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“ Horas non numero nisi serenas." Dial of Time, say, what are the hours
That you number in joy and play?
Of the glow of the summer day ? -
Of the march o'er the glacier snow,
Of the whispering soft and low,
Which as joys to the world are given,
Are changed to the love of heaven?
These moments of light and glee
Or the gleam on the wintry sea.”
Those hours that you now despise, Let me number them o'er to the church bells' chime,
To our dear one's memories.”
In the glisten and glare of light,
In the moments of gloom and night.” “O careless dial, take, take the hours
That you treasure in light and glee,
Give them back, give them back to me.”
G. H. S.
To wander thus through every scene
Endeared by classic story,
Or mourn o'er vanished glory,
Or weary one beguile,
Is in my native isle.
Or tempests chill the plains,
That sparkles but on chains;
Tho'robed in sunshine all-
With gorgeous skies its pall.
Or but survives in stone-
While thou art in my own. 'Mid wrecks of time and splendour gone,
'Neath arch and column broken, I feel how frail is passion's tone
And dread each promise spoken.-
Where flows the eternal river,
Endure like them for ever.
H. Porter Smith.
As o'er the deep the seaman roves
With cloud and storm above him, Far, far from all the smiles he loves,
And all the hearts that love him, 'Tis sweet to find some friendly mast
O'er that same ocean sailing, And listen in the hollow blast
To hear the pilot's hailing.
On rolls the sea ! and brief the bliss,
And farewell, follows greeting ;
For parting and for meeting;
In sorrow or in laughter,
Or hear that voice hereafter?
And thus, as on through shine and shower
My fickle shallop dances, And trembles at all storms that lower, * And courts all summer glances, 'Tis very sweet, when thoughts oppress
And follies fail to cheer me, To find some looks of loveliness,
Some tones of kindness near me.
And yet I feel, while hearts are gay
And smiles are bright around me, That those who greet me on my way
Must leave me as they found me, To rove again, as erst I roved,
Thro’ winter and rough weather; And think of all the friends I loved,
But loved and lost together :
And scenes and smiles, so pure and glad,
Are found and worshipped only
Our loneliness more lonely ;-
At best can be but dreaming ; And if the true may never beam,
Oh! who would slight the seeming?
And o'er the world my foot may roam,
Thro' foreign griefs and pleasures, And other climes may be my home,
And other hearts my treasures; But in the mist of memory
Shall time and space be cheated, And those kind looks revived shall be,
And those soft tones repeated !
W. M, Praed. THE SPELLS OF HOME.
By the soft green light in the woody glade,
By the sleepy ripple of the stream,