HOME-SICKNESS.

HERE I am, the halls are gilded,
Stored with pictures bright and rare;

Strains of deep melodious music

Float upon the perfumed air:

Nothing stirs the dreary silence.

Save the melancholy sea,
Near the poor and humble cottage,
Where I fain would be!

Where I am, the sun is shining,
And the purple windows glow,

Till their rich armorial shadows
Stain the marble floor below:-
Faded Autumn leaves are trembling,
On the withered jasmine tree,
Creeping round the little casement,

Where I fain would be!

P

Where I am, the days are passing

O'er a pathway strewn with flowers; Song and joy and starry pleasures

Crown the happy smiling hours:Slowly, heavily, and sadly,

Time with weary wings must flee, Marked by pain, and toil, and sorrow,

Where I fain would be!

Where I am,

the great and noble,

Tell me of renown and fame,

And the red wine sparkles highest,

To do honour to my name :—

Far away a place is vacant,

By a humble hearth for me, Dying embers dimly show it Where I fain would be!

Where I am, are glorious dreamings,
Science, genius, art divine!

And the great minds whom all honour

Interchange their thoughts with mine:

A few simple hearts are waiting,

Longing, wearying, for me,

Far

away where tears are falling,

Where I fain would be!

Where I am, all think me happy,

For so well I play my part,

who smile around me,

None can guess,

How far distant is

my

heart

Far away, in a poor cottage,

Listening to the dreary sea, Where the treasures of my life are, Where I fain would be!

WISHES.

GLL the fluttering wishes

Caged within thy heart

Beat their wings against it,

Longing to depart,

Till they shake their prison

With their wounded cry;

Open wide thy heart to-day,
And let the captives fly.

Let them first fly upward
Through the starry air,
Till you almost lose them,
For their home is there;
Then with outspread pinions,
Circling round and round,
Wing their way wherever

Want and woe are found.

Where the weary stitcher
Toils for daily bread;

Where the lonely watcher
Watches by her dead;

Where with thin weak fingers,

Toiling at the loom,

Stand the little children,

Blighted ere they bloom.

Where by darkness blinded,

Groping for the light,

With distorted conscience

Men do wrong for right; Where in the cold shadow,

By smooth pleasure thrown, Human hearts by hundreds Harden into stone.

Where on dusty highways,

With faint heart and slow,

Cursing the glad sunlight,
Hungry outcasts go:
Where all mirth is silenced,
And the hearth is chill,

For one place is empty,

And one voice is still.