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The Cottage Homes of England!
The free, fair Homes of England!
OUR DAILY PATHS.
THERE'S Beauty all around our paths, if but our watchful eyes
Can trace it 'midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise;
We may find it where a hedgerow showers its blossoms
o'er our way,
Or a cottage-window sparkles forth in the last red light of day.
We may find it where a spring shines clear, bencath an aged tree, With the foxglove o'er the water's glass borne downward by the bee; Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen-stems is thrown,
And a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green
We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold blue sky,
While soft on icy pool and stream their pencilled shad
When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work
Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals to the ground.
Yes! Beauty dwells in all our paths-but Sorrow too is there;
How oft sonie cloud within us dims the bright still summer air!
When we carry our sick hearts abroad, amidst the joyous
That through the leafy places glanc'd on many-colored wings.
With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland shades,
And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the glades;
And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's plaintive tone,
Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone. But are we free to do e'en thus to wander as we willBearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the bree
No! in our daily paths lie cares, that oft-times bind us fast,
While from the narrow round we see the golden day fleet past.
They hold us from the woodlark's haunts and the violetdingles back,
And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining river's track;
They bar us from our heritage of spring-time hope and mirth,
And weigh our burdened spirits down with the cumbering dust of earth.
Yet should this be?-Too much, too soon, despondingly we yield!
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field! A sweeter by the birds of heaven-which tell us, in their flight,
Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them right!
Shall not this knowledge calin our hearts, and bid vain conflicts cease?
-Aye, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of peace,
And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our pathway lies, By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the skies!
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
FORGET them not! tho' now their name
Tho' by the hearth its utterance claim
Tho' for their sakes this earth no more
And shadows, never marked before,
And tho' their image dim the sky,
Nor, where their love and life went by,
They have a breathing influence there,
The stream, the ground.
Then, though the wind an altered tone
Oh! fly it not! no fruitless grief
Still trace the path which knew their tread,
And call them back, the holy Dead,
The holy Dead!-oh! blest we are
Blest, that the things they loved on earth,
Which wake sweet thoughts of parted worth, By springs untold!
Blest, that a deep and chastening power
If but to bird, or song, or flower,
EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEAS
COME to the Sun-set Tree!
And the reaper's work is done.
The twilight-star to Heaven,
And the summer-dew to flowers,
By the cool soft evening hours.
Sweet is the hour of rest!
Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the turf whereon we lie.
When the burden and the heat
Of labor's task are o'er,
The tired one at his door.
Come to the Sun-set Tree!
The day is past and gone;
And the reaper's work is done.
Yes; tuneful is the sound
That dwells in whispering boughs;
And the gale that fans our brows.
*"The loved hour of repose is striking. Let us come to the Sun-set Tree."-See Captain Sherer's interesting Notes and reflections during a Ramble in Germany."