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CANZONET.
(By James Edmeston.)

TALK with thine eyes—though music dwells
Amidst the accents of thy tongue;
The language of a glance excels
The sweetest sounds that thence have sprung:
These o'er the captive ear may roll,
But those hold converse with the soul.

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We saw the strong man, still and low,
A crush'd reed thrown asidel
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, o
Not without strife he died
And near him on the sea-weed lay,
Till then we had not wept,
But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept;
- For

For her pale arms a babe had pressed”
With such a wreathing gasp,
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,
Yet not undone the clasp !
Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the fair child's form,
Where still their wet, long streamers clung, ,
All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, midst that wild scene,
Gleam'd up the boy's dead face,
Like Slumber's, trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.
Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye;
He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony

Oh, human love! whose yearning heart
Through all things vainly true,
So stamps upon thy mortal part,
Its passionate adieu !
Surely thou hast another lot,
There is some home for thee,
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not
The moaning of the sea!”

MY OWN FIRE SIDE.
(By Alaric Watts.)

“LET others seek for empty joys,

At ball, or concert, rout, or play;

Whilst, far from Fashion's idle noise,
Her gilded domes, and trappings gay,

I while the wintry eve away,+
"Twixt book and lute, the hours divide ;

And marvel how I e'er could stray
From thee—my own Fire-side

My own Fire-side! Those simple words
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise;

Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,
And fill with tears of joy my eyes!

* This circumstance is related of Mrs. Cargill, an actress of some celebrity, who was shipwrecked on the rocks of Scilly, when returning from India. What

What is there my wild heart can prize,
That doth not in thy sphere abide,

Haunt of my kome-bred sympathies,
My own—my own Fire-side :

A gentle form is near me now ;
A small, white hand is clasped in mine;
I gaze upon her placid brow,
And ask what joys can equal thine !
A babe, whose beauty's half divine,
In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide;—
Where my love seek a fitter shrine,
Than thou—my own Fire-side!

What care I for the sullen roar
Of winds without, that ravage earth ;
It doth but bid me prize the more,
The shelter of thy hallowed hearth;-
To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth:
Then let the churlish tempest chide,
It cannot check the blameless mirth
That glads—my own Fire-side!

My refuge ever from the storm
Of this world's passion, strife, and care;
Though thunder-clouds the sky deform,
Their fury cannot reach me there.
There, all is cheerful, calm, and fair;
Wrath, Malice, Envy, Strife, or Pride,
Have never made their hated lair,
By thee—my own Fire-side

Thy precincts are a charmed ring,
Where no harsh feeling dares intrude;
Where life's vexations lose their sting ;
Where even grief is half subdued;
And Peace, the halcyon, loves to brood.
Then, let the pampered fool deride;
I'll pay my debt of gratitude
To thee—my own Fire-sides

Shrine of my household deities!
Fair scene of home's unsullied joys
To thee my burdened spirit flies,
When fortune frowns, or care annoys :
Thine is the bliss that never cloys;
The smile whose truth hath oft been tried ;
What, then, are this world's tinsel toys
To thee—my own Fire-side

THE

THE WATCHING WIFE.
(By James Edmeston.)

WHERE dost roam, thou wanderer,
Art thou far or near !
Haste thee hither, a ponderer
Waits thy footsteps here;
Where the taper glistening,
Shines across the moor;
Waiting, watching, listening,
By thy cottage door.

Moon serenely brightening,
Lift thy silver ray !
Clouds and storms and lightning,
Be ye far away!
Wisp fires wildly twinkling,
Cause him not to roam,
Sheep bells gently tinkling,
Guide him to his home !

Nought to harm or frighten him,
Thieves, or snares, or ill;
All to cheer and lighten him,
Tend his footsteps still:
Traveller—haste—miscarry not,
Tell him, should'st thou see—
Tell him——. Haste, and tarry not ;
Quicken his steps to me!

L IN E S.
(By James Edmeston.)

The Rose was pouting her ruby lip,
The Lily displaying her neck of snow;

The golden-haired Tulip stood by, a tip,
But the Violet bloomed below !

The summer sun smiled on the Rose so fair,
The summer sun smiled on the Lily so white,

And he gazed on the Tulip's golden hair,
But the Violet 'scaped his sight!

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