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its rise; and who are the truer patriots, or the better in time of need—those who venerate the land, owning its wood, and stream, and earth, and all they produce-or those who love their country, boasting not a foot of ground in all its wide domain?

-Charles Dickens.

Definition of Home.

HOME

OME is the one place in all this world where hearts are sure of each other. It is the

place of confidence. It is the place where we tear off that mask of guarded and suspicious coldness which the world forces us to wear in self-defence, and where we pour out the unreserved communications of full and confiding hearts. It is the spot where expressions of tenderness gush out without any sensation of awkwardness, and without any dread of ridicule.

-F. W. Robertson,

I Knew by the Smoke tbat so Gracefully Curled.

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Of glory; and abased at thy sweet breast,
Spurning his robes of kingship down,
The God-chiid laid at rest.

In every passing age
The theme of seer and sage:
The painters saw thee in a life long dream;
The painters who have left a world more fair
Than ever days of nymph and goddess were-
Blest company, who now for centuries
Have fixed the virgin mother for our eyes —
The painters saw thee sitting brown or fair,
'Mid the Tuscan vines or colder Northern air,
They saw the love shine from thy peasant gaze;
They saw thy reverend look, thy young amaze,
And left thee Queen of Heaven, wearing a crown

They found thee, and they fixed thee for our eyes;
But every day that goes
Before the gazer new Madonnas rise.
What matter if the cheek show not the rose,
Nor eyes divine are there nor queenly grace,
The mother's glory lights the homely face.
In every land beneath the circling sun
Thy praise is never done.
Whatever men may doubt, they put their trust in thee;
Rude souls and coarse, to whom virginity

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Seems a dead thing and cold.
So always was it, from the days of old,
So shall it be while yet our race doth last;
Though truth be sought no more, and faith be past,
Still, till all hope of heaven be dead,
Thy praises shall be said.

Aye, thou art ours, or wert, ere yet
The loss we ne'er forget,
The loss which comes to all who reach life's middle

way.
We see thee by the childish bed
Sit patient all night long,
To cool the parching lips or throbbing head;
We hear thee still with simple song

Or sweet hymn lull the wakeful eyes to sleep;
Through every turning of life's chequered page,
Joying with those who joy, weeping with those who

weep.
Oh, sainted love ! oh, precious sacrifice !
Oh, heaven-lighted eyes !
Best dream of early youth, best memory of age !
What strong instinctive thrill
The mother's being doth fill,
And raises it from miry common ways,
Up to such heights of love.
We cannot tell what blessed forces move,
And so transform the careless girlish heart
To bear so high a part.
We cannot tell; we can but praise.

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THEN we are sick, where can we turn for succor,

When we are wretched, where can we complain? And when the world looks cold and surly on us,

Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a mother ?

- Joanna Baillie

Our Mother.

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Our mother's lost her youthfulness,

Her smiles are just as kind, Her tones to us are soft as erst, –

Where should we dearer find? But as we note the trembling tongue,

And mark the stooping form, A sad voice whispers to our hearts,

Ye cannot keep her long."

UR mother's lost her youthfulness,

Her locks are turning gray, And wrinkles take the place of smiles

She's fading every day.
We gaze at her in sorrow now,

For though we've ne'er been told,
We can but feel the weary truth-

Our mother's growing old.
Our mother's lost her youthfulness,

Her eyes grow dim with tears,
Yet still within her heart there shines

Some light of other years ;
For oft she'll speak in merry tones,

Smile as in youth she smiled,
As o'er her heart some memory steals

Of when she was a child.

Our mother's lost her youthfulness,

We see it every day,
And feel more drearily the truth,

She soon must pass away.
Ah! even now the “boatman pale"

We fear is hovering nigh;
Waiting with white sails ail unsurled,

He will not heed our cry.

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