HOME.

For hopes that are colorless now and dead

Down at our feet in the dust that we tread! And we marvel that ever we lighted our way

With hues so painted and false as they; For al the deceits we have seen depart,

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For the scorn which fills and hardens the heart, For the knowledge so harshly acquired at last, The past-now what shall we give the past? Oh, give it smiles!

MISS LANDON.

HOME.

"HOME!

There's magic in that little word;
It is a mystic circle which surrounds
Comforts and virtues, never known
Beyond the hallowed limit."

ANON.

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THE FUTURE.

WHAT DO THE FUTURES SPEAK OF?

IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION IN THE GREEK
GRAMMAR.

THEY speak of never withering shades,

And bowers of opening joy;
They promise mines of fairy gold,
And bliss without alloy.

They whisper strange enchanting things
Within Hope's greedy ears;

And sure this tuneful voice exceeds
The music of the spheres.

They speak of pleasure to the gay,
And wisdom to the wise;
And soothe the poet's beating heart
With fame that never dies.

In every language, every tongue,
The same kind things they say;
In gentle slumbers speak by night,
In waking dreams by day.

Cassandra's fate reversed is theirs;

She true, no faith could gain,—
They every passing hour deceive,
Yet are believed again.

MRS. BARBAuld.

A BIRTH-DAY.

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A BIRTH-DAY.

"A BIRTH-DAY!"—what a joyful sound
Those words possessed to boyhood's ear,
When Fancy shed her sunshine round;
And Hope, the flatterer, still was near,
With balm for every trifling wound,
A smile for every tear..

Then life was sweet: the world, unknown,

A fairy landscape bright and gay;

Each voice, too, seemed like Friendship's tone, Or Love's more fascinating lay;

And Time-a playmate of my own,

To sport with by the way.

What is a Birth-day now? A sound

To shake e'en manhood's sterner heart;
Fancy no sunshine sheds around,

And Hope has lost her healing art,

While from the world's enchanted ground

Its brighter hues depart.

Pain's barbed shafts mock Friendship's shield,
Love's smile can ill dark tempests brave,
Time's scythe no longer is conceal'd,
And life has little left to crave;

Hope, Fancy, Friendship, Love must yield
Their votary to the grave.

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REMINISCENCE.

I speak, 't is true, of passing things,
Which appertain to Time and Earth-
Happy is he whose spirit clings

To thoughts of more enduring worth,
To whom the day of death but brings
More joy than that of birth.

BERNARD BARTON.

REMINISCENCE.

"My birth-day "-what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white the mark appears !

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links,
That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last.
Vain was the man, and false as vain,

Who said," were he ordained to run
His long career of life again,

• Fontenelle. Si je recommencais ma carriere, je ferai tout ce que j'ai fait.

REMINISCENCE.

He would do all that he had done."-
Ah, 't is not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birth-days, speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells,

Lavished unwisely, carelessly;
Of counsel mocked; of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire;

Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,

That crossed my pathway, for his star.All this it tells; and could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again, With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay!

How quickly all should melt away

All-but that Freedom of the mind,

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Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly;

And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark And comfortless and stormy round!

T. MOORE.