Oh! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere,
That will heighten your pleasure and solace your

care;

Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just,

And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare. Then the frowns of misfortune may shadow our lot, The cheek-searing tear-drops of sorrow may start, But a star never dim sheds a halo for him

Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart.

THE SMUGGLER BOY.

WE stole away at the fall of night,

When the red round moon was deepening her light,
But none knew whither our footsteps bent,
Nor how those stealthy hours were spent ;

For we crept away to the rocky bay,

Where the cave and craft of a fierce band lay;
We gave the signal-cry, "Ahoy! "

And found a mate in the smuggler boy,

His laugh was deep, his speech was bold,
And we loved the fearful tales he told
Of the perils he met in his father's bark,
Of the chase by day and the storm by dark;
We got him to take the light boat out,
And gaily and freshly we dashed about,
And naught of pleasure could ever decoy

From the moonlight sail with the smuggler boy.

We caught his spirit, and learnt to love
The cageless eagle more than the dove;
And wild and happy souls were we,
Roving with him by the heaving sea.
He whispered the midnight work they did,
And showed us where the kegs were hid:

All secrets were ours- a word might destroy But we never betrayed the smuggler boy.

We sadly left him, bound to range

A distant path of care and change;

We have sought him again, but none could relate The place of his home, or a word of his fate: Long years have sped, but we dream of him now, With the red cap tossed on his dauntless brow; And the world hath never given a joy

Like the moonlight sail with the smuggler boy

THE HOMES OF THE DEAD.

WE must not make a home for the dead,
Nor raise an osiered mound,

Till the eloquent prayer and priestly tread
Have sanctified the ground.

But there are those who fall and die

Upon the desert land,

With no pall above but the torrid sky,

No bier but the scorching sand.

No turf is laid, no sexton's spade

Chimes in with the mourner's groans; But the prowling jackal finds a feast,

And the red sun crumbles the bones.

There are those who go down in the dark wild sea,
When storms have wrecked proud ships,

With none to heed what the words may be
That break from their gurgling lips.

No anthem peal flows sweet and loud,
No tablets mark their graves;
But they soundly sleep in a coral shroud,
To the dirge of the rolling waves.

There are those who sink on the mountain path,

With cold and curdling blood;

With the frozen sleet for a funeral sheet,

And no mates but the vulture brood:

No tolling bell proclaims their knell,

No memory stone is found;

But the snow-drift rests on their skeleton breasts And the bleaching winds sweep round.

There are those who fall on the purple field,

In glory's mad career;

Their dying couch

Their cross of faith

a battered shield,

a spear:

No priest has been there with robes and prayer
To consecrate the dust;

Where the soldier sleeps his steed sleeps too,
And his gore-stained weapons rust.

No cypress waves, no daisy grows,
Above such pillows of rest;

Yet say, are the riteless graves of those
Unholy or unblest?

"Tis well to find our last repose

'Neath the churchyard's sacred sod; But those who sleep in the desert or deep Are watched by the self-same God.

MY BIRTHDAY.

MOTHER, there's no soft hand comes now
To smooth the dark curls o'er my brow;
I hear no voice so low and mild

As that which breathed "my own loved child."
No smile will greet, no lips will press,

No

prayer will rise, no words will bless,

So fond, so dear, so true for me

As those I ever met from thee.

Oh! that my soul could melt in tears,
And die beneath the pain it bears;

The grief that springs, the thoughts that goad,

Become a heavy maddening load;

For all that heart and memory blends

But hotly scathes and sorely rends;
And feeling, with its biting fangs,
Tortures with sharp and bleeding pangs.

My Mother! thou did'st prophesy
With sighing tone and weeping eye
That the cold world would never be
A kindred resting-place for me.
Oh, thou wert right! I cannot find
One sympathetic link to bind,
But where some dark alloy comes in
To mar with folly, wrong, or sin.

My Mother! thou did'st know full well
My spirit was not fit to dwell

With crowds who dream not of the ray
That burns the very soul away.
That ray is mine; 'tis held from God,
But scourges like a blazing rod.
And never glows with fiercer flame
Than when 'tis kindled at thy name.

My Mother! thou art remembered yet
With doting love and keen regret;
My birthday finds me once again
In fervent sorrow, deep as vain.
Thou art gone for ever, I must wait
The will of Heaven, the work of fate
And faith can yield no hope for me
Brighter than that of meeting thee.