The forests heard it, the mountains rang,
The hamlets woke to its haughty clang;
Rich and victorious was every tone,
Telling the land of her foes o'erthrown.

Didst thou meet not a mourner for all the slain?
Thousands lie dead on their battle plain!

Gallant and true were the hearts that fell-
Grief in the homes they have left must dwell;
Grief o'er the aspect of childhood spread,

And bowing the beauty of woman's head:

Didst thou hear, 'midst the songs, not one tender

moan,

For the many brave to their slumbers gone?

I saw not the face of a weeper there—

Too strong, perchance, was the bright lamp's glare!— I heard not a wail 'midst the joyous crowd

The music of victory was all too loud!

Mighty it roll'd on the winds afar,

Shaking the streets like a conqueror's car;

Through torches and streamers its flood swept by— How could I listen for moan or sigh?

Turn then away from life's pageants, turn,
If its deep story thy heart would learn!
Ever too bright is that outward show,
Dazzling the eyes till they see not woe.

But lift the proud mantle which hides from thy view
The things thou shouldst gaze on, the sad and true;
Nor fear to survey what its folds conceal-

So must thy spirit be taught to feel!

THE SPELLS OF HOME.

"There blend the ties that strengthen
Our hearts in hours of grief,
The silver links that lengthen

Joy's visits when most brief."

BERNARD BARTON.

By the soft green light in the woody glade,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood play'd,
By the household tree through which thine eye
First look'd in love to the summer sky,

By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious-oh! guard it well!

By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lull'd thee into many a dream,
By the shiver of the ivy leaves

To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves,
By the bee's deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth
When twilight call'd unto household mirth,
By the fairy tale or the legend old
In that ring of happy faces, told,

By the quiet hour when hearts unite

In the parting prayer and the kind "Good-night!"

By the smiling eye and the loving tone,
Over thy life has the spell been thrown.

And bless that gift!-it hath gentle might,
A guardian power and a guiding light.
It hath led the freeman forth to stand
In the mountain battles of his land;

It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;
And back to the gates of his father's hall
It hath led the weeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart, in its pride, would stray
From the pure first loves of its youth away-
When the sullying breath of the world would come
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home-
Think thou again of the woody glade,

And the sound by the rustling ivy made,
Think of the tree at thy father's door,

And the kindly spell shall have power once more!

ROMAN GIRL'S SONG.

"Roma, Roma, Roma!

Non è più come era prima."

ROME, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

On thy seven hills of yore

Thou satt'st a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then
Purpling the street,
Leaders and sceptred men

Bow'd at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore,

As gods were seen-
Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow

Never shall rise:

What hast thou left thee now?.
Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are,
Gloriously bright!

Veiling thy wastes afar

With colour'd light.

Thou hast the sunset's glow,

Rome, for thy dower, Flushing tall cypress bough,

Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine,

Lovely to hear,

While night, o'er tomb and shrine,

Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn,

By starlight sung,

Sweeps through the arches dim,

Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell,
On thy soft air

Lingers, and loves to dwell
With summer there.

Thou hast the south's rich gift
Of sudden song—
A charm'd fountain, swift,
Joyous, and strong.

Thou hast fair forms that move

With queenly tread;

Thou hast proud fanes above

Thy mighty dead.

Yet wears thy Tiber's shore

A mournful mien:

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

THE DISTANT SHIP.

THE sea-bird's wing, o'er ocean's breast
Shoots like a glancing star,

While the red radiance of the west
Spreads kindling fast and far;

And yet that splendour wins thee not-
Thy still and thoughtful eye
Dwells but on one dark distant spot
Of all the main and sky.