Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to
lure

Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,
And oft again, hard matter, which eludes
And baffles his pursuit-thought-sick and tired
Of controversy, where no end appears,
No clue to his research, the lonely man
Half wishes for society again.

Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute
Sudden his heart awakes, his ears drink in
The cheering music; his relenting soul
Yearns after all the joys of social life,
And softens with the love of human kind.

OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom-cronies,
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

T

O

B

Να

Of

Fro

But

Of th

But &

An a With

As n

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my child

hood;

Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces

How some they have died, and some they have left me,

And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

LINES ON THE CELEBRATED PICTURE

BY LEONARDO DA VINCI,

CALLED THE VIRGIN OF THE ROCKS.

WHILE young John runs to greet

The greater Infant's feet,

The Mother standing by, with trembling passion Of devout admiration,

Beholds the engaging mystic play, and pretty adoration;

Nor knows as yet the full event

Of those so low beginnings,

From whence we date our winnings,

But wonders at the intent

Of those new rites, and what that strange childworship meant.

But at her side

An angel doth abide,
With such a perfect joy
As no dim doubts alloy,

An intuition,

A glory, an amenity,
Passing the dark condition
Of blind humanity,

As if he surely knew

All the blest wonders should ensue,

Or he had lately left the upper sphere,

And had read all the sovran schemes and divine riddles there.

MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN.

HYMN FOR THE SONS OF THE CLERGY.

How blest those olive plants that grow
Beneath the altar's sacred shade,
Where streams of fresh instruction flow,
And Comfort's humble board is spread.

'Twas thus the swallow rear'd her young, Secure within the house of GOD,

Of whom the Royal Prophet sung,

When banish'd from that blest abode.

When, like the swallow's tender brood,
They leave the kind paternal dome,

On weary wing to seek their food,
Or find in other climès a home;

Where'er they roam, where'er they rest,
Through all the varied scenes of life,
Whether with tranquil plenty blest,

Or doom'd to share the deadly strife;

Still may the streams of grace divine
Glide softly near their devious way;
And faith's fair light serenely shine,

To change their darkness into day.

Still may they with fraternal love

Each other's shield and aid become; And while through distant realms they rove, Remember still their childhood's home;

The simple life, the frugal fare,

The kind parental counsels given, The tender love, the pious care,

That early winged their hopes to heaven.

And when the evening shades decline,
And when life's toilsome task is o'er,
May they each earthly wish resign,
And holier, happier climes explore.

And when the faithful shepherds view
Each ransom'd flock around them spread,
How will they bless the plants that grew
Beneath the altar's sacred shade!

MRS HEMANS.

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, When a young mother, with her First-born, thence

Went up to Zion; for the boy was vow'd
Unto the Temple service. By the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,
Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God.

So pass'd they on,

O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon, Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs, With their cool dimness, cross'd the sultry blue Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that he might rest; Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep That weigh'd their dark fringe down, to sit and

watch

The crimson deepening o'er his cheek's repose,
As at a red flower's heart: and where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she linger'd, from the diamond wave
Drawing clear water for his rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow.

At last the Fane was reach'd, The earth's One Sanctuary; and rapture hush'd Her bosom, as before her, thro' the day

It rose, a mountain of white marble, steep'd In light like floating gold. But when that hour Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy Lifted, through rainbow-gleaming tears, his eye Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear,

Turn'd from the white-robed priest, and round her

arm