THE VOICE OF HOME. TO THE PRODIGAL. On! when wilt thou return The summer-birds are calling, With sweet laughter in their sound. And a thousand bright-veined flowers, 'Midst the banks of moss and fern, Breathe of the sunny hours But when wilt thou return? Oh! thou hast wandered long Thou hast flung the wealth away, -But when wilt thou return? O'er the image of the sky, Which the lake's clear bosom wore, Darkly may shadows lie But not for evermore. Give back thy heart again To the gladness of the woods, -But when wilt thou return? There are young sweet voices borne- Still at thy father's board There is kept a place for thee, And by thy smile restored, Joy round the hearth shall be. Still hath thy mother's eye, Tender, and gravely sweet. Still, when the prayer is said, ANCIENT SONG OF VICTORY. "Fill high the bowl with Samian wine, Our yirgins dance beneath the shade." I. Io! they come, they come! II. Swell, swell the Dorian flute, III. Byron With the offering of bright blood, Io! they come, they come ! IV. Sing it where olives wave, V. Mark ye the flashing oars, And the spears that light the deep? How the festal sunshine pours Where the lords of battle sweep! VI. Each hath brought back his shield ;,-- VII. Who murmured of the dead? VIII. Breathe not those names to-day! IX. But now shed flowers, pour wine, THE BETTER LAND. "I HEAR thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st 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, "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! DEATH OF AN INFANT. DEATH found strange beauty on that cherub brow, There spake a wishful tenderness,—a doubt For ever; there had been a murmuring sound, |