The lilacs where the robin built, I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy. IT WAS NOT IN THE WINTER. IT was not in the winter, Our loving lot was cast; It was the time of Roses,— We plucked them as we passed! That churlish season never frowned Oh, no-the world was newly crowned "Twas twilight, and I bade you go, We plucked them as we passed. What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud? And when I asked the like of Love, And oped it to the dainty core, Still glowing to the last. It was the time of Roses, We plucked them as we passed. THE DEATH BED. WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers, Our very hopes belied our fears, We thought her dying when she slept, For when the morn came dim and sad, Her quiet eyelids closed-she had HOME, SWEET HOME. BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.-1792-1852. [THIS essentially favourite English poem has been claimed as of American origin, simply because its author was born in New York; but residing forty years in this country, he must be regarded as having adopted it as his native country. It is stated that upwards of 100,000 copies of the poem, set to music, were sold in 1832. The author's career as an actor and dramatist belongs to the history of the stage.] 'MID pleasures and palaces, though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home! home, sweet home! There's no place like home! An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain; Give me these, with the peace of mind dearer than all. There's no place like home! THE SHEPHERD BOY. BY LETITIA ELIZABETH MACLEAN.-1802-38. [AS MISS LANDON, writing under the signature of L. E. L., this lady was long a favourite contributor to the annuals and magazines of the day. In addition to these, her longer pieces, under the title of "The Improvisatrice," "The Troubador," and "The Vow of the Peacock," give her a permanent place amongst our female poets, although some of her sweetest and most touching writing is to be found in her prose stories. The little collection of "Traits and Trials of Early Life," has long been a favourite work, and her novels "Ethel Churchill," "Francesca Carrara," "Romance and Reality,” all testify to unusual genius and power at an early age. In 1838 Miss Landon married Mr. Maclean, the governor of Cape Coast Castle, and accompanying him to that province, died within three months.] LIKE some vision olden Of far other time, When the age was golden, In the young world's prime, Is thy soft pipe ringing, O lonely shepherd boy: |