Of moments passed, with those we love,
Prized by the heart, long years, above:
Moments, which shall for ever be,
Embalmed in fondest memory.

The jest, the laugh had circled round,
Mingled with music's silver sound;
That wild and witching melody

Which moves, at once, and melts the soul,
And bids, from out the unconscious eye,
The involuntary tear-drop roll.
Such notes as oft, at midnight hour,
The sad enthusiast, ravish'd, hears;
Far echo of some angel's song,

Sweet harmony of circling spheres.
Those notes, those notes, they linger yet,
Oh! who that heard them, could forget!
Speech shall be lost, and thought, as soon
As that sweet voice, and "Bonny Doon."

HOME.

"The music of Carrol was like the memory of joys that are past, pleasant, but mournful to the soul."—Ossian.

HOME of my careless infancy,

How dear, each well-remembered scene,
Where every rock, and every tree,

Is eloquent, of what has been.

How dear, yet ah! how painful too;
That joy, how near to grief, allied,
When thoughts of loved ones, now no more,
Come rushing on me, like a tide.

Departed joys, of days gone by,

As slowly on, your visions roll,
My heart is softened, and subdued;
Ye soothe, and tranquillize my soul.

Like music, wafted on the gale,

When midnight stillness wraps the land,
So sweet, the far-off strains ye breathe,
So sad, when waked by memory's hand.

THE HEART'S TRIBUTE,

TO AN ABSENT FRIEND.*

"Wi' melting heart, an' brimfu' eye,
"I'll mind you still, tho far awa.”

WHEN friends are met, and beaming mirth
Is throned in every eye,

Why wanders oft, the absent thought,
And starts, the secret sigh?

'Tis the silent tribute, of heart to heart,
Which affection loves to pay,

And 'tis wafted off, on that secret sigh,
To the friends that are far away.

And why, amid its wreathéd smiles,
Turns pale that cheek, with fear?
And why, beneath that joyous brow,
Lurks oft, the gushing tear?
'Tis to wet the graves of departed joys,
That the heart, that big tear, sends;
And the fear, that pales that anxious cheek,
Is the fear, for absent friends

There's ONE, his name's in all our hearts,

For whom, where'er he be,

Our kindest thoughts, our fondest prayers,

Are wafted o'er the sea:

May the spirit of health, be on every breeze,

And of joy, in every ray,

And may God, in mercy, protect the friend Whom we love, while far away!

*The Rt. Rev. Bp. Hobart.

THE MOURNED-THE LOVED-THE LOST.

WHY, on the vanished look, the by-past tone,
Loves the fond heart, devotedly to dwell?
Why, reckless of that now which is its own,
Of hours that were, delights it still to tell?

Why, for her pillaged nestling mourns the dove,
With all her living loves, still all unblest?
Why dotes the fond, bereaved mother more,
On her dead infant, than on all the rest?

Why is it, that around the loved and lost,
Her most enchanting radiance, fancy throws,
While all the past is robed in richer green,
And fresher fragrance breathes, from every rose?

Mysterious Sympathy! thy secret source,
Thy deep, embosomed springs, we cannot tell,
Nor scan thy subtle, undetected laws,

Though each effect, we feel and know so well.

'Tis thine, the withered floweret, most to prize,
To mourn the music flown, the odour shed;
And, in the hallowed tomb of buried love,

To twine life's best affections, round the dead.

ON A VERY OLD WEDDING RING.

The Device-Two hearts united.

The motto "Dear love of mine, my heart is thine."

I LIKE that ring, that ancient ring,
Of massive form, and virgin gold,
As firm, as free from base alloy,
As were the sterling hearts of old.

I like it, for it wafts me back,

Far, far along the stream of time, To other men, and other days,

To men and days, of deeds sublime.

But most I like it, as it tells

The tale of well-requited love;
How youthful fondness persevered,
And youthful faith disdained to rove.

How warmly he his suit preferred,
Though she, unpitying, long denied ;
Till, softened and subdued at last,

He won his "fair and blooming bride."
How, till the appointed day arrived,
They blamed the lazy-footed hours;
How, then, the white robed maiden train,
Strewed their glad way, with freshest flowers;
And how, before the holy man,

They stood, in all their youthful pride,

And spoke those words, and vowed those vows,
Which bind the husband to his bride:

All this it tells; the plighted troth,
The gift of every earthly thing,
The hand in hand, the heart in heart;
For this, I like that ancient ring.

I like its old and quaint device;

"Two blended hearts,"-though time may wear

them;

No mortal change, no mortal chance,

"Till death," shall e'er in sunder tear them.

Year after year; 'neath sun and storm,

Their hopes in heaven, their trust in God,

In changeless, heartfelt, holy love,

These two the world's rough pathways trod.

Age might impair their youthful fires,

Their strength might fail, 'mid life's bleak weather,

Still hand in hand, they travelled on ;

Kind souls! they slumber now together.

I like its simple poesy too :

"Mine own dear love, this heart is thine!" Thine, when the dark storm howls along,

As when the cloudless sunbeams shine. "This heart is thine, mine own dear love!" Thine, and thine only, and for ever;

Thine, till the springs of life shall fail,
Thine, till the cords of life shall sever.

Remnant of days departed long;

Emblem of plighted troth unbroken; Pledge of devoted faithfulness;

Of heartfelt, holy love, the token; What varied feelings, round it cling! For these, I like that ancient ring.

SONS OF THE GREEKS:

Δεύτε παιδες τῶν Ἑλλήνων.

"SONS of the Greeks, arise!"

And gird your armour on ;
Your bleeding country's rights assert,

Avenge your fathers' wrong.

Sons of the helméd brave

Who held Thermopylæ,

Dare, as they dared, the turbaned slave,

And Greece shall yet be free.

Shades of the brave, who bled
Along Cithaeron's steep,

And still, round glory's hallowed bed,
Your watch of ages keep;
Say-shall yon tower-crowned hill
No more be Freedom's home?
Her flag, no more, in triumph float,
Amid yon ocean's foam?