What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told;

Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The cottage homes of England!

By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brook,

And round the hamlet-fanes,

Through glowing orchards forth they peep,

Each from its nook of leaves;

And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free fair homes of England!
Long, long in hut and hall

May hearts of native proof be reared

To guard each hallowed wall.

And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flow'ry sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves

Its country and its God.

HEMANS.

EVENING PRAYER IN A GIRLS' SCHOOL.

HUSH! 'tis a holy hour-the quiet room
Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds
A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom
And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads,

With all their clustering locks, untouched by care,
And bowed, as flowers are bowed by night, in prayer.

Gaze on-'tis lovely!-childhood's lip and cheek,
Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought;
Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,

And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!

O! joyous creatures! that will sink to rest,
Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest,

'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sunLift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!

Her lot is on you-to be found untired,
- Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,

And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain; Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, And oh! to love through all things-therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm vesper time,

With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-O! happy to have given
The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.

DEATH'S SEASONS.

HEMANS.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the Earth!

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for Grief's o'erwhelming power,

A time for softer tears-but all are thine!

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee! but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey!

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath,
And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,
When Autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain;
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there;

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath,

And stars to set-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

HEMANS.

LOVED ONES.

FOR the most loved are they

Of whom Fame speaks not with her clarion voice
In regal halls!-the shades o'erhang their way,
The vale, with its deep fountain, is their choice:
And gentle hearts rejoice

Around their steps!-till silently they die,
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye;
And the world knows not then,

Not then, nor ever, what pure thoughts are fled!
Yet these are they that on the souls of men

Come back, when night her folding veil hath spread,
The long remembered dead!

HEMANS.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
"Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thy happiness,-
That thou, light winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cooled a long ago in the deep delved carth,