Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ?
Art thou a man ?- -a patriot ? look around;
O thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy Home.

O'er China's garden-fields, and peopled floods ;
In California's pathless world of woods ;
Round Andes' heights, where winter from his throne
Looks down in scorn upon the summer zone ;
By the

gay

borders of Bermuda's isles, Where spring with everlasting verdure smiles; On

pure Madeira’s vine-robed hill of health ; In Java's swamp of pestilence and wealth; Where Babel stood, where wolves and jackalls drink ; Midst weeping willows on Euphrates' brink; On Carmel's crest; by Jordan's reverend stream, Where Canaan's glories vanished like a dream; Where Greece, a spectre haunts her heroes' graves, And Rome's vast ruins darken Tiber's waves ; Where broken-hearted Switzerland bewails Her subject mountains and dishonoured vales;

Where Albion's rocks exult amidst the sea
Around the beauteous isle of liberty;
Man, through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
Deems his own land of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside ;
His home the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot that all the rest.

Montgomery.

A SERENE WINTER'S NIGHT.

How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh
Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear,
Were discord to the speaking quietude
That wraps

this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault,
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love bad spread
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;
Yon darksome walls, whence icicles depend
So stainless, that their white and glittering spears
Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castled steep,

Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower
So idly, that wrapt Fancy deemeth it
A metaphor of peace,—all form a scene
Where musing Solitude might love to lift
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness ;
Where silence undisturbed might watch alone,
So cold, so bright, so still !

Shelley.

GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR MYRIOLOGUE.

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the

young, Amidst her tears' the funeral chant a mournful mother sung. * Ianthis ! "dost thou sleep ? --Thou 'sleep'st !--but this is

not the rest, The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillowed on my

breast! I lulled thee not to this repose, Ianthis ! my sweet son! As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight I have done! -How is it that I bear to stand and look

upon

thee now? And that I die not, seeing death on thy pale glorious brow?

• I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave! I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave! Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and heavily thine eye Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie; And fast is bound the springing step, that seemed on breezes

borne, When to thy couch I came and said, " Wake, hunter,

wake! 'tis morn!' Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouched by slow

decay, -And I, the withered stem, remain—I would that grief

might slay!

Oh I ever when I met thy look, I knew that this would

be ! I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee! I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high ;A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou

must die ! That thou must die, my fearless one ! where swords were

flashing red. -Why doth a mother live to say my first-born and my

dead ? They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory

won

-Speak thou, and I will hear ! my child, Ianthis ! my A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the

young, A fair-haired bride the funeral chant amidst ber weeping

sang. Ianthis ! lookest thou not on me? Can love indeed

be fled ! When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head ? I would that I had followed thee,

Ianthis, my

beloved ! And stood as woman oft hath stood, where faithful hearts

are proved! That I had bound a breast-plate on, and battled at thy side -It would have been a blessed thing together had we died !

* But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal

sword ? Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board ? Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the

vine, Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine ? And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy

heart Fast gushing like a mountain-spring land couldst thou

thus depart? Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting

breath ? -Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been