A MOURNFUL RETURN.

For life hath here no charm so dear
As home and friends around us!

We oft destroy the present joy

For future hopes-and praise them; Whilst flowers as sweet bloom at our feet, If we'd but stoop to raise them!

For things afar still sweeter are,

When youth's bright spell hath bound us; But soon we're taught that earth has nought Like home and friends around us!

The friends that speed in time of need,
When Hope's last reed is shaken,
To show us still, that, come what will,
We are not quite forsaken!

Though all were night, if but the light

From friendship's altar crowned us,

'Twould prove the bliss of earth was this

Our home, and friends around us!

CHARLES SWAIN.

A MOURNFUL RETURN.

PEED, speed, my fleet vessel, the shore is in sight,
The breezes are fair, we shall anchor to-night;
To-morrow, at sunrise, once more I shall stand
On the sea-beaten shore of my dear native land.

259

260

A MOURNFUL RETURN.

Ah! why does despondency weigh down my heart?
Such thoughts are for friends who reluctantly part;
I come from an exile of twenty long years,
Yet I gaze on my country through fast-falling tears.

I see the hills purple with bells of the heath,
And my own happy valley that nestled beneath,
And the fragrant white blossoms spread over the thorn
That grows near the cottage in which I was born.

It cannot be changed-no, the clematis climbs
O'er the gay little porch as it did in old times;
And the seat where my father reclined is still there,
But where is my father?-oh, answer me, where ?

My mother's own casement, the chamber she loved,
Is there, overlooking the lawn where I roved;

She thoughtfully sat, with her hand on her brow,

As she watched her young darling :-ah, where is she now?

No father reclines in the clematis seat,

No mother looks out from her shaded retreat,

No sister is there stealing shyly away,

Till her half-suppressed laughter betrayed where she lay.

How oft in my exile, when kind friends were near,
I've slighted their kindness, and sighed to be here.
How oft have I said, "Could I once again see
That blest little valley, how blest I should be."

A MOURNFUL RETURN.

How blest, oh, it is not a valley like this,
That, unaided, can realize visions of bliss;
For voices I listen, and then I look round
For light steps, that used to trip after the sound.

But, see, the green path-I remember it well,
'Tis the way to the church-hark! the toll of the bell;
How oft in my boyhood a truant I've strayed,
To yonder dark yew-tree, and slept in its shade.

But surely the pathway is narrower now,

No smooth space is left 'neath the dark yew-tree bough ;
O'er tablets inscribed with sad records I tread,

And the home I have sought is the home of the dead.

And was it for this I've looked forward so long,

And shrunk from the sweetness of Italy's song?
And turned from the dance of the dark girls of Spain,
And wept for my country again and again?

And was it for this to my casement I crept,

To gaze on the deep, when they deemed that I slept?
To think of fond meetings, the welcome, the kiss,
The friendly hand's pressure-oh, was it for this?

When those who so long have been absent, return
To the home of their childhood, 'tis but to mourn;
Wounds open afresh that time nearly had healed,
And the ills of a life at one glance are revealed.

261

262

HOME HAPPINESS.

Speed, speed, my fleet vessel! the tempest may rave,
There's a calm for my heart in the dash of the wave;
Speed, speed, my fleet vessel! the sails are unfurled,
Oh! ask me not whither-my home is the world!

ANON.

HOME HAPPINESS.

ROM the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs ;
No noisy neighbour enters here,

No intermeddling stranger near,

To spoil our heartfelt joys.

If solid happiness we prize,

Within our breast this jewel lies,

And they are fools who roam;

The world hath nothing to bestow,

From our own selves our bliss must flow,

And that dear place our home.

NATHANIEL COTTON.