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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 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

I Knew by the Smoke that so Gracefully Curled.

KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully curled

Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world,

A heart that is humble might hope for it here!"

It was noon, and on flowers that languished around
In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.

And "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed,
"With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye,
Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I
blamed,

How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!
"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline,
And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips,
Which had never been sighed on by any but mine!"
-Thomas Moore.

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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

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

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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Oh, Mother!-in that early word
What loves and joys combine;
What hopes-too oft, alas !-deferr'd;
What vigils-griefs-are thine!-
Yet never, till the hour we roam,
By worldly thralls opprest,
Learn we to prize that truest home-
A watchful mother's breast!

The thousand prayers at midnight pour'd Beside our couch of woes;

The wasting weariness endured

To soften our repose!

Whilst never murmur mark'd thy tongue

Nor toils relax'd thy care:-
How, Mother, is thy heart so strong
To pity and forbear?

What filial fondness e'er repaid,
Or could repay, the past?—
Alas! for gratitude decay'd
Regrets-that rarely last!
'Tis only when the dust is thrown

Thy lifeless bosom o'er,

We muse upon thy kindness shownAnd wish we'd loved thee more!

'Tis only when thy lips are cold,

We mourn with late regret, 'Mid myriad memories of old,

The days forever set!

And not an act-nor look-nor thoughtAgainst thy meek control,

But with a sad remembrance fraught

Wakes anguish in the soul !

On every land-in every clime-
True to her sacred cause,
Fill'd by that effluence sublime

From which her strength she draws,
Still is the Mother's heart the same-
The Mother's lot as tried-

Then oh may Nations guard that name With filial power and pride!

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Our Mother.

UR mother's lost her youthfulness,

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Her locks are turning gray,

And wrinkles take the place of smilesShe'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,
The light step has grown slow,
The graceful form has learned to stoop,
The bright cheek lost its glow,
Her weary hands have grown so thin,
Her dear hand trembles now;
'Passing away" in sad, deep lines,
Is traced upon her brow.

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."

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 all unfurled,
He will not heed our cry.

But gently bear the wearied form

Into the phantom bark,

She will not fear-CHRIST went before, The way will not be dark;

And safe beyond the troubled stream,

Her tired heart's strife o'er, Our angel mother, glorified, Will grow old nevermore.

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