HOME.

HERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven, o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,

And milder moons emparadise the night;

A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth;
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,

Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,

Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.

In every clime the magnet of his soul,

Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth, supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend,
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend:
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow path of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet.

Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be found?
Art thou a man? a patriot? look around;
Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.

MONTGOMERY.

The Homes of England.

273

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

HE stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand,

Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across their greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam;
And the swan glides by them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!

The blessed homes of England!

How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!

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 the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath the eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed 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!

HEMANS.

LOVE TO PARENTS.

O honour those who gave us birth,
To cheer their age, to feel their worth,
Is God's command to human kind,

And owned by every grateful mind.

Trace then the tender scenes of old,

And all our infant days unfold;

Yield back to sight the mother's breast,
Watchful to lull her child to rest.

Survey her toil, her anxious care,
To form the lisping lips to prayer;
To win for God the yielding soul,
And all its ardent thoughts control.

Nor hold from memory's glad review,
The fears which all the father knew;
The joy that marked his thankful gaze,
As virtue crowned maturer days.

When pressed by sickness, pain, or grief,
How anxious they to give relief!
Our dearest wish they held their own;
Till our's returned their peace was flown.

The Mother's Prayer.

God of our life, each parent guard,

And death's sad hour, oh, long retard;
Be theirs each joy that gilds the past,

And heaven our mutual home at last.

275

MY MOTHER.

NOEL.

Y mother, my kind mother,
I hear thy gentle voice;

It always makes my little heart

Beat gladly and rejoice.

When I am ill, it comes to me,

And kindly soothes my pain;
And when I sleep, then in my dreams
It sweetly comes again.

It always makes me happy,
Whene'er I hear its tone;

I know it is the voice of love,
From a heart that is my own.

My mother, my dear mother,
Oh, may I never be
Unkind or disobedient,
In any way to thee.

ANON.

THE MOTHER'S PRAYER.

AIN, O my child, I'd have thee know,
The God whom angels love :

And teach thee feeble strains below,

Akin to theirs above.

Oh, when thy lisping tongue shall read
Of truths divinely sweet,

May'st thou, a little child indeed,
Sit down at Jesus' feet.

I'll move thine ear, I'll point thine eye-
But, ah! the inward part—

Great God, the Spirit! hear the sigh
That trembles through my heart!

Break, with thy vital beam benign,
O'er all the mental wild!

Bright o'er the human chaos shine,

And sanctify my child.

MRS. VOKE.

A MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE.

HAT can a mother's heart repay,
In after years,

For watchful night and weary day

Beside the cradle passed away,

And anxious tears?

To see her dear one tread the earth

In life and health, and childish mirth.

What can a mother's heart repay
For later care,—

For words that heavenward point the way,
For counsel against passion's sway,
And earnest prayer?

To watch her little pilgrims press

Along the road to holiness.