HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. 71 And a bold little run, at the very last pinch, put him into his native-spot. "Bravo, bravo!" the king cried out, "all honour to those who try : The spider up there defied despair; he conqueredand why shouldn't I ?" Again King Robert roused his soul; and history tells the tale, That he tried once more- -'twas at Bannockburnand that time he did not fail! HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS. ELIZA COOK. HOME for the holidays-here we go! Two hours more! Why, the sun will be down Over Latin, and sums, and that nasty Greek Lectures, and classes, and lessons are done, And now we'll have nothing but frolic and fun! But this Fast Train is really exceedingly slow! What sport we shall have when Christmas comes, When "snap-dragon" burns our fingers and thumbs! We'll hang mistletoe o'er our dear little cousins, And pull them beneath it, and kiss them by dozens: We'll crown the plum-pudding with bunches of bay, And roast all the chestnuts that come in our way: And when " Twelfth Night" falls, we'll have such a cake That, as we stand round it, the table shall quake. We'll draw" King and Queen," and be happy together And dance old "Sir Roger," with hearts like a feather. Home for the holidays!-here we go! But this Fast Train is really exceedingly slow! Yet, stay: I declare there's our own house at last. I can see George's uncle, and Edward's mamma! They see us, they see us! they're waving their hands! THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. ELIZA COOK. I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare I've bedew'd it with tears, I've embalm'd it with sighs: 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would you know the spell ?—A mother sat there! THE LAND OF MY BIRTH. And gentle words that mother would give, She told me that shame would never betide, I sat and watch'd her many a day, When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray; Say it is folly, and deem me weak, Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek; 73 THE LAND OF MY BIRTH. ELIZA COOK. THERE's a magical tie to the land of our home, Which the heart cannot break, though the footstep may roam: Be that land where it may, at the line or the pole, It still holds the magnet that draws on the soul. 'Tis loved by the freeman, 'tis loved by the slave, 'Tis dear to the coward, more dear to the brave! Ask of any the spot they like best on the earth, And they'll answer with pride, "Tis the Land of my Birth!" My country! thy green hills are dearer to me Than those that spring forth in the Land of my My country, I love thee!-thongh freely I'd rove Through the western savannah, or sweet orangegrove, Yet warmly my bosom would welcome the gale earth, And my ashes repose in the Land of my Birth! TO A SEA-GULL. GERALD GRIFFIN. WHITE bird of the tempest! O beautiful thing, Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so warm; Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtained dome, THE MESSIAH. Now gliding with pinion all silently furled, 75 On the sweet winds of heaven, to thine own brilliant skies; Still higher! still higher! till, lost to our sight, Unfettered, at once to her Maker and King; When the bright day of service and suffering past, Shapes, fairer than thine shall shine round her at last, While, the standard of battle triumphantly furled, She smiles like a victor serene on the world! THE MESSIAH. ALEXANDER POPE. YE nymphs of Solyma, begin the song: Rapt into future time the bard begun :- Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies; |