GREENLY and fair in the lands of the sun, Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew, On the banks of the Xenil, the dark Spanish maiden Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, Ah! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East and from West, From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the grey-haired New-Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich pumpkin-pie? O, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling; When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon, Then thanks for thy present!- none sweeter or better HEAR the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more, And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er. ATH not old custom made this life more sweet HTH old custom ma More free from perils than the envious court? Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Robert is singing with all his might: Nice good wife, that never goes out, Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Ilard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Summer wanes; the children are grown; Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Chee, chee, chee. ON THE BANKS OF THE TENNESSEE. SIT by the open window And look to the hills away, Over beautiful undulations That glow with the flowers of May And as the lights and the shadows With the passing moments change, Comes many a scene of beauty As an old log-cabin I think of On the banks of the Tennessee. Now up from the rolling meadows, And down from the hill-tops now, Fresh breezes steal in at my window, And sweetly fan my brow— And the sounds that they gather and bring me, From rivulet, and meadow, and hill, But the dearest thoughts thus wakened, To many a fond remembrance My thoughts are backward cast, Of the ever-moving years, Lie wrecks of hope and of purpose That I now behold through tears And of all of them, the saddest -An old log-cabin I think of Glad voices now greet me daily, And dream of the times of old- Of a face that is seen no more, Of a spirit that faltered not ever In the struggle of days now o'er- From a knoll near that old log-cabin W. D. GALLAGHER. H! my heart is weary waiting, SUMMER LONGINGS. Waiting for the pleasant rambles Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, Ah! my heart is weary waiting, Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for their sure returning, Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, All the winter lay. Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing, Glide the streams away. Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing, Waiting sad, dejected, weary, Waiting for the May: Spring goes by with wasted warnings,— Man is ever weary, weary, Waiting for the May! DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CartIIY. FARM LIFE. GRICULTURE is the greatest among the arts, for it is first in supplying our necessities. It is the mother and nurse of all other arts. It favors and strengthens population; it creates and maintains manufactures, gives employment to navigation and materials to commerce. It animates every species of industry, and opens to nations the surest channels of opulence. It is also the strongest bond of well regulated society, the surest basis of internal peace, the natural associate of good morals. We ought to count among the benefits of agriculture the charm which the practice of it communicates to a country life. That charm which has made the country, in our own view, the retreat of the hero, the asylum of the sage, and the temple of the historic muse. The strong desire, the longing after the country, with which we find the bulk of mankind to be penetrated, points to it as the chosen abode of sublunary bliss. The sweet occupations of culture with her varied products and attendant enjoyments are, at least, a relief from the stifling atmosphere of the city, the monotony of subdivided employments, the anxious uncertainty of commerce, the vexations of ambition so often disappointed, of self-love so often mortified, of factitious pleasures and unsubstantial vanities. We deplore the disposition of young men to get away from their farm homes to our larger cities, where they are subject to difficulties and temptations, which, but too often, they fail to overcome. Depend upon it, if you would hold your sons and brothers back from roaming away into the perilous centres, you must steadily make three attempts-to abate the taskwork of farming, to raise maximum crops and profits, and to surround your work with the exhilaration of intellectual progress. You must elevate the whole spirit of your vocation for your vocation's sake, till no other can outstrip it in what most adorns and strengthens a civilized state. |