The Cottage Homes of England!

By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet-fanes.

Thro' glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves,

And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair Homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,

May hearts of native proof be rear'd

To guard each hallow'd wall!

And

green for ever be the

groves,

And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God !*

*

Originally published in Blackwood's Magazine.

THE SICILIAN CAPTIVE.

I have dreamt thou wert

A captive in thy hopelessness; afar

From the sweet home of thy young infancy,

Whose image unto thee is as a dream

Of fire and slaughter; I can see thee wasting,
Sick for thy native air.

L. E. L.

THE champions had come from their fields of war,

Over the crests of the billows far,

They had brought back the spoils of a hundred shores, Where the deep had foam'd to their flashing oars.

They sat at their feast round the Norse-king's board, By the glare of the torch-light the mead was pour'd, The hearth was heap'd with the pine-boughs high, And it flung a red radiance on shields thrown by.

The Scalds had chaunted in Runic rhyme,

Their songs of the sword and the olden time,

And a solemn thrill, as the harp-chords rung,

Had breath'd from the walls where the bright spears

hung.

But the swell was gone from the quivering string,

They had summon'd a softer voice to sing,

And a captive girl, at the warriors' call,

Stood forth in the midst of that frowning hall.

Lonely she stood:-in her mournful eyes
Lay the clear midnight of southern skies,
And the drooping fringe of their lashes low,
Half veil'd a depth of unfathom'd wo.

Stately she stood-tho' her fragile frame

Seem'd struck with the blight of some inward flame,

And her proud pale brow had a shade of scorn,

Under the waves of her dark hair worn,

And a deep flush pass'd, like a crimson haze,
O'er her marble cheek by the pine-fire's blaze;
No soft hue caught from the south-wind's breath,
But a token of fever, at strife with death.

She had been torn from her home away,
With her long locks crown'd for her bridal day,

And brought to die of the burning dreams

That haunt the exile by foreign streams.

They bade her sing of her distant land—

She held its lyre with a trembling hand,
Till the spirit its blue skies had given her, woke,
And the stream of her voice into music broke.

Faint was the strain, in its first wild flow,
Troubled its murmur, and sad, and low;

But it swell'd into deeper power ere long,

As the breeze that swept over her soul grew strong.

They bid me sing of thee, mine own, my sunny

land! of thee!

Am I not parted from thy shores by the mournful

sounding sea?

Doth not thy shadow wrap my soul ?-in silence let me die,

In a voiceless dream of thy silvery founts, and thy pure deep sapphire sky;

How should thy lyre give here its wealth of buried sweetness forth?

Its tones, of summer's breathings born, to the wild winds of the north?

"Yet thus it shall be once, once more!-my spirit

shall awake,

And thro' the mists of death shine out, my coun

try! for thy sake!