"Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play, Through the long bright hours of the summerday;

They find the red-cup moss where they climb, And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme; And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know!

Lady, kind lady, oh! let me go."

"Content thee, boy, in my bower to dwell! Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well; Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,

Harps which the wandering breezes tune; And the silvery wood-note of many a bird, Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountains heard.”

"My mother sings, at the twilight's fall,

A

song of the hills far more sweet than all! She sings it under our own green tree, To the babe half slumbering on her knee! I dreamt last night of that music low;Lady, kind lady, oh! let me go."

"Thy mother hath gone from her cares to rest, She hath taken her babe on her quiet breast.

THE MOUNTAIN-HOME.

107

Thou wouldst meet her footstep, my boy, no

more,

Nor hear her song at the cabin-door!

Come thou with me to the vineyards nigh, And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye !”

"Is my mother gone from her home away?— But I know that my brothers are there at play!

I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell,

And the long fern-leaves by the sparkling

well;

Or they launch their boats where the blue streams flow!

Lady, kind lady, oh! let me go.”

"Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers

now,

They sport no more on the mountain's brow! They have left the fern by the spring's green side,

And the streams where the fairy-barks were

tied!

Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot,
For thy cabin home is a lonely spot!"

"Are they gone-all gone-from the sunny hill?

But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still, And the red deer bound in their gladness free, And the heath is bent by the singing bee, And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow! Lady, sweet lady, oh! let me go."

MRS. HEMANS.

THE PIOUS DEAD.

THOU art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;

The Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee,

And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom.

Thou art gone to the grave;- -we no longer

behold thee,

Nor tread the rough paths of the world by thy side:

But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,

And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died.

Perhaps thy tried spirit in fear linger'd long; But the sunshine of heaven beam'd bright on thy waking,

And the sound which thou heardst was the seraphim's song.

Thou art gone to the grave,—but we will not deplore thee,

Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian, and guide:

He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee,

And death has no sting, for the Saviour hath

died.

BISHOP HEBER.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chesnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

L

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can ;

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village-bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door ;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And watch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a thrashing-floor

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach;
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village-choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.