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Grows dim;

And a spirit of love about them breathe,

And twine them all in a magic wreath

For Him!

M. A. BROWNE.

HOME.

HOME is not the land of our birth,

Or the land of our dwelling; though either should lie Where the suns and the showers of blest Campany's sky

Pour joy on the jubilant earth.

Home is not the hearth where we reign; Though the ceiling of cedar from porphyry walls Ascend o'er the tesselate floor of our halls,

And round spread the princely domain.

In the hut, in the tent, it may be;

'Mid the sands of the line, or the snows of the pole; Or, driven by the night-howling hurricane, roll

Far, far, o'er the surge of the sea!

It is found, and found only, with one;

The loving and trusting, the trusted and loved;

Tho' by mountain and flood from our presence removed,

- Sea, continent, climate, or zone.

It is whither, 'mid pleasure, we turn,

With the thought, how the best of our pleasures are void,

By the dear distant angel of Home unenjoyed,

For whose presence all else we would spurn.

It is where, amid anguish and grief,

All calm on the pallet of straw we can lie;
Since Love's ready hand is still near, to supply, —

Oh, call it not coldly, relief!

It is where our success we proclaim

With a joy, yea, a pride, which no vanity knows; For we speak but to kindle the smile that bestows All beauty and lustre on Fame.

'Tis the refuge from calumny, care,

Vexation, and failure; 'tis where we can pour

Each thought in a heart which to Death can restore

Vitality, hope to despair;

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Where, when friends of the hour disapprove;

And join with the selfish, the base, and unkind,

Our words and our actions unfailingly find

One gentle interpreter, - Love ; —

Where the prayer rises warm for our weal,

When we wander afar; where the heart's deepest thought,

In love and in trembling, all free and untaught,
To the dear distant pilgrim will steal; -

Where the welcome springs blithe at our name:

The gladsome salute, and the eager caress;

Where each wish is forestalled ere the lip can express,

Perchance, ere the fancy can frame.

But is there such a place to be found?
Ah, no! if none else be the home of the heart,
How many all homeless shall live and depart,
Though opulent, titled, and crowned!

There is, if we seek Him aright;

There is One we may fearlessly love and believe;
Who will not, who can not forsake or deceive;
And whose love is the type of His might.

Without His glad presence, the best That earth can bestow, is insipid and poor; With Him, on the bed of affliction, secure

In His love and protection we rest.

-

To Him our poor deeds we may bring;

Imperfect and sullied, He smiles at them still:

To Him we may flee for redress in each ill,

And, unharmed, in adversity cling.

He advocates, seeks, and relieves,

From our home when our erring affections would stray; He welcomes with blessings our homeward-found way, Above all the heart asks or conceives.

Then, lonely one, lift up thine eye!

Though from earth's passing homes by ingratitude driven, No human malevolence bars thee from HEAVEN!

Look up for thy HOME is on high!

REV. H. THOMPSON.

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