GLOOM is upon thy lonely hearth,
Oh, silent house! once fill'd with mirth;
Sorrow, is in the breezy sound
Of thy tall poplars whispering round.
The shadow of departed hours
Hangs dim upon thine early flowers;
Even in thy sunshine seems to brood
Something more deep than solitude.

Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze,
Mine own sweet home of other days!
My children's birthplace! yet for me,
It is too much to look on thee.

Too much! for all about thee spread,
I feel the memory of the dead,
And almost linger for the feet
That never more my step shall meet.
The looks, the smiles, all vanish'd now,
Follow me where thy roses blow;
The echoes of kind household-words
Are with me 'midst thy singing birds.

Till my heart dies, it dies away
In yearnings for what might not stay;
For love which ne'er deceived my trust,
For all which went with "dust to dust

THE STRANGER'S HEART.

What now is left me, but to raise
From thee, lorn spot! my spirit's gaze,
To lift, through tears, my straining eye
Up to my Father's house on high?
Oh! many are the mansions there,*
But not in one hath grief a share!
No haunting shade from things gone by,
May there o'ersweep the unchanging sky.
And they are there, whose long-loved mien
In earthly home no more is seen;
Whose places, where they smiling sate,
Are left unto us desolate.

We miss them when the board is spread;
We miss them when the prayer is said;
Upon our dreams their dying eyes
In still and mournful fondness rise.
But they are where these longings vain
Trouble no more the heart and brain;
The sadness of this aching love
Dims not our Father's house above.

Ye are at rest, and I in tears,t
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres!
Under the poplar boughs I stand,
And mourn the broken household band.

But, by your life of lowly faith,
And by your joyful hope in death,
Guide me, till on some brighter shore,
The sever'd wreath is bound once more!

Holy ye were, and good, and true!
No change can cloud my thoughts of you;
Guide me, like you to live and die,
And reach my Father's house on high!

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THE STRANGER'S HEART.

THE stranger's heart! Oh! wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;

In the green shadow of thy tree,

The stranger finds no rest with thee.

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;

"In my father's house there are many mansions."-John chap tiv.

† From an ancient Hebrew dirge:

"Mourn for the mourner, and not for the dead,
For he is at rest, and we in tears!"

To him that sound hath sorrow's tone-
The stranger's heart is with his own.
Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;-

Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd-
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim-
Far, far are those who pray'd with him.
Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage-land-
The voices of thy kindred band-

Oh! 'midst them all when bless'd thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart!

TO A REMEMBERED PICTURE.*

THEY haunt me still-those calm, pure, holy eyes!
Their piercing sweetness wanders through my dreams :
The soul of music that within them lies,

Comes o'er my soul in soft and sudden gleams:
Life-spirit-life-immortal and divine-

Is there and yet how dark a death was thine!
Could it-oh! could it be-meek child of song?
The might of gentleness on that fair brow-
Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong?
Bore it no talisman to ward the blow?
Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast,

Might brave their strife-a flute-note hush the blast!
Are there not deep sad oracles to read

In the clear stillness of that radiant face?

Yes, even like thee must gifted spirits bleed,

Thrown on a world, for heavenly things no place!
Bright exiled birds that visit alien skies.
Pouring on storms their suppliant melodies.

And seeking ever some true, gentle breast,

Whereon their trembling plumage might repose, And their free song-notes, from that happy nest, Gush as a fount that forth from sunlight flows; Vain dream! the love whose precious balms might save, Still, still denied-they struggle to the grave. Yet my heart shall not sink!—another doom, Victim! hath set its promise in thine eye; A light is there, too quenchless for the tomb, Bright earnest of a nobler destiny;

* That of Rizzio, at Holyroodhouse.