THE

GOLDEN GIFT.

My Native Land, -My Native Place,

My thoughts are in my native land,
My heart is in my native place,
Where willows bend to breezes bland,
And kiss the river's rippling face ;

Where sunny shrubs disperse their scent, And raise their blossoms high to heaven,

As if in calm acknowledgment

For brilliant hues and virtues given.

My thoughts are with my youthful days,
Where sin and grief were but a name;
When every field had golden ways,

And pleasure with the daylight came.

I bent the rushes to my feet,

And sought the water's silent flow,
I moved along the thin ice fleet,
Nor thought upon the death below

I culled the violet in the dell,

Whose wild-rose gave a chequered shade, And listened to each village bell,

So sweet by answering echo made.

In God's own house, on God's own day,
In neat attire, I bent the knee;
Pure sense of duty made me pray,-
Joy made me join the melody.

Thus memory, from her treasured urn,
Shakes o'er the mind her spring-like rain;

Thus scenes turn up and palely burn,
Like night-lights in the ocean's train.

And still my soul shall these command,
While sorrow writes upon my face;
My thoughts are on my native land,

My heart is in my native place.

ANON.

Remember Me.

Remember me when not a cloud of sorrow

Its shadow flings across my sunny way; When all is bright, and Hope bespeaks the morrow As undisturbed and happy as to-day;

When throbs my heart with pleasure, and its fountain

Is sending forth a stream of joy and love; And clothes in beauty, every vale and mountain, And all the glowing canopy above.

But when a tear is starting, and a sadness
Is gathering o'er me, and my spirit's light
Is being veiled, and all its cheering gladness
Enshrouded in gloom like that of night;

And scenes that once were beautiful, are dreary,
Fond hopes ere I can realize them, flee;

And when my soul has struggled till 't is weary ;-
With kindly heart, oh then, remember me!

W. A. SLEEPER.

Home of my Youth.

How well I remember

My boyhood's sweet home! How oft in my sadness

Its memories come! For there with the beings On earth I loved best, I lived but too happy, Too happy to last.

I remember the cot,

So peaceful and still, So sweetly it stood, on

The green sloping hill: The hill where I oft, 'neath The spreading oak's shade, From morning till sunset, Have gamboled and played.

The silvery brook, that

Went wandering through The mossy green mead, where

The strawberries grew,

The garden, the orchard,

The grove, and the lane,

Are all, all still fresh,

In memory's chain.