Where once frowned a forest a garden is smiling-
The meadow and moorland are marshes no more;
And there curls the smoke of my cottage, beguiling

The children who cluster like grapes at the door.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest—
The land of the heart is the land of the West.
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!-oho!

Talk not of the town, boys—give me the broad prairie, Where man, like the wind, roams impulsive and free; Behold how its beautiful colours all vary,

Like those of the clouds, or the deep-rolling sea!
A life in the woods, boys, is even as changing;
With proud independence we season our cheer,
And those who the world are for happiness ranging
Won't find it at all if they don't find it here.
Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
I'll show you the life, boys, we live in the West.
Oho, boys!-oho, boys! - oho!

Here, brothers, secure from all turmoil and danger,
We reap what we sow, for the soil is our own;
We spread hospitality's board for the stranger,
And care not a fig for the king on his throne.
We never know want, for we live by our labour,
And in it contentment and happiness find;
We do what we can for a friend or a neighbour,
And die, boys, in peace and good-will to mankind.
Then enter, boys; chcerly, boys, enter and rest:
You know how we live, boys, and die in the West!
Oho, boys!-oho, boys!—oho!

II*

OH

Lydia Jane Pierson.

THE WILD-WOOD HOME.

H, show me a place like the wild-wood home,
Where the air is fragrant and free,

And the first pure breathings of Morning come

In a gush of melody!

She lifts the soft fringe from her dark-blue

With a radiant smile of love,
And the diamonds that o'er her bosom lie
Are bright as the gems above;

Where noon lies down in the breezy shade
Of the glorious forest bowers,

eye

And the beautiful birds from the sunny glades
Sit nodding amongst the flowers,

While the holy child of the mountain-spring
Steals past with a murmured song,

And the honey-bees sleep in the bells that swing
Its garlanded banks along;

Where Day steals away, with a young bride's blush,
To the soft green couch of Night,

And the Moon throws o'er, with a holy hush,
Her curtain of gossamer light;

And the seraph that sings in the hemlock dell
(Oh, sweetest of birds is she!)

Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell
Of melody rich and free;

There are sumptuous mansions with marble walls,
Surmounted by glittering towers,

Where fountains play in the perfumed halls
Amongst exotic flowers:

They are suitable homes for the haughty in mind,
Yet a wild-wood home for me,

Where the pure bright streams, and the mountain-wind, And the bounding heart, are free!

Albert G. Greene.

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

O'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest

ray,

Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay—

The stern old Baron RUDIGER, whose frame had neʼer been

bent

By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had

spent.

"They come around me here, and say my days of life are

o'er

That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no

more;

They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now

that I,

Their own liege-lord and master born, that I-ha! ha!— must die.

"And what is Death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear;

'Think ye he's entered at my gate-has come to seek me

here?

I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot ;

I'll try his might—I'll brave his power; defy, and fear him

not!

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the cul

verin;

Bid each retainer arm with speed: call every vassal in.
Up with my banner on the wall!—the banquet-board pre-

pare,

Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armour there!"

A hundred hands were busy then: the banquet forth was

spread,

And rang the heavy oaken floor with many a martial

tread;

While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted

wall,

Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers

poured

On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board;

While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of

state,

Armed cap-à-pie, stern RUDIGER, with girded falchion, sate. up, my men-pour forth the cheering

Fill

every beaker

wine!

There's life and strength in every drop-thanksgiving to

the vine!

Are ye all there, my vassals true?-mine eyes are waxing

dim:

Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the

brim!

"Ye're there; but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword,

And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board.

I hear it faintly. Louder yet!-What clogs my heavy

breath?

Up all, and shout for RUDIGER-Defiance unto Death !'".

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafening cry,

That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on

high.

"Ho! cravens, do ye fear him?—Slaves, traitors, have ye flown?

Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone?

"But I defy him-let him come!" Down rang the massy

cup,

While from its sneath the ready blade came flashing half

way up;

And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on

his head,

There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat,

dead.