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• We have been thy playmates through many a day,
Wherefore thus leave us ? oh! yet delay !

“ Listen but once to the sound of our mirth!
For thee'tis a melody passing from earth,
Never again wilt thou find in its flow,

peace it could once on thy heart bestow.
“ Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee,
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free;
Passion and sorrow its depth will have stirred,
And the singing of waters be vainly heard.
“ Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part;
What should it do for a burning heart ?
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill,
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still.
“ Farewell! when thou comest again to thine own,
Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone;
Mournfully true is the tale we tell;
Yet on, fiery dreamer! farewell ! farewell !"
And a something of gloom on his spirit weighed,
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade;
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke,
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke.




“ Hast thou come with the heart of thy childhood back:

The free, the pure, the kind ?"
So murmured the trees in my homeward track

As they played to the mountain-wind. “ Hath thy sou) been true to its early love ?"

Whispered my native streams; “ Hath thy spirit, nursed amid hill and grove,

Still revered its first high dreams ?" “ Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer

Of the child in his parent halls?”' Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air,

From the old ancestral walls.

“ Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead

Whose place of rest is nigh?
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed,

With the mother's trusting eye ?"
Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain,

As I answered, " Oh ye shades ! I bring not my childhood's heart again

To the freedom of your glades. " I have turned from my first, pure love aside,

O bright and happy streams ! Light after light, in my soul have died

The day-spring's glorious dreams. “ And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath passed.


prayer my mother's knee; Darkened and troubled, I come at last,

Home of my boyish glee!
“ But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears,

To soften and atone;
And oh, ye scenes of those blessed years !
They shall make me again your own."





We'll miss her at the morning hour,
When leaves and eyes

When sunshine calls the dewy flower

To waken from repose ;
For, like the singing of a bird,

When first the sunbeams fall,
The gladness of her voice was heard

The earliest of us all.

We'll miss her at the evening time,

For then her voice and lute
Best loved to sing some sweet old rhyme,

When other sounds were mute.
Twined round the ancient window-seat,

While she was singing there,

The jasmin from outside would meet,

And wreathe her fragrant hair.
We'll miss her when we gather round

Our blazing hearth at night,
When ancient memories abound,

Or hopes where all unite,
And pleasant talk of years to come,

Those years our fancies frame.
Ah! she has now another home,

And bears another name.
Her heart is not with our old hall,

Nor with the things of yore;
And yet, methinks she must recall

What was so dear before.
She wept to leave the fond roof where

She had been loved so long,
Though glad the peal upon the air,

And gay the bridal throng.
Yes, memory has honey cells,

And some of them are ours;
For in the sweetest of them dwells

The dream of early hours.
The hearth, the hall, the window-seat,

Will bring us to her mind ;
In yon wide world she cannot meet

All that she left behind.
Loving, and loved, her own sweet will

It was, that made her fate;
She has a fairy home; but still

Our own seems desolate.

may not wish her back again,
Not for her own dear sake;
Oh, love! to form one happy chain,

How many thou must break! L.E. LANDOY.



I CAME,—but she was gone.

In her fair home, There lay her lute, just as she touched it last,

At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups
Filled with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat
Lay the still open work-box, and that book
Which last she read, its penciled margin marked
By an ill-quoted passage, traced, perchance,
With hand unconscious, while her lover spake
That dialect, which brings forgetfulness
Of all beside. It was the cherished home,
Where from her childhood she had been the star
Of hope and joy.

I came,-and she was gone.
Yet I had seen her from the altar led,
With silvery vail but slightly swept aside,
The fresh, young rose-bud deepening in her cheek,
And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought
Of one who gives a priceless gift away.
And there was silence’mid the gathered throng.
The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw
Their breath suppressed, see the mother's lip
Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire
Shrink as with smothered sorrow, when he gave
His darling to an untried guardianship,
And to a far off clime.

Haply his thought Traversed the grass-grown prairies, and the shore Of the cold lakes; or those o’erhanging cliffs And pathless mountain tops, that rose to bar Her log-reared mansion from the anxious eye Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt How strong and beautiful is woman's love, That, taking in its hand its thornless joys, The tenderest melodies of tuneful years, Yea! and its own life also, lays them all, Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast, Reserving naught, save that unspoken hope Which hath its root in God.

Mock not with mirth A scene like this, ye laughter-loving ones ! The licensed jester's lip, the dancer's heel, What do they here ?

Joy, serious and sublime, Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer, Should swell the bosom, when a maiden's hand,

Filled with life's dewy flow'rets, girdeth on
That harness, which the ministry of Death
Alone unlooseth, but whose fearful power
May stamp the sentence of Eternity. MRS. SIGOURNEY.

Why do I weep ?–To leave the vine

Whose clusters o'er me bend;
The myrtle, yet, oh! call it mine!

The flowers I loved to tend.
A thousand thoughts of all things dear,

Like shadows o'er me sweep;
I leave my sunny childhood here ;

Oh, therefore let me weep!
I leave thee, sister! We have played

Through many a joyous hour,
Where the silvery green of the olive shade

Hung dim o'er fount and bower.
Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore,
In song,


prayer, in sleep,
Have been, as we may be no more ;

Kind sister, let me weep!

I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon

Must now light other feet,
With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune,

Thy homeward step to greet.
Thou, in whose voice, to bless thy child

Lay tones of love so deep,

eye o'er all my youth hath smiled ;
I leave thee! let me weep!
Mother! I leave thee! On thy breast,

Pouring out joy and woe,
I have found that holy place of rest

Still changeless-yet I go!
Lips, that have lulled me with your strain,

Eyes, that have watched my sleep !
Will earth give love like yours again?
Sweet mother! let me weep!


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