SERENADE. BY C. DONALD MC LEOD. THE singing birds have chorused The echoes of the forest Are slumbering silently; The vesper bell is telling Thine hour for wandering forth; Its welcome tones are swelling Across the star-lit earth. And as my cithern's breathing notes Are wafted up to thee, My spirit on their music floats, The lengthening shades will hide us, Their gem-lights in the sky; They wait our first embracing, To bless us from on high. Then while the dreamy spell of night Still rests on earth and sea, Arise! oh star of my delight, Ma mignonne Eulalie! BROTHER, COME HOME. BY CATHARINE H. WATERMAN. COME home, Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, Come home, Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes Come home, Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days, Come to the ark, like the o'er-wearied dove, Brother, come home. Come home, t home without thee, the lone seat ll unclaimed where thou were wont to be, y echo of returning feet, in we list for what should herald thee; Brother, come home. Come home, nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring, ched every germ the full-blown flowers rear, er their bloom the chilly winter bring y garlands, and thou art not here; Brother, come home. Come home, I could send my spirit o'er the deep, Brother, come home. SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. BY CARLOS WILCOX. LONG Swoln in drenching rain, seeds, germs, and buds Start at the touch of vivifying beams. Moved by their secret force, the vital lymph Diffusive runs, and spreads o'er wood and field A flood of verdure. Clothed, in one short week, Is naked Nature in her full attire. SPRING IN NEW ENGLAND. On the first morn, light as an open plain Is all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, poured In one short week the orchard buds and blooms; R 157 |