Though in her eye and faded cheek The memory of her buried joys— CONNECTICUT. AND still her gray rocks tower above the sea That murmurs at their feet, a conquered wave; 'Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree, Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong, A " fierce democracie," where all are true (If red, they might to DRACO's code belong); A vestal state, which power could not subdue, A justice of the peace, for the time being, They reverence their priest, but, disagreeing In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; They have a natural talent for foreseeing And knowing all things; and should PARK appear From his long tour in Africa, to show The Niger's source, they'd meet him with-" We know !" They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty; A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. Such are they nurtured, such they live and die: All-but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling; Or, wandering through the Southern countries, teaching The A B C from WEBSTER'S spelling-book; Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, And gaining, by what they call "hook and crook," And what the moralists call overreaching, A decent living. The Virginians look Upon them with as favourable eyes As GABRIEL on the devil in Paradise. But these are but their outcasts. View them near At home, where all their worth and pride is placed; And there their hospitable fires burn clear, And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced With manly hearts, in piety sincere, Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. And minds have there been nurtured, whose control Is felt even in their nation's destiny; Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, And looked on armies with a leader's eye; Names that adorn and dignify the scroll Whose leaves contain their country's history. Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, Of Florence and the Arno-yet the wing Of life's best angel, health, is on her gales Through sun and snow-and, in the autumn-time, Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. Her clear, warm heaven at noon,—the mist that shrouds Her twilight hills,-her cool and starry eves, The glorious splendour of her sunset clouds, 'The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, Where'er his web of song her poet weaves; And when you dream of woman, and her love; To the green land I sing, then wake; you'll find them there. THE WORLD IS BRIGHT BEFORE THEE. HE world is bright before thee; THE Its summer flowers are thine; To Nature's morning hour, There is a song of sorrow, Believe it not; though lonely Thy evening home may be ; The wild-flower wreath of feeling, MY Sarah Jane Hale. THE LIGHT OF HOME. Y son, thou wilt dream the world is fair, And thou must go ;-but never, when there, Though Pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, It dazzles to lead astray; Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night But the hearth of home has a constant flame, "Twill burn, 'twill burn forever the same, The sea of Ambition is tempest-tossed, And there, like a star through the midnight cloud, For never, till shining on thy shroud, The sun of Fame may gild the name, And Fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim, |