THE DYING EXILE.

WHO will stand, when I shall pillow
In the earth this aching head,
Pensive, by the drooping willow,
O'er my cold and lowly bed?
There will be no pensive mother,

Aged sire, nor constant friend;
There will be no sister, brother,

O'er my lonely grave to bend !

Strangers then will heedless bear me
Where the stranger's dust may lie;
Yet the tribute none will spare me
Of a tear, while thus I die.
They behold my life-string sever

At the conqueror's final blow;
But the heart that's breaking,

never

They its inward pangs shall know!

10366B

Come, ye whispering winds of heaven,
Take my sighs, my long adieu

To the country whence I'm driven,
To the friends to whom I'm true!

Let them know I've ceased to languish ;

Tell them I am freed from pain,

That my bosom swelled with anguish,
Till its cords all snapt in twain.

Say, my last regrets were centered,
All my fondness, lingered there, -
Till a blissful home I entered

Free from banishment and care:

Say, my glad, unburdened spirit

Soared in triumph at the last;

That a country I inherit

Worth all sighs and sorrows past.

Faith, and Hope, your strength is doubling! Soon the land will be possessed

"Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest."

Death the mortal veil is rending,
Lone, in foreign clods to lie;

Angels sweet the while descending,

Come to waft me home on high!

H. F. GOULD.

MUSIC OF THE CRICKETS.

I CANNOT to the city go,

Where all in sound and sight

Declares that Nature does not know

Or do a thing aright!

To granite-wall, and tower, and dome
My heart could never cling;

Its simple strings are tied to home,
To where the crickets sing.

I'm certain I was never made
To run a city race,

Along a human palisade,

That's ever shifting place.

The bustle, fashion, art, and show,

Were each a weary thing;

Amid them, I should sigh to go

And hear the cricket sing.

If there, I might no longer be

Myself, as now I seem,

But lose my own identity,

And walk as in a dream;

Or else, with din and crowd oppressed, I'd wish for sparrow's wing,

To fly away, and be at rest,

Where, free, the crickets sing.

The fire-fly, rising from the grass,
A living, wingéd light,

I would not give for all the gas
That spoils their city sight.

Not all the pomp and etiquette

Of citizen, or king,

Can make my rustic heart forget

The song the crickets sing.

I find in hall and gallery,

Their figures tame and faint,

To my wild bird, and brook, and tree,

Without a touch of paint.