay thee not-Farewell!"

"One moment! but one moment give to parting thought or word!

It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's heart is stirred.

Bear but the memory of thy love about thee in the

fight,

To breathe. upon th' avenging sword a spell of keener might.

And a maiden's fond adieu was heard,
Though deep, yet brief and low:
"In the vigil, in the conflict, love!

My prayer shall with thee go!"

"Come forth! come as the torrent comes when the winter's chain is burst!

So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and silence nursed

The night is past, the silence o'er-on all our hills we rise

We wait thee, youth! sleep, dream no more! the voice of battle cries."

There were sad hearts in a darken'd home,
When the brave had left their bower;

But the strength of prayer and sacrifice
Was with them in that hour.

SONGS FOR SUMMER HOURS.*

I. AND I TOO IN ARCADIA.

[A celebrated picture of Poussin represents a band of shepherd youths and maidens suddenly checked in their wanderings, and affected with various emotions, by the sight of a tomb which bears this inscription"Et in Arcadia ego."]

THEY have wander'd in their glee
With the butterfly and bee;

They have climb'd o'er heathery swells,
They have wound through forest dells;
Mountain moss hath felt their tread,
Woodland streams their way have led;
Flowers, in deepest shadowy nooks,
Nurslings of the loneliest brooks,
Unto them have yielded up
Fragrant bell and starry cup:
Chaplets are on every brow-

What hath staid the wand'rers now?

* Of these songs, the ones entitled, "Ye are not missed, fair Flowers," the "Willow Song," "Leave me not yet," and the "Orange Bough," are in the possession of Mr Willis, by whom they will be published with music.

Lo! a grey and rustic tomb,

Bower'd amidst the rich wood gloom;

Whence these words their stricken spirits melt, "I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

There is many a summer sound

That pale sepulchre around;

Through the shade young birds are glancing,

Insect-wings in sun-streaks dancing;

Glimpses of blue festal skies

Pouring in when soft winds rise;

Violets o'er the turf below

Shedding out their warmest glow;
Yet a spirit not its own

O'er the greenwood now is thrown!
Something of an under-note

Through its music seems to float,
Something of a stillness grey
Creeps across the laughing day:

Something, dimly from those old words felt, "I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt."

Was some gentle kindred maid
In that grave with dirges laid?
Some fair creature, with the tone
Of whose voice a joy is gone,
Leaving melody and mirth
Poorer on this alter'd earth?
Is it thus? that so they stand,
Dropping flowers from every hand?
Flowers, and lyres, and gather'd store
Of red wild-fruit prized no more?