THE STRANGER'S HEART.

The stranger's heart! oh! wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;

In the green shadow of thy tree,

The stranger finds no rest with thee.

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone-
The stranger's heart is with his own.

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;—

Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd-
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.

Thou think'st it sweet, when friend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim-
Far, far are those who pray'd with him.

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land-
The voices of thy kindred band-
Oh! midst them all, when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart.

THE BETTER LAND.

"I hear thee speak of the better land,
Thou callest its children a happy band;
Mother! oh where is that radiant shore?
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?"
"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"

-"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away, in some region old,

Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?-
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,

And the diamond lights up the secret mine,

And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?-
Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?"
"Not there, not there, my child!

"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;

Dreams cannot picture a world so fair-
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;
Far beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
-It is there, it is there, my child!"

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,

Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayerBut all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,

A time for softer tears-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee-but thou art not of those That wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain

But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when Spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?

Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?-
They have one season-all are ours to die!
Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home; And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

The stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward 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.

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 the 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!

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

Child, amid the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Call'd thy harvest work to leave,
Pray, ere yet the dark hours be-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor on the darkening sea-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial-plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

BRING FLOWERS.

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is pour'd:
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale:
Their breath floats out on the southern gale;

And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye:
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,

And the dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.

She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth;

Her place is now by another's side

Bring flowers, for the locks of the fair young bride!

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!

For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nursed!

Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer-
They are nature's offering, their place is there!

They speak of hope to the fainting heart,
With a voice of promise they come and part;
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,

They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!

EVENING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL.

"Now, in thy youth, beseech of Him
Who giveth, upbraiding not,

That his light in thy heart become not dim,
And his love be unforgot;

And thy God, in the darkest of days, will be
Greenness, and beauty, and strength to thee."

Hush! 'tis a holy hour-the quiet room

BERNARD BARTON.

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds A faint and starry radiance through the gloom

And the sweet stillness down on fair young heads, With all their clustering locks, untouch'd by care, And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer. Gaze on 'tis lovely!-childhood's lip and cheek,

Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thoughtGaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky, What death must fashion for eternity!

O joyous creatures! that will sink to rest

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest,

Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun-
Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.
Though fresh within your breast the untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness-how soon her wo!

Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!

Her lot is on you-to be found untired,

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And, oh! to love through all things-therefore pray! And take the thought of this calm vesper-time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight! Earth will forsake-Oh! happy to have given The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.