O THE old house at home, where my forefather dwelt,

Where a child at the feet of my mother I knelt,

Where she taught me the prayer, where she read me the page,
Which, if infancy lisps, is the solace of age,
My heart, 'mid all changes, wherever I roam,
Ne'er loses its love for the old house at home.

ANONYMOUS.

"ISABELLA PLAYING THE LUTE."

SUCH moving sounds from such a careless touch!
So unconcern'd herself, and we so much!

What art is this, that with so little pains
Transports us thus, and o'er our spirits reigns?
The trembling strings about her fingers crowd,
And tell their joy for every kiss aloud.

Small force there needs to make them tremble so;
Touch'd by that hand, who would not tremble too?
Here Love takes stand, and while she charms the ear,
Empties his quiver on the listening deer.
Music so softens and disarms the mind,
That not an arrow does resistance find.
Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize,
And acts herself the triumph of her eyes;
So Nero once, with harp in hand, surveyed
His flaming Rome, and as it burned he played.

WALLER.