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 bells' chime
Floats through 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.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free fair homes of England,
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall.
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God.

THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF

'OH, call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee--
Where is my brother gone?

'The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight
Oh, call my brother back!

'The flowers run wild--
the flowers we sow'd
Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load
Oh, call him back to me!'

'He could not hear thy voice, fair child,
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled,
On earth no more thou'lt see.

'A rose's brief bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Go--thou must play alone, my boy!
Thy brother is in heaven!'

'And has he left his birds and flowers,
And must I call in vain?
And, through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?

'And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er?
Oh, while my brother with me play'd,
Would I had loved him more!'

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

THEY grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee,
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow,
She had each folded flower in sight,
Where are those dreamers now?

One midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream, is laid