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The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnam on his birth-day,-
The tree is living yet!

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
On early lovers yet :-

Oh, no-the world was newly crowned
With flowers when first we met !

"Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of Roses,-

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,
You snatched a damask bud ;

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,
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;

We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed-she had
Another morn than ours.

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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;
Oh! give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gaily that came at my call,

Give me these, with the peace of mind dearer than all.
Home! home, sweet home!

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:
What song art thou singing,
In thy youth and joy?

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