When through the dark and stormy night,
The wayward wanderer homeward hies,
How cheering is that twinkling light,

Which through the forest gloom he spies!
It is the light at home: he feels

That loving hearts will greet him there,
And softly through his bosom steals
That joy and love which banish care,
Around the Light at Home.

The Light at Home - whene'er, at last,
It greets the seaman through the storm,
He feels no more the chilling blast

That beats upon his manly form.
Long years upon the sea have fled,

Since Mary gave the parting kiss,
But the sad tears which then she shed,
Will now be paid with rapturous bliss,
Around the Light at Home.

The Light at Home! how still and sweet
It peeps from yonder cottage door-
The weary laborer to greet,

When the rough toils of day are o'er.
Sad is the soul that does not know

The blessings that its beams impart,
The cheerful hopes and joys that flow,
And lighten up the heaviest heart,
Around the Light at Home.

"WE'LL ALL MEET AGAIN IN THE MORNING.”

0

H! wild is the tempest, and dark is the night,

But soon will the daylight be dawning;

Then the friendships of yore

Shall blossom once more,

"And we'll all meet again in the morning."

Art thou doomed in a far-distant region to roam,

To meet the cold gaze of the stranger;

Dost thou yearn for the smiles of the loved ones at home,
While thou pray'st God to shield them from danger?
Ah! the height of the waters may shadow thy form,
Yet soon will the daybreak be dawning;

And thou'lt mingle once more

With the loved ones on shore

"For we'll all meet again in the morning."

Dost thou miss the sweet voice of a fond, loving wife,
Whose music brought balm to thy sorrow;

Didst thou see her decline in the sunset of life,
Nor felt one bright hope for the morrow?

Oh, cheer up, dear brother! the night may be dark,
Yet soon will the daybreak be dawning;

Of all ties bereft,

One hope is still left

"We'll all meet again in the morning."

Art thou wearied, O pilgrim, on life's desert waste;
Dost thou sigh for the shade of the wild-wood;
Have the world's choicest fruits proved bitter to taste,
And mocked all the dreams of thy childhood?
Oh, cheer up, poor pilgrim, faint not on thy way,
For soon will the daybreak be dawning;

Then the dreams which have fled

Shall arise from the dead

"And all will be bright in the morning."

O servant of Christ! too heavy the cross,

Has thy trust in thy Master been shaken ?
In doubt and in darkness thy faith has been lost,
And thou criest, "My God, I'm forsaken!"
But cheer up, dear brother! the night cannot last,
And soon will the daybreak be dawning;
Then the trials of earth

We have borne from our birth

"Will all be made right in the morning!"

ESTO PERPETUA.

STO PERPETUA! ever enduring,

ESTO

Still may

the national glory increase;

Union and harmony ever securing,

Prosperity, freedom, religion, and peace.

Great God of the nations, thy goodness hath crowned us, A land and a people peculiar to thee;

Let thy wisdom and power, still mantled around us, Preserve what that goodness hath taught to be free!

Esto perpetua! oh, be it written

On every bright link of the sisterhood's chain!
And be the red arm of the fratricide smitten,
Who would sully the compact or rend it in twain.

Let it shine on the folds of our banner outflowing,
Let it speak on the walls of each parliament hall,
Till the North and the South, with its sanctity glowing,
Shout, "Esto perpetua! - union for all."

Esto perpetua! who would erase it

From the mount where so long like a beacon it stood, Where the sages of freedom delighted to place it,

And martyrs have shaded each letter with blood?

From Marshfield, the warning in thunder is breaking,
From Ashland, like music, it floats on the air;
From the grave of the Hermitage solemnly waking,
Esto perpetua, guard it with care!

Dissever our Union? Oh! how would the measure
Of each in the great computation be cast,
Her heroes and sages, her blood and her treasure,
Her hopes of the future, her deeds of the past —

Her battle-fields fertile with valorous daring -
The bones of her martyrs that under them rest

Her monument tributes their memory sharing

With the North and the South, the East and the West?

The fame of her Jefferson proudly defying,

Like his own Declaration, the mildew of time;
The names of her signers, revered and undying,
While Truth holds a temple, or Freedom a shrine;

The fame of her Franklin, whose genius ascended
The storm-demon's throne when his thunders were loud,
And, seizing the sceptre of lightning, appended
His name to the scroll of each menacing cloud;

The fame of her Henry, whose eloquence breaking
The spell which had fettered the nations so long
Was heard in the palace, its tyranny shaking,

And ringing the knell of oppression and wrong;

The fame of her Washington, broad as creation,
The Christian, philosopher, hero, and sage;
Uniting the models of every nation,

The pride and perfection of every age—

These national jewels, oh! cherish their lustre,
All beauty excelling, all value above;
Nor sever one gem from the family cluster,
Nor shatter the casket of union and love!

THE ISLE OF LONG AGO.

H! a wonderful stream is the River of Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme,
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime,
As it blends with the Ocean of Years.

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers, like buds between;

And the year in the sheaf-so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,

As it glides in the shadow and sheen.

There's a magical Isle up the River of Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing;
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime,
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,

And the Junes with the roses are staying.

And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago,
And we bury our treasures there;

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow

There are heaps of dust but we loved them so!There are trinkets and tresses of hair:

There are fragments of song that nobody sings,

And a part of an infant's prayer;

There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings; There are broken vows, and pieces of rings,

And the garments that she used to wear.

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore By the mirage is lifted in air;

And we sometimes hear, through the turbulent roar, Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, When the wind down the river is fair.

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessèd Isle,
All the day of our life till night!

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

'TWA

THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE.

WAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, Tall and slender, and sallow, and dry; His form was bent and his gait was slow,

His long, thin hair was as white as snow;