Four weary years! How looks she now?
What light is in those tender eyes?

What trace of time has touch'd the brow
Whose look is borrow'd of the skies
That listen to her nightly prayer?

How is she changed since he was there
Who sleeps upon her heart alway

Whose name upon her lips is worn-
For whom the night seems made to pray-
For whom she wakes to pray at morn
Whose sight is dim, whose heart-strings stir,
Who weeps these tears to think of her!

I know not if my mother's eyes

Would find me changed in slighter things;

I've wander'd beneath many skies,

And tasted of some bitter springs;

And many leaves, once fair and gay,

From youth's full flower have dropp'd away

But, as these looser leaves depart,

The lessen'd flower gets near the core,

And, when deserted quite, the heart

Takes closer what was dear of yore

And yearns to those who loved it first

The sunshine and the dew by which its bud was nursed.

Dear mother! dost thou love me yet?

Am I remember'd in my home?

When those I love for joy are met,

Does some one wish that I would come?

Thou dost-I am beloved of these!

But, as the schoolboy numbers o'er
Night after night the Pleiades

And finds the stars he found before —
As turns the maiden oft her token--

As counts the miser aye his gold-
So, till life's silver cord is broken,

Would I of thy fond love be told.

My heart is full, mine eyes are wet

Dear mother! dost thou love thy long-lost wanderer yet?

Oh! when the hour to meet again

Creeps on—and, speeding o'er the sea,
My heart takes up its lengthen'd chain,
And, link by link, draws nearer thee-
When land is hail'd, and, from the shore,
Comes off the blessed breath of home,
With fragrance from my mother's door,
Of flowers forgotten when I come-
When port is gain'd, and, slowly now,
The old familiar paths are pass'd,
And, entering unconscious how-
I gaze upon thy face at last,
And run to thee, all faint and weak,
And feel thy tears upon my cheek

Oh! if my heart break not with joy,

The light of heaven will fairer seem;
And I shall grow once more a boy:
And, mother!-'twill be like a dream.

That we were parted thus for years-
And once that we have dried our tears,

How will the days seem long and bright

To meet thee always with the morn,

And hear thy blessing every night

Thy "dearest," thy "first-born!"

And be no more, as now, in a strange land forlorn!

Homes for the Friendless.

[The inhabitants of the romantically beautiful town of Binghamton, on the Susquehannah, generously offered to give five hundred acres of land as a HOME FOR INEBRIATES, provided that the requisite funds were contributed to build and endow the Hospital and farms. As this most afflicting habit is, in many cases, a disease, wanting only seclusion in pure air, good counsel, industrial employment, and freedom from temptation; to effect a cure, the foundation of such a HOSPITAL seems a prominently important charity for our enlightened country. Perhaps it may not be amiss to suggest that, in assemblies where an appeal for contributions toward this object is to be made, the singing of the following hymn may assist in expressing the plea :]-HOME JOURNAL.

WHEN God, to shield from cold and storm

Gave trees to build and fire to warm,