FAREWELL my native land! To thee
For ever waft my fondest thought;
All time and space beyond the sea,
United try their strength for nought.
Best of wishes shall be mine.
Land of Birth, for ever thine!
Farewell, ye dreams of childhood gone-
Those first impressions nature made;
When Summer suns so mildly shone,
And gentle Zephyrs round me played.
Dreams of childhood bright were mine.
Land of Birth, for ever thine!
Farewell ye days when manhood dawned,
And lovely beauty beamed delight;
When Hymen smiled, and Virtue scorned
To breathe a thought that was not right.
Happy days, oh! then were mine,
Land of Birth, for ever thine!
Farewell ye storms of trial past,
The scowling clouds that damp the heart,
And Malice dire with tempest-blast-
Farewell!-For ever may we part.
Withering Hope, she has been mine.
Land of Birth, still ever thine!
In other lands-with bitter years,
A wandering stranger far to roam!
I'm doomed to breathe a few more years,
And then, perhaps, to find a home.
Brighter days on me may shine.
Land of Birth, I may be thine.
SHALL Judah's harp be ne'er unstrung,
Nor other chords await our song;
Or thrill the soul with tender sounds
Of plaintive melody?
Is it that touched by God's own hand,
Soft breathe its notes thro' every land;
Waft words that melt the pious thought
To tears of ecstasy.
Here is a theme which griefs reveal,
A theme domestic all can feel;
A theme of duty and of love,
Worthy our example.
Ruth! may thy name for ever be,
Despite thy foreign pedigree,
A talisman to touch the strings
Which vibrate on the heart.
Ruth! may our choice be thine to-day,
A choice which points the better way;
A path which leads us to our Lord,
Emanuel with us.
A path would we but right pursue,
No cypress bough or doleful rue,
But eglantine and myrtle wreaths,
Shall deck the brow of Hope.
Λύρα —μὴ δὴ τίς ἄνεσις σοὶ ἔσται ;
Αἰὲν ὑμνεῖς πώποτε ταῖς δὲ χορδαῖς,
Ὣς φρένας πλήξαι πολυαχθέεσσιν
Εθνεος οἰκτροῦ;
Εἰ δ' ἀρὰ σ' ἐκρούσε* Θεοῦ τε πεῖρα,
Τῆλε συμφώνουσα μελῳδίας σὰς,
Ηὲ τὰ ἔπεα πτεροέντα ὧρκε
Χαῖρε Ροῦθα πολλ ̓ ἄλγεα σοὶ ἐνῆσαν,
· σοὶ πένθος πόρε δεῖνα Δαίμων
Χαῖρε — πῶς στοργὴ ἐρατὴ κράτησε
Χαλεπότητων.
Ροῦθ ἀεὶ μὴν τοὔνομα δῆλον εἴη
(Σοὶ κὲν αὐτῷ ἀλλοτρίου γένος περ)
Τοῦδε θέλγοι μνημοσύνη τὰ νεῦρα
̓Αμφ ̓ ἀδινὸν κῆρ.
τὰ ἱερὰ Θέος δίδωσι,
Τῇπερ αὐτὴ — ἡ ὁδὸς εἰς Ἰησοῦν
Τὸν δ ̓ ̓Εμμανουήλ.
Τοὔνεκ ̓ οὖν δὲ τἀγαθὰ πάντα ἡμῖν
Ούνεκ' ἂρ δεώμεθα τῶν ἄνωθεν,
Νῦν γὰρ ἄνθεα ταδ' ἀμαράντα κόσμει
* Καὶ τί διοίσε, ἔφη, ἐὰν ταύτην κρούσω; ἑτέραν δείξας. Alexander to his music-master.
THOUGHTS ON A CASTAWAY BROOM. (Hints to a Curate.)
DEEP in thought late out I stroll'd,
And thus I will my tale unfold :
My foot tripped up, I may assume,
And kicked against a broken broom.
I turned it o'er and o'er again,
And mark'd the ground where it had lain,
For cruel time had form'd, alas!
A whiten'd patch upon the
Just in the mood-I almost felt
The many rubs this broom had dealt
On parlour boards or washhouse floors,
Now thrown as useless out of doors.
Sir, said the Broom which made me start As if by some mesmeric art,
You know our lives are short at best,
So hard our work and sorely pressed.
Yet you must see, kind Sir, that we
Great service give, though poor we be,
Nor worldly pride can taint the name,
For rich or poor we work the same.
Differ we do in forms and make,
According as the call we take;
As luck would have it, I was born
To dust the parlour every morn.
At work the parlour maid so free,
There often nursed me on her knee;
And read a book, or talked to John,
Nor little cared how time run on.
Alas, how soon my bristles stood!
When parlour maid one morning would,
In spite of all that broom could say,
Pack up her traps and walk away.
I kicked the floors and carpet too-
And dashed about with much ado-
When John came in and found me broke
From Martha's hard and sudden stroke.
John seem'd to scold, but all the while
How often made his Martha smile!
For seizing hard my brush and all,
Quick let me out of window fall.
Until was ended all the fray.
When out comes John and breaks my head, And whizzing hurl'd me o'er yon shed.
Here quite secluded-left to rot,
I mourn my hapless, wretched lot,
No parlour-maid now cares for me,
Though oft she nursed me on her knee.
Had I but kinder treatment known.
Had Martha no such tempers shown,-
I might e'en now have brush'd the room,
And proved a good and useful broom.
I heard the tale, with many a sigh,
And walked away, and dried my eye;
For pity rose and forced a tear,
As Truth convincing struck my ear.
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