A MOURNFUL RETURN.

How blest, oh, it is not a valley like this,
That, unaided, can realize visions of bliss;
For voices I listen, and then I look round
For light steps, that used to trip after the sound.

But, see, the green path-I remember it well,
'Tis the way to the church-hark! the toll of the bell;
How oft in my boyhood a truant I've strayed,
To yonder dark yew-tree, and slept in its shade.

But surely the pathway is narrower now,

No smooth space is left 'neath the dark yew-tree bough;
O'er tablets inscribed with sad records I tread,

And the home I have sought is the home of the dead.

And was it for this I've looked forward so long,

And shrunk from the sweetness of Italy's song?

And turned from the dance of the dark girls of Spain,
And wept for my country again and again?

And was it for this to my casement I crept,

To gaze on the deep, when they deemed that I slept?
To think of fond meetings, the welcome, the kiss,
The friendly hand's pressure-oh, was it for this?

When those who so long have been absent, return
To the home of their childhood, 'tis but to mourn ;
Wounds open afresh that time nearly had healed,
And the ills of a life at one glance are revealed.

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262

HOME HAPPINESS.

Speed, speed, my fleet vessel! the tempest may rave,
There's a calm for my heart in the dash of the wave ;
Speed, speed, my fleet vessel! the sails are unfurled,
Oh! ask me not whither-my home is the world!

ΑΝΟΝ.

HOME HAPPINESS.

ROM the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs ;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,

To spoil our heartfelt joys.

If solid happiness we prize,

Within our breast this jewel lies,

And they are fools who roam;

The world hath nothing to bestow,

From our own selves our bliss must flow,

And that dear place our home.

NATHANIEL COTTON.

ICH is the earth in streams;

O'er the green land unnumbered waters glide;
But brighter than the rest thy current gleams,
Egyptian tide!

Time throws no shadow on thy silver crown,
O river of renown!

Rich are the ancient shores,

Made fertile by thy flow, in piles that stand

To point how far the feeble spirit soars

Above the land: