"Though toss'd by the rage of waves and wind,

The bark held together still;

One arm was strong, it bore us along,
And has saved from every ill."

The spirit returns to his dwelling-place,
And his words have been like balm ;
The big tears start, but the fluttering heart
Is soothed, and soften'd, and calm.
MISS WETHERELL.

-American.

A HOME IN THE HEART.

OH! ask not a home in the mansions of pride, Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls; Though the roof be of gold it is brilliantly cold,

And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls. But seek for a bosom all honest and true,

Where love, once awaken'd, will never depart: Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest, And you 'll find there's no home like a home in the heart.

Oh! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere,

That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care, Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just, And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare.

Then the frowns of Misfortune may shadow our lot,
The cheek-searing tear-drops of Sorrow may start,
But a star never dim, sheds a halo for him
Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart.

ELIZA COOK, 1818

HOME AND FRIENDS AROUND US.

OH! there's a power to make each hour
As sweet as Heaven design'd it;
Nor need we roam to bring it home,
Though few there be that find it!
We seek too high for things close by,
And lose what Nature found us;
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 hath naught Like home and friends around us !--

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

Though all were night, if but the light
From friendship's altar crown'd us,
"Twould prove the bliss of earth was this—
Our home and friends around us!

CHARLES SWAIN, 1803

LOVE IMMORTAL.

LOVE is an odour from the heavenly bowers,
Which stirs our senses tenderly, and brings
Dreams which are shadows of diviner things,
Beyond this grosser atmosphere of ours.
An oasis of verdure and of flowers,

Love smileth on the pilgrim's weary way ;
There sweeter airs, there fresher waters play;
There purer solace speeds the tranquil hours.
This glorious passion, unalloy'd, endowers

With moral beauty all who feel its fire; Maid, wife and offspring, sister, mother, sire, Are names and symbols of its hallow'd powers, Love is immortal, from our hold may fly Earth's other joys, but Love can never die.

JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE, 1808

BEWARE A SPEEDY FRIEND!

BEWARE a speedy friend, the Arabian said,
And wisely was it he advised distrust :

The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first.
Look at yon oak that lifts its stately head,

And dallies with the autumnal storm,

whose rage

Tempests the great sea-waves; slowly it rose,
Slowly its strength increased, through many an age,
And timidly did its light leaves disclose,

As doubtful of the spring, their palest green.
They to the summer cautiously expand,
And by the warmer sun and season bland
Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen,
When the bare forest by the wintry blast
Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last.
ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774-1843-

MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.

THIS book is all that's left me now :-
Tears will unbidden start-

With faltering lip and throbbing brow,
I press it to my heart.

For many generations past
Here is our family tree:

My mother's hand this Bible clasp'd ;
She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear;
Who round the hearthstone used to close
After the evening prayer,

And speak of what these pages said,
In tones my heart would thrill!
Though they are with the silent dead,
Here are they living still!

My father read this holy book,
To brothers, sisters, dear;

How calm was my poor mother's look,
Who lean'd, God's word to hear!

Her angel face-I see it yet!

What thrilling memories come!

Again that little group is met
Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;

When all were false I found thee true,

My counsellor and guide!

The mines of earth no treasures give

That could this volume buy;
In teaching me the way to live,
It taught me how to die.

-American.

GEORGE P. MORRIS, 1802—