Sweet home! Oh, pitied be the frozen soul Which flies affection's bland and melting light, And woos the gleams that flash around the pole; Cold, cheerless feeling-offspring of the night! Which shuns the sunshine of domestic peace, Like summer morn, all lovely and serene, Whose pleasures but with lengthening years increase, While friendship's sweetest smiles illume the scene. Sweet, happy home! Oh, can I e'er forget Thy charms-thy flowery bowers, thine azure sky, And those dear friends who in thy bowers are met? Ah, no! ah, no! I'll love thee till I die. ANON CHRIST PRESENTED IN THE TEMPLE. WHEN Jesus, by the virgin brought, Was offer'd holy to the Lord, And at the altar given ; Simeon, the just and the devout, Had for the Saviour waited long, Came, heaven-directed, at the hour With holy joy upon his face, And then he lifted up to heaven 66 My joy is full, my hour is come; "At last my arms embrace my Lord, "The star and glory of the land The morning that shall gild the globe JOHN LOGAN. SPRING. "SPRING, where are you tarrying now? Why are you so long unfelt? Winter went a month ago, When the snows began to melt.” "I am coming, little maiden, "I am coming, I am coming! "See, the yellow catkins cover "Hark! the little lambs are bleating. In the sun goes flitting by. "Little maiden, look around thee! "Turn thy eyes to earth and heaven! -- So may'st thou 'mid blessings dwell:- ANON. "WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER?" "WHAT is that, mother?"-" The lark, my child! The morn has but just look'd out, and smil'd, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear. Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise." "The dove, my "What is that, mother?". son! And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Is flowing out from her gentle breast, "What is that, mother?"-"The eagle, boy!Proudly careering his course of joy, Firm, on his own mountain vigour relying, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying. His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, Onward and upward, and true to the line.” "What is that, mother?"-" The swan, my love! He is floating down from his native grove: No loved one now, no nestling nigh, He is floating down by himself to die; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. Live so, my love, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home." DOANE. WHERE DWELLETH GOD? WHERE dwelleth God? Behold on high The Lord has fixed his viewless throne, |