Home of each heart-attraction,
Of manly piety,

Of lovely woman's gentleness,
Of childhood's artless glee;
A tenderer tie, than history, now
Shall hold thee, to my heart,
And make thy blessed memory,
Of every pulse, a part.

My children shall be told of thee,
And every dearest name,

In every murmured orison,

Their lips, shall learn to frame;

And fervent prayers, shall daily rise,

From far beyond the sea,

That God, His blessings, still may pour,

Sweet Christian home, on thee!

BATTERSEA RISE, August 20, 1841.

THE CATHOLIC'S ASSERTION OF

THE CROSS.

"God forbid that I should glory, save in the Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ."

Gal. vi. 14.

"We do sign him with the sign of the Cross."-Baptismal Office.

LIFT up the Cross, lift up the Cross!

Let it surmount each loftiest spire,

And beam, the beacon of the world,
To warn it, from eternal fire.
Lift up the Cross, lift up the Cross!
Let every eye the token see,

And look, through it, to Him, whose blood
Streamed, for them, from the atoning Tree.

Lift up the Cross! Through all the storms
Of more than eighteen hundred years,
Its changeless beauty, clear and calm,
The radiant signature uprears;

Unharmed it stands, undimmed it shines,
And sheds its glory, near and far;
God's pillar-light, to guide His Church,
Salvation's "bright and morning star."

Lift up the Cross! Rome shall not have
Our birthright, in that blessed sign:
We still will bear it, on the brow,

We still will rear it, on the shrine.
So that be ours, and we be His,

All other things, we count "but loss;"
Our single hope, the Crucified,
And all our glory, in the Cross.

RIVERSIDE, TUESDAY IN EASTER WEEK, 1843.

TO MY DEAR WILLIE,

ON HIS TWELFTH BIRTH-DAY.

My second born, my gentle,

My sweet and precious boy,
Sent to us, in our darkling day,

To be our bosoms' joy;

How like a sunbeam, to our hearts,
Thy beauty, in our eyes,
Dispelling every cloud, that spreads

Its sackcloth, on the skies.

Be ever thus, my blessing,

So patient and so meek;
So careful always, what to do,
So thoughtful what to speak;
Till grown in wisdom, as in years,
Through His abounding grace,
He take thee,-'tis my fondest prayer-
To fill a deacon's place.

How sweet, should He permit it,

To lean on thy stout arm!

Thy silver-voicéd litany,

Mine ear, how it will charm!

And, when my days are numbered all,
And all my labours, done;

My death-bed, with the Church's prayers,
Console and cheer, my son!

March 2, 1844.

"How often little lucid intervals of the most golden light, fall in upon our path; as you have seen it, through a trellised vine."

Look, dearest, how the golden glow,
Gleams, through the trellised vine;
Chequering with light and shade, the way,

Before thy feet, and mine:

So, on our path of parted life,

When clouds shut out the day,

Love's lucid intervals fall in,

As here, the sunbeams play.

And could our linked and loving feet,
Together, walk through life,

This beating breast, these clasping arms,
Thy home, my more than wife;
How would the clouds, about our path,

Be fleckered with the day;

And gleams of love's own golden light,
Chequer life's trellised way!

THE SELF-FLOWING.

The juice

"The grapes are collected late in the season, and picked one by one. runs, from its own pressure, over a grooved table, into earthen jars. The quantity is small, and very precious. It is called, Ausbruch; the self-flowing."

SWEETEST, in the Rhine-land,

Famous, as a vine-land,

When the golden clusters burst with juice,

They hang them by the stems, All gleaming, there, like gems; To let the luscious, limpid, liquor loose: And these sweet, spontaneous, streams, Every Rhinelander still deems,

The choicest, that the vintage can produce.

So my verses, dearest,

Sprung from love sincerest,
Filling all my spirit, full of thee,
Gushing out, like fountains,
Down the side of mountains,

Flow, forever full, and fresh, and free;
Or breathe, like scent, from flowers,
In Spring's first, dewy, hours,
When violets and roses tempt the bee.

MY BEST OF BLESSINGS.

My best of blessings, when from thee,
I turn, my feet, away,

My heart dies down, as children's do,

From hearth and home who stray:
The heart, that fears no face of man,
Nor shrinks, from shape of ill,
All melted, like a weaned child's,
Is swayed, at thy sweet will.

Upon the stern and stormy sea,

When tempests foam and frown,
The gentle moon, serene and still,
In loveliness, looks down:
Silent and sweet, her tender eye
The heaving mass controls,
And the whole world of water sleeps,
Till not a ripple rolls.

My best of blessings, in my heart,
Subdued, to love and thee,

Thy gentle beauty sinks, as soft
As moonlight, in the sea:

Its waves and billows heave no more,
Its storms and tempests cease:
And all its troubled depths are lulled,
In placidness, and peace.

TO MY HEART.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF SAVONAROLA.

My heart, if thou at peace wilt be,
Thou canst no longer, live with me;
Fly to Jesus, there to stay,
From this false world, far away;
Favour here, can only be,

At the cost of treachery.

While on earth, thou art with me,

Bitter all thy life must be.

Faith and peace, are fled afar;
Everywhere, there is but war.

If thy life is dear to thee,

To the light of Jesus, flee.

TO A MOURNING MOTHER.

MOTHER Weep! the heart is flesh;
Wounds will bleed while they are fresh ;

Gentlest hands, the flower, may crop;

Tears will trickle, drop by drop.

Yet, weep not! that darling child,

Like a bird, as sweet and wild,
Has but winged her winter flight,
To the land of life and light.