And the fragrant white blossoms spread over the thorn,
That grows near the cottage in which I was born.

It can not be changed-no, the clematis climbs
O'er the gay little porch, as it did in old times;
And the seat where my father reclined is still there—
But where is my father?-oh, answer me, where?

My mother's own casement, the chamber she loved,
Is there-overlooking the lawn where I roved;
She thoughtfully sat with her hand o'er her brow,
As she watched her young darling:-ah, where is she

now?

And there is my poor sister's garden: how wild
Were the innocent sports of that beautiful child!
Her voice had a spell in its musical tone,

And her cheek was like rose-leaves-ah! where is she gone?

But see! this green path-I remember it well-
'Tis the way to the church-hark! the toll of the bell!
Oh! oft in my boyhood a truant I've strayed
To yonder dark yew-tree, and slept in its shade.

But surely the pathway is narrower now!

No smooth place is left 'neath the dark yew-tree bough!
O'er tables inscribed with sad records I tread,
And the home I have sought—is the home of the dead!

And was it to this I looked forward so long,
And shrunk from the sweetness of Italy's song?
And turned from the dance of the dark girl of Spain?
And wept for my country again and again?

And was it for this to my casement I crept
To gaze on the deep when I dreamed that I slept?

To think of fond meetings-the welcome-the kissThe friendly hand's pressure-ah! was it for this?

When those, who so long have been absent, return To the scenes of their childhood, it is but to mourn; Wounds open afresh that time nearly had healed, And the ills of a life at one glance are revealed.

Speed, speed, my fleet vessel! the tempest may rave,— There's calm for my heart in the dash of the wave; Speed, speed, my fleet vessel! the sails are unfurled, Oh! ask me not whither-my home is the world!

LESSON LXXII.

SCOTLAND.

The following beautiful tribute to Scotland was written by the English poetess, MARY HOWITT. Gael (pronounced Gale,) is the name given to the Highlanders, who are supposed to be the descendants of the original inhabitants, before the Saxon invasions. Robert Bruce and Sir William Wallace were two Scottish heroes, who drove back the English invaders. It is unnecessary to tell even a child, who were Walter Scott and Robert Burns.

A Glen is a narrow pass between two hills. A Strath is the low land of a valley. A Moor or Heath is a plain overgrown with the plant called heath or heather. Sometimes a Moor means a marsh. A Burn is a brook. A Brae is the brow or side of a hill.

O, mountain-crested Scotland!
I marvel not thou art
Dear as a gracious mother
Unto her children's heart!
I marvel not they love thee,
Thou land of rock and glen,
Of strath, and lake, and mountain,
And more-of gifted men.

O, land of moor and mountain!
Of barren wastes of stone,

Of treeless straths and trackless wilds,
I love thee as my own!

I love thy mournful mosses,

Where sounds the plover's wail; And the savage mountains girdle round The dwelling of the Gael!

O, wild traditioned Scotland!
Thy briery burns and braes,
Are full of pleasant memories,
And tales of other days!
Thy story haunted waters
In music gush along,

Thy mountain glens are tragedies,
Thy heathy hills are song!

Land of the Bruce and Wallace,
Where fiery hearts have stood,
And, for their country and their faith,
Like water poured their blood;
Where wives and little children
Were steadfast to the death,
And graves of martyred warriors
Are in the desert heath.

Land of the social virtues-
Where the tiller of the sod,
Saith to his lowly household,
"Come, let us worship God!"
Where the lowly shepherd readeth
His book within the glen,
And the poorest dwellers of the hills,
Respect themselves as men.

O, mind-ennobled Scotland!

I marvel not thou art
Dear as a gracious mother
Unto her children's heart!

I marvel not that all the world
To thee admiring turns ;
Thou gavest birth to Walter Scott,
And thine own Robert Burns.

LESSON LXXIII.

A MOTHER'S ANGER.

The following poem is from the heart as well as the pen of MRS. GILMAN. May fond mothers and wandering sons heed the instruction and the example it conveys.

'Tis the first time-the only time

That e'er she turned away,

And left me with the brand of crime,
To curse this fatal day!

For sixteen years her evening kiss
Has dwelt upon my brow,
Or lip, or cheek, in gentleness,—
Alas! where is it now?

Would that I were again the child,
Who lay upon her breast,

And looked into her eyes and smiled,
Caressing and caressed!

Would that I now could bend

Upon her knee in prayer,

my head

And hear the holy words she said
When once I nestled there!

Oh! had I dashed the cup away

That lured me to my shame!-
I can not weep-I can not pray :
My heart-my thoughts are flame!

Mother, dear mother, turn once more
And bless thy sorrowing son!
Look on me as thou didst before,
Ere sin's dark work was done.

Oh, Heaven! she comes-I feel her breath,
Cool, on my fevered eyes!

She speaks;—the burning torch of death
At her soft accent flies!

Oh, mother, on my knees I swear
To spurn the tempting bowl,
Nor risk again, where revellers are,
My life-thy love-my soul!

LESSON LXXIV.

THE DEATH OF HAMILTON.

The following eloquent passage is taken from DR. KNOTT's sermon n the death of Alexander Hamilton, who, in 1804, was shot by Col. aron Burr in a duel. Hamilton, though not born in the United States, as a General in the army of the Revolution, and an Aid-de-camp and end of Washington. It is to be regretted that such a sacrifice did ot put an end to the inhuman and unchristian practice of duelling.

Before such an audience, and on such an occasion, enter on the duty assigned me with trembling. Do Ot mistake my meaning. I tremble, indeed-not, Owever, through fear of failing to merit your applause; r what have I to do with that, when addressing the ing, and treading on the ashes of the dead?-not