HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS.

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And a bold little run, at the very last pinch, put him into his native-spot.

"Bravo, bravo!" the king cried out, "all honour to those who try :

The spider up there defied despair; he conqueredand why shouldn't I ?"

Again King Robert roused his soul; and history tells the tale,

That he tried once more- -'twas at Bannockburnand that time he did not fail!

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS.

ELIZA COOK.

HOME for the holidays-here we go!
Bless me! the train is exceedingly slow!
We have two long hours to travel, you say?
Come Mr. Engineer gallop away!

Two hours more! Why, the sun will be down
Before we reach home, in our dear native town!
And then, what a number of fathers and mothers,
And uncles and aunts, and sisters and brothers,
Will be waiting to meet us!-Oh! do make haste,
For I'm sure, Mr. Guard, we have no time to waste!
Thank goodness! we shan't have to study and
stammer

Over Latin, and sums, and that nasty Greek
Grammar!

Lectures, and classes, and lessons are done,

And now we'll have nothing but frolic and fun!
Home for the holidays!-off we go!

But this Fast Train is really exceedingly slow!

What sport we shall have when Christmas comes, When "snap-dragon" burns our fingers and thumbs! We'll hang mistletoe o'er our dear little cousins, And pull them beneath it, and kiss them by dozens:

We'll crown the plum-pudding with bunches of bay, And roast all the chestnuts that come in our way: And when " Twelfth Night" falls, we'll have such a cake

That, as we stand round it, the table shall quake. We'll draw" King and Queen," and be happy together And dance old "Sir Roger," with hearts like a

feather.

Home for the holidays!-here we go!

But this Fast Train is really exceedingly slow!

Yet, stay: I declare there's our own house at last.
The park is right over the tunnel just past.
Huzza! huzza! I can see my papa!

I can see George's uncle, and Edward's mamma!
And, Fred, there's your brother!-look! look! there
he stands !-

They see us, they see us! they're waving their hands!
Why don't the train stop? What are they about ?-
Now, now, it is steady;-oh, pray, let us out!
A cheer for the school, boys! a kiss for mamma !
We're home for the holidays! Now huzza!

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

ELIZA COOK.

I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedew'd it with tears, I've embalm'd it with sighs:

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my

heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would you know the spell ?—A mother sat there!
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallow'd seat with listening ear;

THE LAND OF MY BIRTH.

And gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die and teach me to live.

She told me that shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watch'd her many a day,

When her eye grew dim and her locks were gray;
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled,
And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.
Years roll'd on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled!
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.
'Tis past, 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

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THE LAND OF MY BIRTH.

ELIZA COOK.

THERE's a magical tie to the land of our home, Which the heart cannot break, though the footstep

may roam:

Be that land where it may, at the line or the pole, It still holds the magnet that draws on the soul. 'Tis loved by the freeman, 'tis loved by the slave, 'Tis dear to the coward, more dear to the brave! Ask of any the spot they like best on the earth, And they'll answer with pride, "Tis the Land of my Birth!"

My country! thy green hills are dearer to me
Than all the famed coasts of a far foreign sea;
What emerald can peer, or what sapphire can vie,
With the grass of thy fields, or thy summer-day sky?
They tell me of regions where flowers are found,
Whose perfume and tints spread a paradise round;
But brighter to me cannot garland the earth

Than those that spring forth in the Land of my
Birth!

My country, I love thee!-thongh freely I'd rove Through the western savannah, or sweet orangegrove,

Yet warmly my bosom would welcome the gale
That bore me away with a homeward-bound sail.
My country, I love thee !—and, oh! mayst thou have
The last throb of my heart, ere 'tis cold in the grave;
Mayst thou yield me that grave, in thy own daisied

earth,

And my ashes repose in the Land of my

Birth!

TO A SEA-GULL.

GERALD GRIFFIN.

WHITE bird of the tempest! O beautiful thing,
With the bosom of snow, and the motionless wing,
Now sweeping the billow, now floating on high,
Now bathing thy plumes in the light of the sky ;
Now poising o'er ocean thy delicate form,

Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so warm;
Now darting aloft, with a heavenly scorn,
Now shooting along, like a ray of the morn;

Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtained dome,
Now floating abroad like a flake of the foam;
Now silently poised o'er the war of the main,
Like the Spirit of Charity brooding o'er pain;

THE MESSIAH.

Now gliding with pinion all silently furled,
Like an angel descending to comfort the world!
Thou seem'st to my spirit, as upward I gaze,
And see thee, now clothèd in mellowest rays,
Now lost in the storm-driven vapours, that fly
Like hosts that are routed across the broad sky;
Like a pure spirit, true to its virtue and faith
'Mid the tempests of nature, of passion, and death!
Rise! beautiful emblem of purity, rise

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On the sweet winds of heaven, to thine own brilliant skies;

Still higher! still higher! till, lost to our sight,
Thou hidest thy wings in a mantle of light;
And I think how a pure spirit gazing on thee
Must long for that moment-the joyous and free-
When the soul, disembodied from Nature, shall
spring,

Unfettered, at once to her Maker and King;

When the bright day of service and suffering past, Shapes, fairer than thine shall shine round her at

last,

While, the standard of battle triumphantly furled, She smiles like a victor serene on the world!

THE MESSIAH.

ALEXANDER POPE.

YE nymphs of Solyma, begin the song:
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong.
The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids,
Delight no more-Oh, Thou my voice inspire,
Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire!

Rapt into future time the bard begun :-
A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son!
From Jesse's root behold a branch arise,

Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies;