MY HOME.

BY THE REV. E. BARNARD.

YON old grey wall, whose gable high
Lifts the Redeemer's sign,
Whose tendrils green like tracery
O'er arch and mullion twine,-

It is, in truth, a holy place;

For God himself hath deigned to grace
That humble Home of mine:

And thoughts of Him are blended fair
With every joy I've tasted there.

The one best friend, whose modest worth
Even from my praises flies;

The babe, whose soul is budding forth
From her blue smiling eyes;

And prattling still, the sturdy boy,
Who climbs my knee with heart of joy
To gain his little prize-

Their looks of love how can I see,

Nor think, great Sire of Love, on thee?

Pride enters not yon peaceful room;
But books and arts abound;
Nor there do vain Penates come
To reign-'tis holy ground!
And duly, Lord, when evening brings
Release from toil on balmy wings,

An household band is found
To raise thy throne, and offer there
The gift thou lov'st, domestic prayer.

Within, all studies end in thee;
And when abroad I rove,

There's not a herb, a flower, or tree,

That speaks not of thy love:

There's not a leaf, that whirled on high
Wanders along the stormy sky,

That hath not words to prove,―
How like would be my restless lot,
If grace divine upheld me not!

Oh! look upon yon glorious scene;
Wood, hill, and wave survey:
Mark every path where God hath been,
And own his wondrous way.

For me, I daily come to bless,
Dear landscape, all thy loveliness;
And dare not turn away,

Till I have said the Psalmist's line

"These gracious works, dread Lord, are thine."

My Home! my Home! I've paused awhile
In many a stranger land,

And seen in all "boon nature" smile

Beneath her Maker's hand:

But never, since calm reason took
From Fancy's clutch, her rhyming book,
A joyful resting planned—

Till here the blessed scene I laid,
Here in mine own romantic shade.

My Home! my Home! oh, ever dear
Thy hallowed scenes shall be;

In joy or grief, in hope or fear,
My spirit clings to thee.

I deem my Home an emblem meet
Of that enduring last retreat,

From pain and passion free,

Where Peace shall fix her bright abode,
And yield her followers up to God.

THE GREEK EXILE.

THIS is a fair and lovely spot,

And cherished by a kindly hand;

But oh! its loveliness is not

Like that which clothes our father-land;

For there the deserts wild and rude,
Have spirits in their solitude!

The naked rock, the black defile,

The stream that rolls in darkness by, The olive mount, the sea-girt isle,—— Each have their record proud and high; "Go stranger, to thy fellows tell There patriots fought, there patriots fell!"

The poet's song doth mingle there,

With all that nature's bounty yields; All that exists of grand or fair,

Its snow-clad hills, its laughing fields; And I through this cold world must roam, An exile from that happy home.

Son of the Morning! what art thou?

We are a nation of the dead,

The life, the spirit, vanished now,

And darkness o'er our dwellings spread,

But monuments sublime are there,
Which thou must gaze on, and despair.

And here the Athenian trumpet rang-
And here was heard the Spartan flute-
Till far and wide the battle clang

Sounded above the horn and lute,
As on they rushed,-and many a brand
Was shivered for their father-land.

Alas! alas! 't is desolate,

And all that thou canst now behold, Are relics mute, inanimate,—

Faint tokens of the times of old: Whose seal and impress yet they bearBut whose renown we may not share.

Yet shall the fond remembrance trace
The triumphs that our land hath known,
The majesty that crowned a race

Of heroes in the ages flown!
And future days perchance shall bring
Deeds worthy that the bard may sing.

The ruined fane, the broken stone

That crumbles at thy touch, doth tell Of peopled towns, that now are lone, Or where their humble offspring dwell: Ay, cringing to the ground they go, And feel not, or belie their woe.

But

go thou forth, my soul, beyond The view stretched out before thine eye, And fear thou not, nor e'er despond,

But o'er the storm's deep thunder cry— "Hellas! the time-thy time-is come! Awake! arouse thee from the tomb!"

Yet visions of the night are mine,

And day-dreams of the joy to be, That whisper with a voice divine,

"Thy heart shall feel, thine eyes shall see A glory o'er the land arise,

And Freedom's banner flout the skies!"

A LAMENT FOR THE FAIRIES.

O who has not hearkened in days of his childhood,
To tales that were told of the lost fairy land,-
Whose denizens sported at night through the wild wood,
Or chased the blue waves on the moon-lighted strand;
Nor sometimes been tempted to doubt whether knowledge
Be worth the belief it has driven away ;-

Whether all the lore gathered at school or at college,
Hath pleased like the visions of fairies at play!

Fairy land was the dream of the world when awaking From her second long slumber of darkness and dread, When even superstition began to be taking

Some tinges of beauty and light ere she fled: Then fancy delighted, first mingled her terrors, Of demons and ghosts, with the lovely and fair, And called to adorn her, this dearest of errorsOf fairies on earth, and of sylphs in the air.

But now the world's older-they say it is wiser,-
I wish they could prove it is happier too;
But I fear that, as much as we think we despise her,
We oft sigh for pleasures that ignorance knew.

The fairies, alas! are for ever gone from us,

The joys of our childhood in age leave no trace,

But I cannot discover the raptures they promise

Our wisdom shall bring us, have yet filled their place.

The shepherd has often ranged o'er mountains and valleys,
A look at the elves in their gambols to steal;
And whene'er disappointed, has thought it their malice
That would not themselves or their treasures reveal:-

But tell me, ye sages, who smile at the story,

Were YE never lured by as foolish a thought— Have ye never chased riches, or splendour, or glory, For pleasures they never would give you, if caught?