birth and power; the poor man's attachment to the tenement he holds, which strangers have held before, and may to-morrow occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a purer soil. His household gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy of silver, Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leavesWhat may the fruit be yet? I know not-Cain was gold, or precious stones; he has no property but in Eve's. But here youth offers to old age the food, To whom she renders back the debt of blood Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven's realm holds The starry fable of the milky-way And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Where sparkle distant worlds :-O, holiest nurse! LORD BYRON. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go: And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. ROBERT BURNS. AFFECTIONS OF HOME. F ever household affections and loves are graceful things, they are graceful in the poor. The ties that bind the wealthy and the proud to home, may be forged on earth, but those which link the poor man to his humble hearth, are of the true metal, and bear the stamp of heaven. The man of high descent may love the halls and lands of his inheritance as a part of himself, as trophies of his the affections of his own heart; and when they endear bare floors and walls, despite of toil and scanty meals, that man has his love of home from God, and his rude hut becomes a solemn place. CHARLES DICKENS. O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR! LAY thy hand in mine, dear! We're growing old; But Time hath brought no sign, dear, That hearts grow cold. 'Tis long, long since our new love But age enricheth true love, Like noble wine. And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, Mine arms around thee twine, dear, A many cares are pressing On this dear head; But Sorrow's hands in blessing Are surely laid. O, lean thy life on mine, dear! 'T will shelter thee. Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, On my young tree: And so, till boughs are leafless, And songbirds flown, We'll twine, then lay us, griefless, GERALD Massey. THE ABSENT ONES. SHALL leave the old house in the autumn, That meet me each morn at the door! I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, I shall miss them at morn and at even, And death says, "The school is dismissed!" To bid me good night and be kissed! A PICTURE. 'HE farmer sat in his easy-chair, Smoking his pipe of clay, While his hale old wife, with busy care, A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, The old man laid his hand on her head, As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, "Don't smoke !" said the child; "how it makes you cry!" The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, Where the shade after noon used to steal; The busy old wife, by the open door, Was turning the spinning-wheel; And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, While close to his heaving breast HOMESICK. OME to me, O my Mother! come to ne, By great invisible winds, come stately ships But, O my Mother, never comest thou! The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow, That cold soft revelation pure as light, And the pine-spire is mystically fringed. Why am I from thee, Mother, far from thee? Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods With mazy winding motion intricate, DAVID GRAY. MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. HE is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, The warld's wrack we share o't, Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine. ROBERT BURNS. THE RECONCILIATION. S through the land at eve we went, For when we came where lies the child There above the little grave, Oh, there above the little grave, We kiss'd again with tears. ALFRED TENNYSON. |