By MRS. HEMANS.

THE stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land.

The deer across their greensward bound
Thro' shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry Homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song
Or childhood's tale is told,

Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath-hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime

Floats thro' their woods at morn;

All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.

The Cottage Homes of England!
By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.

THINE is a strain to read among the hills,
The old and full of voices ;-by the source
Of some free stream, whose gladdening presence fills
The solitude with sound; for in its course
Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part
Of those high scenes, a fountain from their heart.

Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken

To the still breast, in sunny garden-bowers, Where vernal winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay.

Or by some hearth where happy faces meet,

When night hath hush'd the woods, with all their birds, There, from some gentle voice, that lay were sweet As antique music, link'd with household words. While, in pleased murmurs, woman's lip might move, And the rais'd eye of childhood shine in love.

Or where the shadows of dark solemn yews
Brood silently o'er some lone burial-ground,
Thy verse hath power that brightly might diffuse
A breath, a' kindling, as of spring, around;
From its own glow of hope and courage high,
And steadfast faith's victorious constancy.

True bard, and holy !-thou art ev'n as one
Who, by some secret gift of soul or eye,

In every spot beneath the smiling sun,

Sees where the springs of living waters lie:

Unseen awhile they sleep-till, touch'd by thee,

Bright healthful waves flow forth to each glad wanderer free.

KORNER AND HIS SISTER.

By the Same.

GREEN wave the oak for ever o'er thy rest,
Thou that beneath its crowning foliage sleepest,
And, in the stillness of thy country's breast,
Thy place of memory, as an altar keepest;
Brightly thy spirit o'er her hills was pour'd,
Thou of the Lyre and Sword!

Rest, bard! rest, soldier!-by the father's hand
Here shall the child of after-years be led,
With his wreath-offering silently to stand,

In the hush'd presence of the glorious dead.
Soldier and bard! for thou thy path hast trod
With freedom and with God.

The oak wav'd proudly o'er thy burial-rite,

On thy crown'd bier to slumber warriors bore thee, And with true hearts thy brethren of the fight Wept as they vail'd their drooping banners o'er thee. And the deep guns with rolling peal gave token, That Lyre and Sword were broken.

Thou hast a hero's tomb :-a lowlier bed
Is hers, the gentle girl beside thee lying,
The gentle girl, that bow'd her fair, young head,
When thou wert gone, in silent sorrow dying.
Brother, true friend! the tender and the brave
She pined to share thy grave.

Fame was thy gift from others;-but for her,
To whom the wide world held that only spot,
She lov'd thee!-lovely in your lives ye were,
And in your early deaths divided not.

Thou hast thine oak, thy trophy :-What hath she?—
Her own blest place by thee!

It was thy spirit, brother! which had made

The bright earth glorious to her thoughtful eye, Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play'd, And sent glad singing thro' the free blue sky. Ye were but two-and when that spirit pass'd Woe to the one, the last!

Woe, yet not long!-She linger'd but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast,
Once, once again to see that buried face
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest.

Too sad a smile! its living light was o'er,

It answer'd hers no more.

The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled?
What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted?
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead!
Softly she perish'd be the Flower deplor'd

:

Here with the Lyre and Sword!

Have ye not met ere now? -so let those trust
That meet for moments but to part for years,
That weep, watch, pray, to hold back dust from dust,
That love, where love is but a fount of tears.
sweet sister! peace around ye dwell: :-
Lyre, Sword, and Flower, farewell!

Brother,

T

BANWELL CAVE.

By the REV. W. L. BOWLES.

SPIRIT and shadow of the ancient world,
Awake! Thou who hast slept four thousand years,
Arise! For who can gaze upon this vault,
Strewn with the fragments of a former world,
Swept to destruction,-but must pause to think
Of the mutations of the Globe;-of Time,
Hurrying to onward spoil;-of his own life,
Swift-passing as a summer-cloud away ;-

Of HIM, who spoke and the dread storm went forth!..
Since then, these bones that strew the inmost cavé

Have lain, the records of that awful doom.

When now the black abyss had ceas'd to roar,
And waters, shrinking from the rocks and hills,

Slept in the solitary sunshine,-HERE

THEY LAY; and when four thousand years had pass'd→→'l
And the grey smoke went up from villages-

And cities, with their tow'rs and temples shone

Where Life's great hum was murmuring,

HERE THEY LAY!

The crow sail'd o'er the lonely spot, the bents
Wav'd to the summer-air, yet, undisturbed

• In Somersetshire. See Dr. Buckland's interesting illustrations of these re mains of a former world. The bishop of Bath and Wells has built a picturesque and appropriate cottage near the cave, on the hill commanding this fine view.