I heard not a wail midst the joyous crowd-
The music of victory was all too loud!
Mighty it ruled on the winds afar,

Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car--
Through torches and streamers its flood swept by:
How could I listen for moan or sigh?

Turn then away from life's pageants—turn,
If its deep story thy heart would learn!
Ever too bright is that outward show,
Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe.

But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view
The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true;
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal :-
So must thy spirit be taught to feel!

THE SPELLS OF HOME.

"There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen
Joy's visits when most brief."

BERNARD BARTON.

By the soft green light in the woody glade,

On the banks of moss where thy childhood played,
By the household tree through which thine eye
First looked in love to the summer sky,

By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the primrose-tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious-oh, guard it well!

By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lulled thee into many a dream,
By the shiver of the ivy leaves

To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves,
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth,
When twilight called unto household mirth,
By the fairy tale or the legend old

In that ring of happy faces told,

By the quiet hour when hearts unite

In the parting prayer and the kind "Good-night!"
By the smiling eye, and the loving tone,
Over thy life has the spell been thrown.

And bless that gift!-it hath gentle might,
A guardian power and a guiding light.
It hath led the freeman forth to stand

In the mountain-battles of his land;
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;
And back to the gates of his father's hall
It hath led the weeeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray

From the pure first-loves of its youth away

When the sullying breath of the world would come

O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's homeThink thou again of the woody glade,

And the sound by the rustling ivy made-

Think of the tree at thy father's door,

And the kindly spell shall have power once more!

ROMAN GIRL'S SONG.

". Roma, Roma, Roma!

Non è più come era prima."

ROME, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been !

On thy seven hills of yore

Thou satst a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,
Leaders and sceptred men

Bowed at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore,

As gods were seen

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been !

Rome! thine imperial brow

Never shall rise:

What hast thou left thee now?

Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are,

Gloriously bright!

Veiling thy wastes afar

With coloured light.

Thou hast the sunset's glow,
Rome! for thy dower,
Flushing tall cypress-bough,

Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine,

Many a solemn hymn,
By starlight sung,

Sweeps through the arches dim,

Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell,
On thy soft air

Lingers and loves to dwell

With summer there.
Thou hast the south's rich gift
Of sudden song-
A charmed fountain, swift,
Joyous and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;

Thou hast proud fanes above

Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore

A mournful mien :

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

Look round thee! O'er the slumbering deep A solemn glory broods;

A fire hath touched the beacon-steep,

And all the golden woods;

A thousand gorgeous clouds on high
Burn with the amber light!-
What spell from that rich pageantry
Chains down thy gazing sight?

A softening thought of human cares,
A feeling linked to earth!

Is not yon speck a bark which bears
The loved of many a hearth?

Oh! do not Hope, and Grief, and Fear,
Crowd her frail world even now,

And manhood's prayer and woman's tear
Follow her venturous prow?

Bright are the floating clouds above,
The glittering seas below;

But we are bound by cords of love
To kindred weal and woe.
Therefore, amidst this wide array
Of glorious things and fair,
My soul is on that bark's lone way—
For human hearts are there.

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing!
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring?
"We come from the shores of the green old Nile,
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile,
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky,
From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.

"We have swept o'er cities in song renowned-
Silent they lie with the deserts round!

We have crossed proud rivers whose tide hath rolled
All dark with the warrior-blood of old ;
And each worn wing.hath regained its home,
Under peasant's roof-tree or monarch's dome."

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam?—
"We have found a change, we have found a pall,
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall,
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt-
Nought looks the same, save the nest we built!"

O joyous birds! it hath still been so ;
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go!
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep :
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?—

"A change we have found there—and many a change!
Faces and footsteps, and all things strange!
Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,

And the young that were have a brow of care,

And the place is hushed where the children played—
Nought looks the same, save the nest we made!"

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth!
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair?
Ye over desert and deep have passed-
So may we reach our bright home at last!

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee ;-
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow:
She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One, midst the forest of the West,
By a dark stream is laid-

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar-shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-
He lies where pearls lie deep;

He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain :

He wrapt his colours round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee !

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth !—

Alas, for love! if thou wert all,

And nought beyond, O Earth!

MOZART'S REQUIEM.

[A short time before the death of Mozart, a stranger of remarkable appearance, and dressed in deep mourning, called at his house, and requested him to pre'pare a requiem, in his best style, for the funeral of a distinguished person. The sensitive imagination of the composer immediately seized upon the circumstance as an omen of his own fate; and the nervous anxiety with which he laboured to fulfil the task, had the effect of realising his impression

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