Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys—
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's-
One of the few, the immortal names

That were not born to die.

A

CONNECTICUT.

ND 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, Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave; Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free, And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave; And where none kneel, save when to Heaven they pray, Nor even then, unless in their own way.

Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong,

A "fierce democracie," where all are true
To what themselves have voted—right or wrong-
And to their laws, denominated blue

(If red, they might to DRACO's code belong);

A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win-like her own eagle's nest, Sacred-the San Marino of the West.

A justice of the peace, for the time being,

They bow to, but may turn him out next year:

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,
Nor the long summer of Cathayan vales,
The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling
Such wild enchantment o'er BOCCACCIO's tales

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 his mind's brightest vision but displays
The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days.

And when you dream of woman, and her love;
Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power;
The maiden, listening in the moonlight grove;
The mother, smiling in her infant's bower;
Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move,
Be, by some spirit of your dreaming hour,

Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air

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;
Its calm blue sky is o'er thee,
Thy bosom Pleasure's shrine;
And thine the sunbeam given
To Nature's morning hour,
Pure, warm, as when from heaven
It burst on Eden's bower.

There is a song of sorrow,
The death-dirge of the gay,
That tells, ere dawn of morrow,
These charms may melt away-
That sun's bright beam be shaded,
That sky be blue no more,
The summer flowers be faded,
And youth's warm promise o'er.

Believe it not; though lonely

Thy evening home may be ;
Though Beauty's bark can only
Float on a summer sea,
Though Time thy bloom is stealing,
There's still, beyond his art,

The wild-flower wreath of feeling,

The sunbeam of the heart.

MY

Sarah Jane Hale.

THE LIGHT OF HOME.

Y son, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
And thy spirit will sigh to roam—

And thou must go ;-but never, when there,
Forget the light of home!

Though Pleasure may smile with a ray more bright,

It dazzles to lead astray;

Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night

When treading thy lonely way:

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,
And pure as vestal fire;

"Twill burn, 'twill burn forever the same,
For Nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of Ambition is tempest-tossed,
And thy hopes may vanish like foam :
When sails are shivered and compass lost,
Then look to the light of home!

And there, like a star through the midnight cloud,
Thou shalt see the beacon bright;

For never, till shining on thy shroud,
Can be quenched its holy light.

The sun of Fame may gild the name,
But the heart ne'er felt its ray;

And Fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim,
Are beams of a wintry day :