I loved my home, but trembled now
To view my father's alter'd brow:
I fear'd to meet my mother's eye
And hear her voice of agony;
I fear'd to view my native spot,
Where he who loved it now was not;
The pleasures of my home were fled :
My brother slumber'd with the dead.

I drew near to my father's gate:
No smiling faces met me now;
I entered-all was desolate,

Grief sate upon my mother's brow:
I heard her, as she kiss'd me, sigh,
A tear stood in my father's eye,
My little brothers round me press'd,
In gay unthinking childhood bless'd.
Long, long that hour has pass'd; but when
Shall I forget its gloomy scene?

The sabbath came. With mournful face
I sought my brother's burial place-
That shrine which when I last had view'd
In vigour by my side he stood.

I gazed around with fearful eye:
All things were hush'd in sanctity.

I reach'd the chancel-nought was changed:
The altar decently arranged,

The pure white cloth above the shrine,
The consecrated bread and wine,-
All was the same. I found no trace

Of sorrow in that holy place.

One hurried glance I downward gave-
My foot was on my brother's grave!

And years have pass'd-and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb;

And cheerful is my mother's brow:
My father's eye has lost its gloom;
And years have pass'd, and death has laid
Another victim by thy side;

With thee he roams, an infant shade,
But not more pure than thee he died.

Blest are ye both! your ashes rest
Beside the spot ye loved the best:
And that dear home which saw your birth
O'erlooks you in your
bed of earth.

But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel-spirits wander o'er;
And who can tell what raptures high
Now bless your immortality?

My boyish days are nearly gone:
My breast is not unsullied now;
And worldly cares and woes will soon
Cut their deep furrows on my brow;
And life will take a darker hue

From ills my brother never knew;
And I have made me bosom friends,

And loved and link'd my heart with others:
But who with mine his spirit blends

As mine was blended with my brother's?
When years of rapture glided by,

The spring of life's unclouded weather,
Our souls were knit, and thou and I,
My brother, grew in love together.
The chain is broke that bound us then :
When shall I find its like again?

GO FORTH INTO THE COUNTRY.

By Mrs. JAMES GRAY, better known as Miss MARY ANNE BROWNE, whose extraordinary genius for poetry was developed while she was yet a child, but was extinguished by a premature death in the very bloom of her youth.

Go forth into the country,

From a world of care and guile;

Go forth to the untainted air

And the sunshine's open smile.

It shall clear thy clouded brow—
It shall loose the worldly coil
That binds thy heart too closely up,
Thou man of care and toil!

Go forth into the country,

Where gladsome sights and sounds
Make the heart's pulses thrill and leap
With fresher, quicker bounds.
They shall wake fresh life within
The mind's enchanted bower;
Go, student of the midnight lamp,
And try their magic power!

Go forth into the country,

With its songs of happy birds,
Its fertile vales, its grassy hills,
Alive with flocks and herds.
Against the power of sadness
Is its magic all array'd—
Go forth, and dream no idle dreams,
Oh, visionary maid!

Go forth into the country,

Where the nut's rich clusters grow, Where the strawberry nestles 'midst the furze And the holly-berries glow.

Each season has its treasures,

Like thee all free and wild

Who would keep thee from the country,
Thou happy, artless child?

Go forth into the country,

It hath many a solemn grove,

And many an altar on its hills,

Sacred to peace and love.
And whilst with grateful fervour
Thine eyes its glories scan,
Worship the God who made it all,
Oh! holy Christian man!

THE EAR-RINGS.

A spirited translation, by LOCKHART, from a Spanish ballad.

Mr ear-rings, my ear-rings, I've dropp'd them in the well, And what to say to Musa, I cannot, cannot tell;

('T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez'

daughter,)

-The well is deep-far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water:

To me did Musa give them when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.

My ear-rings, my ear-rings, they were pearls in silver set, That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him forget, That I ne'er should list to other lips, or smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kiss'd, pure as those ear-rings pale.

When he comes back and hears that I have dropp'd them in the well

Oh! what will Musa think of me, I cannot, cannot tell.

My ear-rings, my ear-rings, he'll say they should have been Not of pearldrops and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen,

Of jaspar and of onyx, and of diamonds shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere; That changeful minds unchanging gems are not befitting well:

Thus he will think, and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

He'll think when I to market went I loiter'd by the way; He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say; He'll think some other lover's hand among my tresses noosed, From the ears where he had placed them, my gems of pearl unloosed;

He'll think, when I was sporting so beside this marble well,
My pearls fell in; and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

He'll say I am a woman, and that we are all the same;
He'll say I loved, when he was here, to whisper of his flame,
But that, when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth was

broken,

And I thought no more of Musa, and cared not for his token.

My ear-rings, my ear-rings, oh! luckless, luckless well,

For what to say to Musa, I cannot, cannot tell.

SPRING.

By the Hon. Mrs. NORTON.

THE Spring is come again! the breath of May
Creeps whisperingly where brightest flowers have birth,
And the young sun beams forth with redder ray
On the broad bosom of the teeming earth.
The Spring is come! how gladly nature wakes
From the dark slumber of the vanish'd year;
How gladly every gushing streamlet breaks
The summer stillness with its music clear!

But thou art old, my heart! The breath of Spring
No longer swells thee with a rapturous glow;
The wild bird carols blithely on the wing,
But wakes no smile upon my wither'd brow.
Thou art grown old! no more the generous thought
Sends the warm blood more swiftly through the veins-
Selfish and cold thou shrinkest-Spring hath nought
For thee but memory of vanish'd pains.

The day-break brings no bounding from my rest,
Eagerly glad, and strong in soul and limb;
But through the weary lid (unwelcome guest!)
The sunlight struggles with a lustre dim.
The evening brings no calm, the night no sleep,
But feverish tossings on the hateful bed;

While the vex'd thoughts their anxious vigils keep,
Yet more to weary out the aching head.

Still the deep grove-the bower-my footsteps seek :
Still do I rest beneath the flowery thorn;
And, with a worn and hollow-eaten cheek,
Woo the young freshness of the laughing morn.
But now no pleasure in the well-known lines
Expands my brow or sparkles in mine eye;
O'er the dull page my languid head declines
And wakes the echo with a listless sigh.

Ah! mocking wind, that wandereth o'er my form
With freshen'd scents from every opening flower,
Deep-deep within, the never-dying worm-
Life's longings all unquench'd-defy thy power!

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