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The Cottage Homes of England!

By thousands, on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,

And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peers

Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there they lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair Homes of England !

Long, long, iu hut and ball,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd

To guard each hallow'd wall!
And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves

Its country and its God!

OUR DAILY PATHS.

ful eyes

THERE's Beauty all around our paths, if but our watchCan trace it ’midst familiar things, and through their low,

ly guise ; We may find it where a hedgerow showers its blossoms

o'er our way, Or a cottage-window sparkles forth in the last red light of

day. We may find it where a spring shines clear, bencath an

aged tree, With the foxglove o'er the water's glass borne downward

by the bee; Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen-stems

is thrown, And a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green

and lone.

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the

cold blue sky, While soft on icy pool and stream their pencilled shad

ows lie, When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work

bound, Whence the fitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals

to the ground. Yes! Beauty dwells in all our paths but Sorrow too is

there ; How oft soníe cloud within us dims the bright still sum

mer air! When we carry our sick hearts abroad, amidst the joyous

things That through the leafy places glanc'd on many-colored

wings. With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland

shades, And a moornful memory of the dead is with us in the

glades; And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's

plaintive tone, Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone. But are we free to do e'en thusto wander as we will Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breeNo! in our daily paths lie cares, that oft-times bind us

fast, While from the parrow round we see the golden day fleet

past. They hold us from the woodlark's haunts and the violet

dingles back, And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining

river's track ; They bar us from our heritage of spring-time lope and

inirth, And weigh our burdened-gpirits down with the cumbering

dust of earth.

zy hill?

Yet should this be?-Too much, 100 svon, desponding ty

we yield! A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field ! A sweeter by the birds of heaven-which tell us, in their

flight, Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them

right! Shall not this knowledge calın our hearts, and bid vain

conflicts cease ? --Aye, when they commune with themselves in holy hours

of peace, And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our

pathway lies, By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the

skies!

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

FORGET them not! tho' now their name

Be but a mournful sound,
Tho' by the hearth its utterance claim

A stillness round.
Tho' for their sakes this earth no more

As it bath been may be,
And shadows, neyer marked before,

Brood o'er each tree;
And tho' their image dim the sky,

Yet, yet forget them not!
Nor, where their love and life went by,

Forsake the spot !
They have a breathing influence there,

A charm, not elsewhere found;
Sad-yet it'sanctifies the air,

The stream, the ground.

Then, though the wind an altered tone

Through the young foliage bear, Though every flower, of something gone,

A tinge way wear;

Oh! fly it not! no fruitless grief

Thus in their presence felt, A record links to every leaf

There, where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread,

Still tend their garden-bower, And call them back, the holy Dead,

To each lone hour !

The holy Dead !-oh! blest we are

That we may name them so, And to their spirits look afar,

Through ał our wo!.

Blest, that the things they loved on earth,

As relics we may hold,
Which wake sweet thoughts of parted worth,

By springs untold!
Blest, that a deep and chastening power

Thus o'er our souls is given,
If but to bird, or song, or flower,

Yet all for Heaven!

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EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEAS.

ANTS.*

Come to the Sun-set Tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

The twilight-star to Heaven,

And the summer-dew to flowers,
And rest to us is given

By the cool sosi evening hours.

Sweet is the hour of rest!

Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,

And the turf whereon we lie.

When the burden and the heat

Of labor's task are o'er,
And kindly voices greet

The tired one at his door.

Come to the Sun-set Tree!

l'he day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

Yes; tuneful is the sound

That dwells in whispering boughs ;
Welcome the freshness round,

And the gale that fans our brows.

* * The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us come to the Sun-set Tree."-See Captain Sherer's interesting **Nores and reflections during a Ramble in Germany."

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