And some day when skies are fair,
Up the bay my ships will sail.
I shall then buy all I need,

Prints to look at, books to read,
Horses, wines, and works of art,
Everything—except a heart;

That is lost, that is lost!

Once, when I was pure and young,
Richer, too, than I am now,
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung

Or a wrinkle creased my brow,
There was one whose heart was mine;
But she's something now divine,
And, though come my ships from sea,
They can bring no heart to me,

Evermore, evermore!

ROBERT BARRY COFFIN
("BARRY GRAY")

A PETITION TO TIME.

TOUCH us gently, Time!

Let us glide adown thy stream Gently, as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream!

Humble voyagers are we,

Husband, wife, and children three,—

(One is lost, an angel, fled

To the azure overhead).

Touch us gently, Time!

We've not proud nor soaring wings;
Our ambition, our content,

Lies in simple things.

Humble voyagers are we

O'er life's dim, unsounded sea,

Seeking only some calm clime;—

Touch us gently, gentle Time!

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER
("BARRY CORNWALL").

HOME, SWEET HOME.

'MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with
elsewhere.

Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
Oh! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again!
The birds, singing gayly, that came at my call-
Give me them!---and the peace of mind dearer than

all.

Home, sweet, sweet, sweet home!

There's no place like home!

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE,

KEN YE THE LAN'?

(After Goethe's Song of Mignon.)

KEN ye the lan' o' the laigh gray skies,

Whaur the green pine nods, an' the wild bird cries ;

Whaur the heather blooms an' the gowan grows, An' sweet is the scent o' the briar-rose?

Ken ye the 'an'?

I am fain, I am sain,

Tae see the blue hills o' my ain lan' again.

Ken ye the path ow'r the weary sea,

Wi' the loupin' waves an' the blawing bree?—
Alane wi' God, wi' nae lan' in sicht;

But the east fornenst wi' the dawn is bricht.
Ken ye the path?

I am fain, I am fain,

Tae feel the saut win' i' my face again.

Ken ye the fowk i' the mirk, alane,

Whase ears are gleg for the stap o' their ain?

Their words may be cauld, but their hearts are

aflame;

"Ye've been lang awa'; ye are welcome hame." Ken ye the fowk?

I am fain, I am fain,

Tae see the dear licht o' their faces again.

JOHN T. NAPIER.

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest,