The Cottage Homes of England!
By thousands, on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there they lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair Homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!

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

and lone.

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

ows lie,

When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work

bound,

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

things

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

zy hill?

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
Be but a mournful sound,

Tho' by the hearth its utterance claim
A stillness round.

Tho' for their sakes this earth no more
As it hath been may be,

And shadows, never marked before,
Brood o'er each tree;

And tho' their image dim the sky,
Yet, yet forget them not!

Nor, where their love and life went by,
Forsake the spot!

They have a breathing influence there,
A charm, not elsewhere found;
Sad-yet it sanctifies the air,

The stream, the ground.

Then, though the wind an altered tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone,
A tinge may wear;

Oh! fly it not! no fruitless grief
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf
There, where they dwelt.

Still trace the path which knew their tread,
Still tend their garden-bower,

And call them back, the holy Dead,
To each lone hour!

The holy Dead!-oh! blest we are
That we may name them so,
And to their spirits look afar,
Through all our wo!

Blest, that the things they loved on earth,
As relics we may hold,

Which wake sweet thoughts of parted worth, By springs untold!

Blest, that a deep and chastening power
Thus o'er our souls is given,

If but to bird, or song, or flower,
Yet all for Heaven!

VOL, II.

16

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEAS

ANTS.*

COME to the Sun-set Tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

The twilight-star to Heaven,

And the summer-dew to flowers,
And rest to us is given

By the cool soft evening hours.

Sweet is the hour of rest!

Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,

And the turf whereon we lie.

When the burden and the heat

Of labor's task are o'er,
And kindly voices greet

The tired one at his door.

Come to the Sun-set Tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

Yes; tuneful is the sound

That dwells in whispering boughs;
Welcome the freshness round,

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."