THE A PUBLIC

ARTOR,

TILELN FES

R

THE OLD HOME.

63

The Old Home.

Tennyson

E leave the well-beloved place

Where first we gazed upon the sky; The roofs that heard our earliest cry Will shelter one of stranger race.

We go, but ere we go from home,
As down the garden-walks I move,
Two spirits of a diverse love
Contend for loving masterdom.

One whispers, "Here thy boyhood sung
Long since its matin song, and heard
The low love-language of the bird,
In native hazels tassel-hung."

The other answers, " Yea, but here
Thy feet have strayed in after hours
With thy best friend among the bowers,
And this hath made them trebly dear."

These two have striven half the day,
And each prefers his separate claim,
Poor rivals in a losing game,

That will not yield each other way.

I turn to go: my feet are set

To leave the pleasant fields and farms;
They mix in one another's arms

To one pure image of regret.

Nature.

Young.

OOK Nature through, 'tis revolution all;

All change; no death. Day follows night; and night

The dying day; stars rise and set, and rise;

Earth takes th' example. See, the Summer gay,
With her green chaplet and ambrosial flowers,
Droops into pallid Autumn: Winter gray
Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm,
Blows Autumn and his golden fruits away;

Then melts into the Spring; soft Spring, with breath
Favonian, from warm chambers of the south,
Recalls the first. All, to re-flourish, fades;

As in a wheel, all sinks, to reascend-
Emblems of man, who passes, not expires.

FOUND DEAD.

65

Found Dead.

Albert Laighton

OUND dead! dead and alone!

There was nobody near, nobody near

When the Outcast died on his pillow of stone--
No mother, no brother, no sister dear,
Not a friendly voice to soothe or cheer,
Not a watching eye or a pitying tear

O, the city slept when he died alone,

In the roofless street, on a pillow of stone.

Many a weary day went by,

While wretched and worn he begged for bread,

Tired of life, and longing to lie

Peacefully down with the silent dead;

Hunger and cold, and scorn and pain,

Had wasted his form and seared his brain,

Till at last on a bed of frozen ground,

With a pillow of stone, was the Outcast found.

Found dead! dead and alone,

On a pillow of stone in the roofless street; Nobody heard his last faint moan,

Or knew when his sad heart ceased to beat; No mourner lingered with tears or sighs, But the stars looked down with pitying eyes, And the chill winds passed with a wailing sound O'er the lonely spot where his form was found.

66

ONLY A YEAR.

Found dead! yet not alone;

There was somebody near-somebody near
To claim the wanderer as his own,

And find a home for the homeless here;
One, when every human door

Is closed to His children scorned and poor,
Who opens the heavenly portal wide;
Ah, God was near when the Outcast died.

What joyous hopes, what high resolves,

What generous strife!