CANZONET. (By James Edmeston.) TALK with thine eyes-though music dwells The sweetest sounds that thence have sprung: But those hold converse with the soul. For her pale arms a babe had pressed* Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast, Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the fair child's form, Where still their wet, long streamers clung, And beautiful, midst that wild scene, Deep in her bosom lay his head, Oh, human love! whose yearning heart So stamps upon thy mortal part, 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 ; 'Twixt book and lute, the hours divide ; My own Fire-side! Those simple words 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, A gentle form is near me now; A small, white hand is clasped in mine; And ask what joys can equal thine! 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; Wrath, Malice, Envy, Strife, or Pride, 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-side! 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,- Waits thy footsteps here; Moon serenely brightening, Clouds and storms and lightning, Cause him not to roam, Nought to harm or frighten him, LINES. (By James Edmeston.) THE Rose was pouting her ruby lip, 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, |