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SERENADE.

BY C. DONALD MCLEOD.

THE singing birds have chorused

The day-star to the sea ; 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,

Ma mignonne Eulalie !

The lengthening shades will hide us,

And 'neath their influence sweet, The cold hearts that would chide us,

Sleep-careless that we meetThe spirit-stars are placing

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,

Would I could wing it like a bird to thee,
To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep
With these unwearying words of melody;

Brother, come home.

Come home,
Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes

That beam in brightness but to gladden thine, Come where fond thoughts, like holiest incense rise, Where cherished memory rears her altar's shrine;

Brother, come home.

Come home,
Come to the hearth-stone of thy earlier days,

Come to the ark, like the o'er-wearied dove,

BROTHER, COME HOME.

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Come with the sunlight of thy heart's warm rays,
Come to the fireside circle of thy love;

Brother, come home.

Come home,
It is not home without thee, the lone seat

Is still unclaimed where thou were wont to be,
In every echo of returning feet,
In vain we list for what should herald thee;

Brother, come home.

Come home,
We've nursed for thee the sunny buds of spring,

Watched every germ the full-blown flowers rear,
Seen o'er their bloom the chilly winter bring
Its icy garlands, and thou art not here;

Brother, come home.

Come home,
Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep,

Would I could wing it like a bird to thee
To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep
With these unwearying words of melody;

Brother, come home.

SONNET.

BY WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH.

A DREAMY Whisper from the sweet South-west,

Borne on the just-awakened Zephyr's wing,

Comes to the ear with stories of the Spring, And bids the heart in her return be blest.

Joy to the Earth !—for Spring with breeze and song,

Leaflet and bud, comes jocundly along, While in her breath the trees are plossoming.

And see! the greenness of the tender grass

Where her light footstep airily doth pass The clear-voiced birds, and streams, and fountains sing

A woven melody to greet her coming,

And voices low and musical are humming A song of welcome and the earth rejoices, And praises God with multitudinous voices.

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.

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On the first morn, light as an open plain
Is all the woodland, filled with sunbeams, poured
Through the bare tops, on yellow leaves below,
With strong reflection : on the last, 'tis dark
With full-grown foliage, shading all within.
In one short week the orchard buds and blooms;
And now, when steeped in dew or gentle showers,
It yields the purest sweetness to the breeze,
Or all the tranquil atmosphere perfumes.
E’en from the juicy leaves of sudden growth,
And the rank grass of steaming ground, the air,
Filled with a watery glimmering, receives
A grateful smell, exhaled by warming rays.
Each day are heard, and almost every hour,
New notes to swell the music of the groves.
And soon the latest of the feathered train
At evening twilight come; the lonely snipe,
O'er marshy fields, high in the dusky air,
Invisible, but with faint, tremulous tones,
Hovering or playing o'er the listener's head;
And, in mid-air, the sportive night-hawk, seen
Flying awhile at random, uttering oft
A cheerful cry, attended with a shake
Of level pinions, dark, but when upturned
Against the brightness of the western sky,
One white plume showing in the midst of each,
Then far down diving with loud hollow sound;

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