Now thou art gone, (ah! dark above

Thy gravestone floods the winter rain),
And all the old, sweet household love,
Fades into memory's silent pain.
On earth for me no human heart,

Again will breathe those words divine;
But, sainted soul! where'er thou art,
Thy angel-pleading still is mine.

SONG.

FROM LODER'S OPERA, "FRANCIS THE FIRST."

Oh! the old house at home where my forefathers dwelt, Where a child at the feet of my mother I knelt,

Where she taught me the prayer, where she read me the

page,

Which, if infancy lisps, is the solace of age;
My heart, 'mid all changes wherever I roam,
Ne'er loses its love for the old house at home.

'Twas not for its splendour that dwelling was dear, 'Twas not that the proud or the noble were near; O'er the porch the gay wild rose and woodbine entwined, And the sweet-scented jessamine waved in the wind; Yet dearer to me than proud turret or dome

Were the halls of my fathers, the old house at home.

But now the old house is no dwelling for me,
The home of the stranger heuceforth it shall be,
And ne'er will I view, nor roam as a guest,

O'er the evergreen fields which my father possess'd :
Yet still in my slumbers sweet visions will come,

Of the days that are pass'd, and the old house at home.

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.

LEIGH HUNT, BORN AT SOUTHGATE, IN MIDDLESEX,
OCTOBER 19, 1784.

ABOU Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a sweet dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold:
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so;"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray, thee, then,

Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanish'd.

The next night

It came again, with a great wakening light,

And shew'd the names whom love of God had bless'd, And lo! Ben Ad hem's name led all the rest.

CASTLES IN THE AIR.

DAVID HOLT. FROM A LAY OF HERO WORSHIP, AND OTHER POEMS," 1850.

DELUSIONS in the garb of truth,

Idealisms passing fair,

Dreams of the hopeful heart of youth,

Ye fairy Castles in the Air.

How bright and beautiful ye rise,

Full beaming on our youthful view,

In the glad light of sunny eyes,
Ever romantic, "ever new."

Ye are the freshness and the bloom

Of life, ere life is tinged with sorrow,
When there is not one thought of gloom

To cloud the prospect of to-morrow.

How fair to youth's glad eyes ye seem,
Enchanted gardens, fairy bowers,
And ladies' eyes, that softly beam
Through casements of the glittering towers.

The sun of hope is o'er you playing,

All blue and cloudless is your sky, Fairies and nymphs are round you straying, And all is redolent of joy.

But the cold world its legions sends

Of cares and toils and griefs and pains, Before their power your beauty bends, Your ruins strew the aèrial plains.

Ye pass away, ye pass away,

Ye leave the spirit cold and dull, And we look round with vain assay For visions of the beautiful.

And Time, stern Time's relentless hand,
Desolates all your airy pride,

Like records written in the sand
Erased by the advancing tide.

Some that it took long years to rear

And beautify from moat to tower,

Are stripp'd of glory by a tear,
And perish in a single hour.

Friendships, affections, early love,

Pleasures and fancies bright and fair,

Too oft in time's progression prove
But baseless castles in the air,

But hearts there are that still keep dreaming,
That still retain your sweet control,
That dwell as in a world of seeming,
In very ecstacy of soul:

Hearts that go dreaming on through life
Amid a cloud of fantasies,
Enduring much of pain and strife
By stumbling on realities.

Such hearts are few, yea, passing few,
These dreams in most with youth depart,

As the sun scorches up the dew,

Time dulls the freshness of the heart.

And manhood comes, and all are gone,
All wither'd by its grief and care;
We look around, and see not one
Of youth s gay castles in the air.

And then a dreary blank succeeds,
And we feel lone and empty-hearted,
While the sad soul in secret bleeds
For fairy happiness depart d.

At last there comes a calmer hour,
Again the spirit is employ'd,

Fantasy is replaced by Power,

And wisdom fills the mental void.

But "Life hath nothing half so sweet,"
And Life hath nothing half so fair,

In all the after joys we meet,

As Youth's bright Castles in the Air.