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 thro' the Indian sky, From the myrrh-trees of glowing Araby.

"We have swept o'er cities in song renown'd

Silent they lie, with the deserts round!

We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath roll'd

All dark with the warrior-blood of old;

And each worn wing hath regain'd its home,

Under peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome."

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome,
Since last ye travers'd 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!"

Oh! joyous birds, it hath still been so;
Thro' 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 hush'd where the children play'd,——

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 thro' the wastes of the trackless air,

Ye have a Guide, and shall we despair?

Ye over desert and deep have pass'd,-
So

may we reach our bright home at last!

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,

They fill❜d one home with glee ;——— Their graves are sever'd, 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 forests 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 lov'd 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 fann'd;

She faded midst Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who play'd

Beneath the same green tree;

Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent knee !