HOME.

I FORAGED all over this joy-dotted earth,

To pick its best nosegay of innocent mirth
Tied up with the bands of its wisdom and worth,-
And lo! its chief treasure,

Its innermost pleasure,

Was always at Home!

I went to the Palace, and there my fair Queen
On the arm of Her Husband did lovingly lean,
And all the dear babes in their beauty were seen,
In spite of the splendom,

So happy and tender,

For they were at Home!

I call'd on the Lady of Bountiful Hall,

And there she was feasting the great and the small,
Encircled by flowers and children and all,

From Fashion unbending

And gently descending

To greet them at Home!

I turn'd to the cottage, and there my poor hind
Lay sick of a fever,-all meekly resign'd,

For oh! the good wife was so cheerful and kind,

I ask'd a glad mother, just come from the post With a letter she kiss'd from a far-away coast, What heart-thrilling news had rejoiced her the most— And-gladness for mourning!

Her boy was returning

To love her at Home!

I spoke to the soldiers and sailors at sea,
Where best in the world would they all of them be?
And hark! how they earnestly shouted to me,
With iron hearts throbbing,

And choking and sobbing,

-Oh land us at Home!

I came to the desk where old Commerce grew gray,
And ask'd him what help'd him this many a day
In his old smoky room with his ledger to stay?
And it all was the beauty,

The comfort and duty,

That cheer'd him at Home!

I ran to the court, where the

sages of law

Were wrangling and jangling at quibble and flaw,-
Oh wondrous to me was the strife that I saw,-
But all that fierce riot

Was calm'd by the quiet

That blest them at Home!

I call'd on the school-boy, poor love-stricken lad,
Who yearn'd in his loneliness, silent and sad,

For the days when again he should laugh and be glad With his father and mother,

And sister and brother,

All happy at Home!

I tapp'd at the door of the year-stricken Eld,
Where age, as I thought, had old memories quell'd,—
But still all his garrulous fancies outwell'd

Strange old-fashion'd stories

Of pleasures and glories

That once were at Home!

[child,

I whisper'd the prodigal, wanton and wild,
-How changed from the heart that you had when a
So teachable, noble, and modest, and mild!—
Though Sin had undone him,

Thank GOD that I won him,

By looking at Home!

And then, when he wept and he vow'd better life,
I hasten'd to snatch him from peril and strife,
By finding him wisely a tender young Wife,-
Whose love should allure him,

And gently secure him

A convert at Home!

So he that had raced after pleasure so fast,
And still as he ran had its goal overpast,
Found happiness, honour, and blessing at last
In all the kind dealings,
Affections and feelings,

That ripen at Home!

CHILDREN.

13

CHILDREN.

HARMLESS, happy little treasures,
Full of truth, and trust, and mirth,
Richest wealth and purest pleasures

In this mean and guilty earth,

How I love you, pretty creatures,
Lamb-like flock of little things,
Where the love that lights your features
From the heart in beauty springs!

On these laughing rosy faces

There are no deep lines of sin,
None of passion's dreary traces
That betray the wounds within;

But your's is the sunny dimple
Radiant with untutor'd smiles,
Your's the heart, sincere and simple,
Innocent of selfish wiles;

Your's the natural curling tresses,
Prattling tongues and shyness coy,

Tottering steps, and kind caresses,

Pure with health, and warm with joy!

These dull slaves of gain, or passion
Cannot love you as they should;
Those poor worldly fools of fashion
Would not love you if they could:

Write them childless, as cold-hearted,
Who can scorn thy generous boon,
And whose souls with fear have smarted,
Lest-Thy blessings come too soon!

While he hath a child to love him
No man can be poor indeed,
While he trusts a Friend above him,
None can sorrow, fear, or need:

But for thee, whose hearth is lonely
And unwarm'd by children's mirth,
Spite of riches, thou art only
Desolate and poor on earth:

All unkiss'd by innocent beauty,
All unloved by guileless heart,
All uncheer'd by sweetest duty,—

Childless one, how

poor thou art!

THE BRIDE'S VEIL (PSALM xlv. 15).

RAIMENT of needle-work,-that is the dress
For the bride of The LORD our righteousness;
Delicate lace on a vesture of gold,

Richest in pattern, and rare to behold:

Raiment of needle-work, tenderly wrought,

Such is her robe, when the bride shall be brought;

Such her fair veil that, flower by flower,

Grew o'er her loveliness hour by hour.