She lived!-and loved me for my care!—
My grief was at an end;
I was a lonely being once,
But now I have a friend.

COLERIDGE.

Fragment.

ALAS! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.

They parted-ne'er to meet again !
But never either found another

To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been.

ANONYMOUS.

Bome.

WHAT, tho' banish'd from home, o'er the world I

may rove,

Still that home I have left is the first in my love;
There's no sorrow so great as its absence to mourn,
No joy that's so bright as the hope of return.
At home are the friends of my earliest years,
That formed my first hopes, and sooth'd my first
fears ;

That taught my young bosom the pleasures of love,
And directed its thoughts to the heaven above.

Tho' much I may love other friends I have seen; Tho' the hills I now tread may be sunny and green; Still the hills of my childhood are brightest and best,

And the friends of my home are the first in my breast.

On that mirror full oft other objects may play,
And flash on its surface alluringly gay;

But the joys of my home form a picture more

bright,

That will glow in the darkness and blaze in the

light;

For that picture is touched by a pencil most true, And the colours that deck it are love's brightest

hue;

As the vapours that rise from the far spreading main, Ascend high in air, and in clouds charg'd with rain Descend on the vales, still, in rivers, their course They will bend to that ocean that gave them their source,

So my love, tho' towards friends I have met 'twill oft burn,

To that centre, my home, it will always return. Tho' the pleasures of home may be scattered at last, Like the sear'd leaves of autumn borne off by the blast,

There's a home that is better and brighter than this, Where no gloom will destroy or o'ershadow its bliss; Oh! how sweet to reflect, when the world's storms are o'er,

There's a haven of joy on eternity's shore,

Where our tempest-toss'd barks will be safe on its breast,

And our hearts from life's troubles eternally rest.

On Bappiness.

TRUE happiness is not the growth of earth; The search is useless if you seek it there; 'Tis an exotic of celestial birth,

And only blossoms in celestial air.

Sweet plant of paradise! its seed is sown

In here and there a plant of heavenly mould; It rises slow and buds, but ne'er was meant To blossom here-the climate is too cold.

The Beart's-Ease.

THERE is a little flower that's found
In almost every garden ground,
"Tis lowly, but 'tis sweet:
And if its name express its power,
A more invaluable flower

You'll never never meet.

No-not the wealth of Chili's mine,
Dear flow'ret may compare with thine,
For thee I'd give it all!
But if the wealthy will not bear
Thy modest charms in their parterre,
Grow 'neath my garden wall.

I said in every garden ground;
Perhaps in Eden 'twas not found,
For there it was not wanted;
But soon as sin and sorrow came,
Thy flower received its gladdening name,
By mercy's angel planted.

He took its azure from the sky:
It is the hue o constancy,

And constant should our faith be;
With that he mingled splendid gold,
To show that, if our faith we hold,
We shall be crown'd with glory.
Mary-if God within our bower,
Should plant this lovely little flower,
To tend it be our duty ;

Then should there be a smile or tear,
So it be mutual, it will rear,

And maturate its beauty.

The Moss Rose.

FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER.

THE Angel of the flowers one day,
Beneath a Rose-tree sleeping lay,
That Spirit to whose charge is given
To bathe young buds in dews from heaven;
Awakening from his light repose,
The Angel whispered to the Rose,-
"Oh fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found where all are fair,
For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me,
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee;"
"Then" said the Rose, with deepened glow,
"On me another grace bestow."-

The Spirit paused, in silent thought,
"What grace was there that flower had not !"
'Twas but a moment-o'er the Rose
A veil of moss the Angel throws,
And, robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that Rose exceed?

The Spirit of Poetry.

What is it? whence comes it? this radiant thing,
With eye of deep azure, and rainbow-dyed wing,
With tresses of moonlight, a form of pure grace,
A voice like the south wind, and seraph's bright face?
Doth she tarry with mortals, a fair cherished guest ?
On our sin-stricken, woe-burdened earth doth she
rest?

Or, fearing to soil those bright wings, doth she fly
Par
ar away from degraded humanity?