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in the field, or the forum, but at home. The songbird of Eastern story, borne from its native isle, grew dumb and languished. Seldom did it sing, and only when it saw a dweller from its distant land, or to its drowsy perch there came a tone, heard long ago in its own woods. So with the song that woman sings; best heard within Home's sacred temple. Elsewhere, a trumpet-tone-perhaps a clarion-cry, but the lutelike voice has fled: the 'mezzo-soprano' is lost in the discords of earth.

The old homestead! I wish I could paint it for you, as it is—no, no, I dare not say, as it is—as it was; that we could go together, to-night, from room to room; sit by the old hearth, round which that circle of light and love once swept, and there linger, till all those simpler, purer times returned, and we should grow young again.

And how can we leave that spot, without remembering one form, that occupied, in days gone by, the old arm-chair:' that old-fashioned MOTHER ?—one in all the world, the law of whose life was love; one who was the divinity of our infancy, and the sacred presence in the shrine of our first earthly idolatry ; one whose heart is far below the frosts that gather so thickly on her brow; one to whom we never grow

old, but, in the plumed troop' or the grave council, are children still; one who welcomed us coming, blest us going, and never forgets us—never!

And when, in some closet, some drawer, some corner, she finds a garment or a toy that once was yours, how does she weep, as she thinks you may be suffering or sad.

And when Spring

'Leaves her robe on the trees,'

does she not remember your tree, and wish you were there to see it in its glory?

Nothing is far,' and nothing 'long,' to her; she girdles the globe with a cincture of love; she encircles her child, if he be on the face of the earth.

Think you, as she sits in that well-remembered cor, ner to-night, she dreams her trembling arm is less powerful to protect him now, stalwart man though he is, than when it clasped him, in infancy, to her bosom?

Does the battle of life drive the wanderer to the old homestead, at last? Her hand is upon his shoulder; her dim and fading eyes are kindled with something of the light of other days,' as she gazes upon

his brow: Be of stout heart, my SoN! No harm can reach thee here!'

Surely, there is but one Heaven-one Mother-and one God.

But sometimes that arm-chair is set back against the wall, the corner is vacant, or another's, and they seek the dear, old occupant in the graveyard. God grant you never have! Pray God, I never may !

There are some there, though, whom we lovedthere must be, to make it easy dying; some, perhaps, who were cradled on that mother's bosom; some, perhaps, who had grown fast to our own.

The old graveyard in L-! How the cloudy years clear away from before that little acre in God's fallow field, and the memories return

Broken Memories in Broken Rhymes.

There's a little graveyard, brother, where the Lombardy poplars wave,

Forever and forever, and above a little grave;

Though the greensward has subsided, and there's no one there to tell

"Twas when we were boys together-yet I should know it well.

When we were boys together! Oh! how far we must have

run,

The matin and the vesper blend so mournfully in one.

I'm a-weary with the watching, through this being's cloudy

bars,

For the dear, dim days, my brother, that are rounded into

stars.

The last time I was there, brother, a robin had wove a nest, In the little fence they builded round the sleeper in his rest; But the nest was silent, brother; not a bird was there to sing Where song itself once nestled, ere song had taken wing.

I am sure you must remember, the little grave I meanThere are only you and I now, but there once was one

between:

'Twas before that grave was hollowed, and before that song had fled,

And before they told me, weeping, that the beautiful was

dead.

Oh! they tell us of the future-of purer lives and perfect

men,

But I shouldn't wonder, brother, we were nearer Heaven

then;

If by life's wild tempest driven, that sweet port we've drifted

past;

Oh! send a pilot, gentle Heaven, to bring us back at last.

From home to home, my brother! Oh! how breathless were the bliss,

To be the boys together there-in that world as in this! Methought I heard a hail, brother, and it syllabled my name; Oh! ship your oar a moment, let us listen whence it came.

There away, like moonlight breaking, something dawning through the dark!

Now the shadow shape is taking-sail of silver! silver barque!

In the bow there stands an angel, and a cherub by her

side;

And that cherub, trust me, brother, is 'the little boy that

died.'

Angel? No! But wife and woman; she that looked me into love,

While below she sweetly waited for her wings, and went

above.

Had I seen through her disguising, could I so have loved and mourned?

Oh! that loving, and that weeping, would have been to worship turned.

As a maiden at her window, watches Love's pale planet rise, So my MARY's soul was watching, ever watching at her eyes. As that maiden, footsteps hearing, from the darkened window

flying,

So some angel, earth-ward nearing, lured my Mary into dying!

Oh! in what far seas we wander-for we must be off that

shore,

Where none are ever stranded, yet none are heard of more. I am sure there is no record left, of one that ever sailed, Who was ever in such music, by such a vision hailed.

But that lonely graveyard, brother-in its bosom let me rest, With the turf as green above me, as my childhood's feet impressed;

Where our mother's songs still linger, linger in the evening

air,

Sweetly dreamless could I slumber-slumber there, if any

where!

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