And watch from the open doorway

Their faces, fresh and fair.

Alone in the dear old homestead,
That once was full of life,
Ringing with girlish laughter-
Echoing boyish strife-

We two are waiting together;

And oft as the shadows come,

With tremulous voice he calls me :

"It is night! are the children home?"

Home, where never a sorrow

Shall dim their eyes with tears!
Where the smile of God is on them
Through all the summer years!
I know-yet my arms are empty
That fondly folded seven,
And the mother-heart within me

Is almost starved for heaven.

Sometimes in the dusk of evening,
I only shut my eyes,

And the children are all about me,
A vision from the skies:
The babes, whose dimpled fingers
Lost the way to my breast.
And the beautiful ones, the angels,
Passed to the world of the blest.

With never a cloud upon them,

I see their radiant brows;
My boys that I gave to freedom-

The red sword sealed their vows!

VOL. XX.-7

971915

In a tangled Southern forest,

Twin brothers, bold and brave, They fell; and the flag they died for, Thank God! floats over their grave.

A breath, and the vision is lifted
Away on wings of light,

And again we two are together,
All alone in the night.

They tell me his mind is failing,
But I smile at idle fears;
He is only back with the children
In the dear and peaceful years.

And still as the summer sunset
Fades away in the west,

And the wee ones, tired of playing,
Go trooping home to rest,

My husband calls from his corner :

"Say, love! have the children come?'

And I answer, with eyes uplifted:

"Yes, dear! they are all at home!"

PILGRIMS.

There's but the meagre crust, Love,
There's but the measured cup;

On scanty fare we breakfast,

On scanty fare we sup.

Yet be not thou discouraged,

Nor falter on the way,

Since Wealth is for a life, Love,
And Want is for a day.

Our robes are hodden gray, Love.

Ah! would that thine were white,

And shot with gleams of silver,
And rich with golden light.
Yet care not thou for raiment,

But climb, as pilgrims may,
Since Ease is for a life, Love,
And Toil is for a day.

Our shelter oft is rude, Love;

We feel the chilling dew,

And shiver in the darkness

Which silent stars shine through.

Yet shall we reach our palace,
And there in gladness stay,

Since Home is for a life, Love,
And Travel for a day.

The heart may sometimes ache, Love,
The eyes grow dim with tears;

Slow glide the hours of sorrow,

Slow beats the pulse of fears.

Yet patience with the evil,

For, though the good delay,

Still Joy is for a life, Love,
And Pain is for a day.

TRUST FOR THE DAY.

Because in a day of my days to come
There waiteth a grief to be,

Shall my heart grow faint, and my lips be dumb
In this day that is bright for me?

Because of a subtle sense of pain,

Like a pulse-beat, threaded through

The bliss of my thought, shall I dare refrain
From delight in the pure and true?

In the harvest-field shall I cease to glean,
Since the gloom of the spring had fled?
Shall I veil mine eyes to the noonday sheen,
Since the dew of the morn hath sped?

Nay, phantom ill with the warning hand,
Nay, ghosts of the weary past—
Serene, as in armor of faith, I stand;
Ye may not hold me fast.

Your shadows across my sun may fall,
But as bright the sun shall shine:

For I walk in a light ye cannot pall,
The light of the King divine.

And whatever He sends from day to day,
I am sure that His name is Love;
And He never will let me lose my way
To my rest in His home above.

A MAPLE-LEAF.

So bright in death I used to say,
So beautiful through frost and cold!
A lovelier thing I know to-day,
The leaf is growing old,

And wears in grace of duty done
The gold and scarlet of the sun.

SANNAZZARO, JACOPO, an Italian poet, born at Naples July 28, 1458; died there April 27, 1530. He was of a family originally from Spain, and received his classical education in the school of Giuniano Maggio, and the academy of Pontano; and on entering the latter, in conformity with the prevalent custom among the learned, he changed his baptismal name into Actius Sincerus, which he always used in his Latin works. The first inspirer of his muse was his mistress, Carmosina Bonifacio, who, however, died in the bloom of her youth. His poetical reputation having made him known to Ferdinand I. of Naples, and the Princes Alfonso and Frederic, he was admitted into their train, and accompanied them in several military expeditions. In the subsequent revolutions of the kingdom of Naples, amidst all the vicissitudes undergone by the house of Aragon, he remained faithfully attached to its members; and, upon the succession of Frederic to the throne, he was rewarded with a pension of six hundred ducats and the donation of the pleasant villa of Mergoglino, so much celebrated in his poems under the name of Mergellina, and the destruction of which by the imperial army under Philibert, Prince of Orange, he had the misfortune to witness. He did not long survive this disaster. He had accompanied his patron Frederic to France after his