Where our fire-side comforts sit
In the wildest weather;

Oh! they wander wide, who roam,
For the joys of life, from home.

Nearer, nearer bands of love
Draw our souls in union,
To our Father's house above,
To the saints' communion;
Thither every hope ascend,
There may all our labours end.

A HERMITAGE.

WHOSE is this humble dwelling-place,
The flat turf-roof with flowers o'ergrown?
Ah! here the tenant's name I trace,
Moss-cover'd, on the threshold stone.

Well, he has peace within and rest, Though nought of all the world beside ; Yet, stranger, deem not him unblest, Who knows not avarice, lust, or pride.

Nothing he asks, nothing he cares
For all that tempts or troubles round;
He craves no feast, no finery wears,
Nor once o'ersteps his narrow bound.

No need of light, though all be gloom,
To cheer his eye,-that eye is blind;
No need of fire in this small room,
He recks not tempest, rain, or wind.

No gay companion here; no wife
To gladden home with true-love smiles;
No children,-from the woes of life,
To win him with their artless smiles.

Nor joy, nor sorrow, enter here,
Nor throbbing heart, nor aching limb;
No sun, no moon, no stars appear,
And man and brute are nought to him.

This dwelling is a hermit's cave,
With space alone for one poor bed;
This dwelling is a mortal's grave,
Its sole inhabitant is dead.

THE FALLING LEAF.

WERE I a trembling leaf,
On yonder stately tree,
After a season gay and brief,
Condemn'd to fade and flee:

I should be loth to fall
Beside the common way,

Weltering in mire, and spurn'd by all, Till trodden down to clay.

Nor would I choose to die

All on a bed of grass,

Where thousands of my kindred lie,

And idly rot in mass.

Nor would I like to spread
My thin and wither'd face
In hortus siccus, pale and dead,
A mummy of my race.

No, on the wings of air

Might I be left to fly,

I know not and I heed not where ;

A waif of earth and sky!

Or flung upon the stream,

Curl'd like a fairy-boat,

As through the changes of a dream,
To the world's end to float!

Who that hath ever been,

Could bear to be no more?

Yet who would tread again the scene, He trod through life before?

On, with intense desire,

Man's spirit will move on;

It seems to die, yet, like heaven's fire,

It is not quench'd, but gone.

ON PLANTING A TULIP-ROOT.

HERE lies a bulb, the child of earth,
Buried alive beneath the clod,

Ere long to spring, by second birth,
A new and nobler work of God.

'Tis said that microscopic power
Might through its swaddling folds descry
The infant-image of the flower,
Too exquisite to meet the eye.

This, vernal suns and rains will swell,
Till from its dark abode it peep,
Like Venus rising from her shell,
Amidst the spring-tide of the deep.

Two shapely leaves will first unfold,
Then on a smooth elastic stem,
The verdant bud shall turn to gold,
And open in a diadem.

Not one of Flora's brilliant race

A form more perfect can display;

Art could not feign more simple grace,
Nor Nature take a line away.

Yet, rich as morn of many a hue,

When flushing clouds through darkness strike,

The tulip's petals shine in dew,

All beautiful,--but none alike.

N

Kings, on their bridal, might unrobe
To lay their glories at its foot;

And queens, their sceptre, crown, and globe,
Exchange for blossom, stalk, and root.

Here could I stand and moralize;
Lady, I leave that part to thee;
Be thy next birth in Paradise,
Thy life to come eternity.

THE ADVENTURE OF A STAR.

Addressed to a Young Lady.

A STAR Would be a flower;

So down from heaven it came,

And, in a honeysuckle bower,

Lit up its little flame.

There on a bank, beneath a shade,

By sprays, and leaves, and blossoms made, It overlook'd the garden-ground,

-A landscape stretching ten yards round: O what a change of place

From gazing through th' eternity of space.

Gay plants on every side
Unclosed their lovely blooms,
And scatter'd far and wide

Their ravishing perfumes :