Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thoughts and high?

-Now peace the Woman's heart hath found,
And joy the Poet's eye!

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

THE stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all that pleasant land!

The deer across their green-sward bound,
Through shade and sunny gleam;

And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry Homes of England!
Around their hearths by night

What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born.

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OUR DAILY PATHS.

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 peep,
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, in hut and hall,
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.

THERE'S Beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful

eyes

Can trace it 'midst familiar things, and through their lowly

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, beneath 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 shadows

lie,

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

Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the ground.

Yes! Beauty dwells in all our paths-but Sorrow too is there;

How oft some cloud within us dims the bright still summer

air!

When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous

things

That through the leafy places glanc'd on many-coloured wings.

With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland

shades,

And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the

glades;

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

tive tone,

Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone.

But are we free to do e'en thus-to wander as we willBearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breezy hill?

No! in our daily paths lie cares, that oft-times bind us fast, While from the narrow 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 hope and mirth, And weigh our burdened spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth.

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THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

Yet should this be? -Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield!

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

Of One that through the desert air forever guides them right!

Shall not this knowledge calm 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 hath been may be,

And shadows, never marked before,
Brood o'er each tree;

And tho' their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!

Nor, where there 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, tho' the wind an altered tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Tho' every flower, of something gone,
A tinge may 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 thier 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 all our woe!

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!