The Home of Childhood.

  Home of my childhood, once again,
    With fond delight, I turn to thee;
  Here, in this green and silent glen,
    I’ll sit beneath the o’ershadowing tree;
  While memory, with its magic power,
    Summons to my enraptured mind,
  Scenes, which, till this mysterious hour,
  Had been to Lethean waves consign’d.

  Sweet visions rise before my gaze,
    All dim and meagre, like ruins old;
  Which seen beneath the moon’s pale rays,
    Scarce can their real form be told. 
  Yet, beautiful and fair they seem,—­
    Those shadowy visions of the past;
  And to my soul they bring a dream
  Of happines, too bright to last.

  Soft eyes are gazing on my own,—­
    Sweet voices fall upon my ear,—­
  I feel that I am not alone,
    For spirits of the loved are near;
  And joyfully my soul goes forth,
    Mingling with theirs in blissful love,
  Linked in the bonds of union sweet—­
    Through the past scenes of life we rove.

  And once again, they spring to life,—­
    The hopes and joys of other years;
  Fresh as before the world’s rude strife
    Had changed their fount to bitter tears,
  Smiles, looks and words that long had been
    Erased from memory’s tablet leaves,
  Come thronging o’er my soul again,
    Bright as the spell which Fancy weaves.

  Oh, could the dream forever last,—­
    Could those loved forms forever stay;
  But no, e’en now the visions past,—­
    Like rainbow hues they fade away. 
  And I am left to muse alone,
    As one by one, those forms depart: 
  The chill wind blows with hollow moan,
    And sadness broodeth o’er my heart.

  Well, I must nerve my spirit up,
    To meet life’s trials, stern and dark;
  I’ll shrink not from the bitter cup,
    For fear, though storms assail my bark. 
  But I will trust in him, whose power
    Curbs the proud billows in their might,
  Whose presence cheers the darkest hour,
    And guides the wanderer’s bark aright.

The Happy Land.

  There is a land beyond the sky,
    Where all is fair and bright,
  No tear there dims the sparkling eye,
    No cloud obscures the light.

  There, in those bright elysian fields,
    Bloom flow’rs that never fade;
  And seraphs tune their golden harps,
    In spotless robes arrayed.

Devotion.

  Tempted, my cottage home to leave,
  I wandered forth one dewy eve,
    When all was hushed and still;
  Save the low music of the breeze,
  That murmur’d through the leafy trees,
    And gushing of the rill.

  An unfrequented path I took,
  That led to a sequester’d nook—­
    That ’neath the moon’s pale beams,
  Seemed like some spirit-haunted dell,
  Where those light, airy phantoms dwell,
    That visit us in dreams.