POETRY.


THE RECALL.
from Blackwood's Magazine.

Alas ! the kind, the playful, and the gay,
They who have gladden'd their domestic board,
And cheer'd the winter hearth - do they return.
                                            JOANNA BAILLE.

Come home ! - there is a sorrowing breath
In music since ye went;
And the early flower-scents wander by,
With mournful memories blent:
The sounds of every household voice
Are grown more sad and deep,
And the sweet word - ' Brother ' - wakes a wish
To turn aside and weep.

O ye beloved, come home ! - the hour
Of many a greeting tone,
The time of hearth-light and of song
Returns - and ye are gone !
And darkly, heavily it falls
On the forsaken room,
Burdening the heart with tenderness,
That deepens midst the gloom.

Where finds it ' you ' our wandering ones ?
With your boyhood's glee
Untamed, beneath the desert's palm,
Or on the lone mid-sea ?
'Mid stormy hills of battles old,
Or where dark rivers foam ?
Oh ! Life is dim where ye are not -
Back, ye beloved ! come home !

Come with the leaves and winds of spring,
And swift birds o'er the main !
Our love is grown too sorrowful,
Bring us its youth again !
Bring the glad tones to music back -
--Still, still your home is fair;
The spirit of your sunny life
Alone is wanting there !

===============================

THE TWO HOMES.

Oh !  if the soul immortal be,
Is not it's love immortal too ?

Seest thou my home ? - 'Tis where yon woods are waving
In their dark richness, to the sunny air;
Where yon yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laying,
Leads down the hills a vein of light - 'tis there !

Midst these green haunts how many a spring lies gleaming,
Fringed with the violet, colour'd with the skies,
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer dreaming,
Under young leaves that shook with melodies !

My home ! - my spirit of its love is breathing
In every wind that plays across my track,
>From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back.

There am I loved - there pray'd for ! - there my mother
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye,
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother;
Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly !

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending,
All the home voices meet at day's decline;
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending -
- There laughs ' my ' home.  Sad stranger ! where is thine ?

- Ask'st thou of 'mine' ? - in solemn peace 'tis lying,
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away;
'Tis where I too am loved, with love undying,
And fond hearts wait my step - But where are they ?

Ask where the earth's departed have their dwelling,
Ask of the clouds, the start, the trackless air ! -
I know not - yet I trust the whisper, telling
My lonely heart, that love unchanged is there.

And what is home, and where, but with the loving ?
Happy ' thou ' art, that so can'st gaze on thine !
My spirit feels but, in its weary roving,
That with the dead, where'er they be, is mine.

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother !
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene !
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother,
I will believe - but dark seas roll between.
=============================

HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

"Too much JAW about Emancipation has given his Grace the TOOTHACHE."

Novel discovery, and Soveriegn, remedy of that painful complaint, callked Tic-Douloureux, by Dr. Hume.

The Duke his comrade Hume, called in
And shook his skilful paw;
Then cried, "For years I have not been,
With such a painful jaw."

"I wonder not," the Doctor said,
"Your mouth is full of pain;
You never spake so much before,
And never will again.

"Yet should there be a curious tooth,
Decayed and prone to ache,
I would advise your Grace, in sooth,
The ' Newgate Drop ' to take.

_______________ ' Age '