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SARAH JOSEPHA HALE.*

THE LIGHT OF HOME.

Mr boy, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
And thy spirit will sigh to roam,
And thou must go;-but never when there
Forget the light of home.

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright,
It dazzles to lead astray;

Like the meteor's flash it will deepen the night,
When thou treadest the lonely way.

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,
And pure as the vestal fire;

"T will burn, 't will burn, forever the same,
For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest toss'd,

And thy hopes may vanish like foam,

But when sails are shiver'd and rudder lost,
Then look to the light of home.

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud,
Thou shalt see the beacon bright,

For never, till shining on thy shroud,
Can be quench'd its holy light.

The sun of fame, 't will gild the name,
But the heart ne'er feels its ray;

And fashion's smiles that rich ones claim,
Are like beams of a wintry day.

And how cold and dim those beams would be,
Should life's wretched wanderer come:
But my boy, when the world is dark to thee,
Then turn to the light of home.

Dear country! our thoughts are more constant to

thee

Than the steel to the star or the stream to the sea.
Then fill up the brimmer! the land is in sight,
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!
Fill high the brimmer!-the wine-sparkles rise
Like tears, from the fountain of joy, to the eyes!
May rain-drops that fall from the storm-clouds of

care,

Melt away in the sun-beaming smiles of the fair!
Drink deep to the chime of the nautical bells,
To woman,--Gon bless her, wherever she dwells!
Then fill high the brimmer! the land is in sight,
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!

SONG.

WHEN other friends are round thee,
And other hearts are thine;
When other bays have crown'd thee,
More fresh and green than mine,
Then think how sad and lonely
This doating heart will be,
Which, while it throbs, throbs only,
Beloved one, for thee!

Yet do not think I doubt thee;
I know thy truth remains.

I would not live without thee,
For all the world contains.
Thou art the star that guides me

Along life's troubled sea;
And whatever fate betides me,

This heart still turns to thee.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.t

LAND, HO!

FILL high the brimmer!—the land is in sight,
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night:
The cold, cheerless ocean in safety we've pass'd,
And the warm, genial earth glads our vision at last;

WOMAN.

Ан, woman!-in this world of ours,
What boon can be compared to thee?
How slow would drag life's weary hours,
Though man's proud brow were bound with flowers,
And his the wealth of land and sea,

If destined to exist alone,

And ne'er call woman's heart his own!

In the land of the stranger true hearts we shall find, My mother! at that holy name

To soothe us in absence of those left behind.
Then fill high the brimmer! the land is in sight,
We'll be happy, if never again, boys, to-night!
Fill high the brimmer!-till morn we'll remain,
Then part in the hope to meet one day again,
Round the hearth-stone of home, in the land of our
birth,

The holiest spot on the face of the earth!

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Within my bosom there's a gush
Of feeling which no time can tame.
A feeling, which for years of fame,
I would not, could not crush!
And, sisters! ye are dear as life,
But when I look upon my wife

My heart-blood gives a sudden rush,
And all my fond affections blend
In mother, sisters, wife, and friend!

Yes, woman's love is free from guile

And pure as bright Aurora's ray;
The heart will melt before her smile,
And base-born passions fade away!
Were I the monarch of the earth,

Or master of the swelling sea,
I would not estimate their worth,
half the price of thee.

Dear woman,

PROSPER M. WETMORE.

"TWELVE YEARS HAVE FLOWN."

TWELVE years have flown since last I saw
My birth-place, and my home of youth:
How oft its scenes would Memory draw,
Her tints the pencillings of truth;
Unto that spot I come once more,

The dearest life hath ever known:
And still it wears the look it wore,

Although twelve weary years have flown. Again upon the soil I stand

Where first my infant footsteps stray'd; Again I view my "father-land,"

And wander through its pleasant shade; I gaze upon the hills, the skies,

The verdant banks, with flowers o'ergrown, And while I look with glistening eyes,

Almost forget twelve years have flown.

Twelve years are flown! those words are brief,
Yet in their sound what fancies dwell!
The hours of bliss, the days of grief,

The joys and woes remember'd well;
The hopes that fill'd the youthful breast,
Alas! how many a one o'erthrown!
Deep thoughts, that long have been at rest,
Wake at the words, twelve years have flown!

The past! the past! a saddening thought,
A withering spell is in the sound!
It comes with memories deeply fraught
Of youthful pleasure's giddy round;
Of forms that roved life's sunniest bowers,
The cherish'd few, forever gone:
Of dreams that fill'd life's morning hours,
Where are they now? Twelve years have flown!

A brief but eloquent reply!

Where are youth's hopes--life's morning dream? Seek for the flowers that floated by

Upon the rushing mountain stream! Yet gems beneath that wave may sleep,

Till after years shall make them known: Thus, golden thoughts the heart will keep, That perish not, though years have flown.

THE BANNER OF MURAT.

FOREMOST among the first,

And bravest of the brave! Where'er the battle's fury burst,

Or roll'd its purple wave,-There flash'd his glance, like a meteor,

As he charged the foe afar; And the snowy plume his helmet bore Was the banner of Murat!

*PROSPER MONTGOMERY WETMORE was born at Stratford, in Connecticut, in 1799. In 1830, he published a volume entitled "Lexington, and other Fugitive Poems." He is now one of the regents of the university of New York, to whom are confided the various interests of education and literature in that state.

Mingler on many a field

Where rung wild victory's peal! That fearless spirit was like a shieldA panoply of steel;

For very joy in a glorious name

He rush'd where danger stood; And that banner-plume, like a winged flame, Stream'd o'er the field of blood!

His followers loved to gaze

On his form with a fierce delight,

As it tower'd above the battle's blaze,

A pillar midst the fight;

And eyes look'd up, ere they closed in death, Through the thick and sulphury air

And lips shriek'd out, with their parting breath, "The lily plume is there!"

A cloud is o'er him now-

For the peril-hour hath come

And he stands with his high, unshaded brow,
On the fearful spot of doom!
Away! no screen for a soldier's eye-

No fear his soul appals:

A rattling peal, and a shuddering cry,
And bannerless he falls!

MRS. LYDIA M. CHILD.*

MARIUS AMID THE RUINS OF CARTHAGE.

PILLARS are fallen at thy feet,

Fanes quiver in the air,

A prostrate city is thy seat,

And thou alone art there.

No change comes o'er thy noble brow,
Though ruin is around thee;
Thine eyebeam burns as proudly now,
As when the laurel crown'd thee.

It cannot bend thy lofty soul

Though friends and fame depart; The car of fate may o'er thee roll, Nor crush thy Roman heart.

And genius hath electric power,

Which earth can never tame; Bright suns may scorch, and dark clouds lower, Its flash is still the same.

The dreams we loved in early life,

May melt like mist away;

High thoughts may seem, mid passion's strife,
Like Carthage in decay;

And proud hopes in the human heart
May be to ruin hurl'd;

Like mouldering monuments of art
Heap'd on a sleeping world:

Yet, there is something will not die,
Where life hath once been fair;
Some towering thoughts still rear on high,
Some Roman lingers there!

Author of "Hobomok," "History of the Condition of Women," etc.

REVEREND WILLIAM B. TAPPAN.*

THE TWENTY THOUSAND CHILDREN OF THE SABBATH SCHOOLS IN NEW YORK, CELEBRATING TOGETHER THE 4TH OF JULY, 1839.

O, SIGHT Sublime! O, sight of fear!
The shadowing of infinity!
Numbers, whose murmur rises here

Like whisperings of the mighty sea!
Ye bring strange visions to my gaze;

Earth's dreamer, heaven before me swims; The sea of glass, the throne of days, Crowns, harps, and the melodious hymns. Ye rend the air with grateful songs

For freedom by old warriors won : O, for the battle which your throngs May wage and win through DAVID'S SON! Wealth of young beauty! that now blooms Before me like a world of flowers; High expectation! that assumes The hue of life's serenest hours; Are ye decaying? Must these forms, So agile, fair, and brightly gay, Hidden in dust, be given to worms

And everlasting night, the prey?

Are ye immortal? Will this mass

Of life, be life, undying still,
When all these sentient thousands pass

To where corruption works its will? Thought! that takes hold of heaven and hell, Be in each teacher's heart to-day!

So shall eternity be well

With these, when time has fled away.

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"LEAP forth to the careering seas," O, ship of lofty name!

And toss upon thy native breeze

The stars and stripes of fame!
And bear thy thunders o'er the deep
Where vaunting navies ride!
Thou hast a nation's gems to keep--
Her honour and her pride!
O! holy is the covenant made

With thee and us to-day;
None from the compact shrinks afraid,
No traitor utters nay!

We pledge our fervent love, and thou
Thy glorious ribs of oak,
Alive with men who cannot bow

To kings, nor kiss the yoke!

Speed lightnings o'er the Carib sea,

Which deeds of hell deform;

And look! her hands are spread to thee Where Afric's robbers swarm.

*The Reverend WILLIAM B. TAPPAN is a native of Beverly, in Massachusetts, and now resides in Boston. He is the author of eight or nine volumes of poems, most of which are of a religious character.

Go! lie upon the Ægean's breast,

Where sparkle emerald islesGo! seek the lawless Suliote's nest,

And spoil his cruel wiles.

And keep, where sail the merchant ships,
Stern watch on their highway,
And promptly, through thine iron lips,
When urged, our tribute pay;
Yea, show thy bristling teeth of power,
Wherever tyrants bind,

In pride of their own little hour,
A freeborn, noble mind.

Spread out those ample wings of thine!-
While crime doth govern men,

"Tis fit such bulwark of the brine

Should leave the shores of PENN;
For hid within thy giant strength

Are germs of welcome peace,
And such as thou, shall cause at length
Man's feverish strife to cease.
From every vale, from every crag,
Word of thy beauty's past,
And joy we that our country's flag
Streams from thy towering mast-
Assured that in thy prowess, thou
For her wilt win renown,

Whose sons can die, but know not how
To strike that pennon down.

JAMES NACK.*

SPRING IS COMING.

SPRING is coming, spring is coming,
Birds are chirping, insects humming;
Flowers are peeping from their sleeping,
Streams escaped from winter's keeping.
In delighted freedom rushing,
Dance along in music gushing,
Scenes of late in deadness sadden'd,
Smile in animation gladden'd;
All is beauty, all is mirth,
All is glory upon earth.

Shout we then with Nature's voice,
Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!
Spring is coming, come, my brother,
Let us rove with one another,
To our well-remember'd wild-wood,
Flourishing in nature's childhood;
Where a thousand flowers are springing,
And a thousand birds are singing;
Where the golden sunbeams quiver
On the verdure-girdled river;
Let our youth of feeling out,
To the youth of nature shout,
While the waves repeat our voice,
Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

*Mr. NACK is deaf and dumb, and has been so from his childhood; yet his poetical writings, in almost every variety of measure, are distinguished for more than common melody of versification. A volume of his poems, with a memoir by PROSPER M. WETMORE, was published in New York, in 1836.

REVEREND GEORGE B. CHEEVER.*

TO MY SICK AND SUFFERING BROTHER, ON HIS FIFTEENTH BIRTHDAY.

I WISH, dear N., my heart could weave
A strain of simple melody,

Where love in every line should leave

Its own dear tones for thee.

And, sooth, if love could teach the soul
The language of APOLLO's lyre,
My thoughts would all be musical,
My words all wing'd with fire.

The wish, I know, is sadly vain :

Thoughts rise, and fond affections throng, But with the sweetest, white-stoled train There comes no tone of song.

I would chain down the airy crowds,

And keep them while I seek sweet words; Alas! they change like summer-clouds,

They droop like prison'd birds.

How can I paint their changeful dyes,

Or stay them in their flight? They come like birds from Paradise, They fly away as light.

The simplest birthday wish is shy;

All Love's best thoughts, of the same race;
For, while I'm sure I have them nigh,
They 've fled, and left no trace.

Dear brother, thou wilt then forgive,
Nor think me less affectionate,
If, while to meet thy wish I strive,
It comes a day too late.

For, were my soul all melody,

My words the same they use in heaven,
This earnest heart could never be

More freely to thee given.
We're one; our mother's equal care;

One in our mutual sympathies,—
And, more than all, in mutual prayer,
By endless, holy ties.

I've rock'd thee in thy cradle,-play'd

With thee in childhood's frolic hours, With thee have roam'd through grove and glade, And pluck'd the vernal flowers.

We've shared old winter's wild delight,

We've gather'd nuts in summer-woods, We've proudly watch'd our breeze-borne kite Among the sailing clouds.

But not in such gay sympathy

Our mutual love has tenderest grown,For oft must grief's sad harmony

Interpret its deep tone.

When sickness blanch'd thy rosy cheek,

And brought thy buoyant spirit low, How dear thou wast from week to week, I trembled then to know.

* Author of "God's Hand in America," "Travels in the East," Editor of "Common-Place Book of American Poetry," etc.

Our youngest, brightest household flower!
It was a melancholy thing

To see thee droop from hour to hour,
In patient suffering.

O, then I felt the privilege

To breathe my silent, humble prayer;— We wept o'er pains whose wasting edge My frame could better bear.

I watch'd thy restless sleep,-I tried
To woo thee to thy wonted smile,
And every way, when by thy side,
Thy sufferings to beguile.

These duties were love's natural sphere:
Our drooping flower I cherish'd so,
That still the more it ask'd my care,
The dearer still it grew.

This day, did fancy paint what's true,
I'm with thee in our own dear home,
To talk of such scenes past, and view
The heavenly life to come.

This day 'tis yet thy being's dawn,

But, ah, how full the mingled scene,
On memory's pictured tablets drawn,
Calm now, and all serene:
Serene, because a blessed faith

Throws o'er each melancholy line
That marks affliction's rugged path,
The gleam of Love Divine.

Through all it sees thy Father's form,

His gracious, guiding hand beholds; And, in the gloomiest of the storm, Some bright design unfolds.

Amidst the sufferings of years

Thou seest thou didst not walk alone; Where all was agony and tears,

There most His mercy shone.

'Twas thus he drew thy careless heart
Up to a holier world above,
And bade thee choose that better part,
A Saviour's wondrous love.
There is a gayer-colour'd scene

Of laughing health, and dimpled ease,
Thy bounding heart, that knew no pain,
Was wild as any breeze.

The house was merry with thy song,

Thy fawn-like step danced free and wild; And of the happy schoolboy throng

Thou wast the happiest child. All elements to thee look'd gay,

All seasons minister'd delight;—
"T was constant motion every day,
'Twas gentle sleep at night.
How soon a cloud of dreary hue

Chased the bright jubilee away!
Yet, wast thou happier then than now?
Dear, patient brother, say.

I know thine answer well. In vain
Are youth, and health, and spirits given,

If, strangers still to care and pain,

We never think of Heaven.

What soothes the soul, betrays;-select
The best possessions earth can grant,
Our thankless heart may still reject
Its heavenly Visitant.

A life all ease is all abused ;

O, precious grace! that made thee wise
To know,-affliction, rightly used,
Is mercy in disguise.

The pleasures of the happiest boy
Are not so bright as fugitive;—
But, O! the endless, heavenly joy
Thy Saviour's smile can give!
For this my fervent thanks I raise,

That He, whose love is wisdom too,
Makes thee partaker of his grace,

By trials here below.

Should health and active power return,

And life put on a brighter glow, Be often at his cross, and learn His goodness best to show.

'Tis only He who gives the boon

By grace can make it truly good; And I would have thy life be one Of ceaseless gratitude.

In active health or sad disease,

O, ne'er forget that precious word-
"He shall be kept in perfect peace,
Whose soul is stay'd on God."
If still thy feeble frame decay,

Thou art beyond its weak control,-
The vision of eternal day

Lifts up thy strengthen'd soul. CHRIST holds thee in his powerful hand; Soon, every foe and fear subdued, Thy feet shall press the shining land, Beyond Death's narrow flood. Yet, if his blessed will reserve

Thy faith for trials long and late, Remember then, "they also serve, Who only stand and wait."

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Yet, mark me! When a few short years
Have hurried on their journey fleet,
Not one that now my accents hears
Will know me when we meet.

Though now, perhaps, with proud disdain,
The startling thought ye scarce will brook,
Yet, trust me, we'll be strangers then
In heart as well as look.

Fame's luring voice, and woman's wile,
Will soon break youthful friendship's chain—
But shall that cloud to-night's bright smile?
No-pour the wine again!

CATHERINE H. ESLING.*

BROTHER, COME HOME.

COME home!

Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep,
Would I could wing it like a bird to thee,
To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep
With these unwearying words of melody;
Brother, come home.

Come home!

Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes That beam in brightness but to gladden thine, Come where fond thoughts, like holiest incense rise, Where cherish'd memory rears her altar's shrine; Brother, come home.

Come home!

Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days,
Come to the ark, like the o'er-wearied dove,
Come with the sunlight of thy heart's warm rays,
Come to the fireside circle of thy love;
Brother, come home.

Come home!

It is not home without thee, the lone seat
Is still unclaim'd where thou wert wont to be,
In every echo of returning feet,

In vain we list for what should herald thee;
Brother, come home.

Come home!

We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring,
Watch'd every germ the full-blown flowers rear,
Seen o'er their bloom the chilly winter bring
Its icy garlands, and thou art not here;
Brother, come home.

Come home!

Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep,
Would I could wing it like a bird to thee,
To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep
With these unwearying words of melody;
Brother, come home.

The maiden name of Mrs. ESLING was CATHERINE H. WATERMAN. She resides in Philadelphia, and has been for several years a frequent contributor to the periodicals of that city. She has also edited two or three annuaries. No collection of her metrical compositions has been published.

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