That crowd the city's street,
The rush, the race, the storm of Life
Upon thee never meet;
But quiet and contented hearts
Their daily tasks fulfill,
And meet with simple hope and trust
The coming good or ill.

The spireless church stands plain and brown
The winding road beside;
The green graves rise in silence near,
With moss-grown tablets wide;
And early on the Sabbath morn,
Along the flowery sod,
Unfettered souls, with humble prayer,
Go up to worship God.

And dearer far than sculptured fane
Is that gray church to me,
For in its shade my mother sleeps,
Beneath the willow-tree;
And often when my heart is raised,
By sermon and by song,
Her friendly smile appears to me
From the seraphic throng.

The sunset glow, the moon-lit stream
Part of my being are;
The fairy flowers that bloom and die,
The skies so clear and far.
The stars that circle Night's dark brow,
The winds and waters free,
Each with a lesson all its own
Are monitors to me.

The systems in their endless march
Eternal truth proclaim;
The flowers God's love from day to day
In gentlest accents name;
The skies for burdened hearts and faint
A code of Faith prepare;
What tempest ever left the heaven
Without a blue spot there?

My native isle! my native isle!
In sunnier climes I've strayed,
But better love thy pebbled beach
And lonely forest glade,
Where low winds stir with fragrant breath
The purple violet's head,
And the star-grass in the early spring
Peeps from the sear leaf's bed.

I would no more of tears and strife
Might on thee ever meet,
But when against the tide of years
This heart has ceased to beat,
Where the green weeping willows bend
I fain would go to rest,
Where waters lave, and winds may sweep
Above my peaceful breast.

SONNET.

SUGGESTED BY THE GREAT MOVEMENTS IN EUROPE.

BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

To marshal you, oh army of the Poor!
The spirits of the Past have back returned--
They who once toiled for you, though crushed and spurned;
Toiled, that while Truth and Freedom evermore
Might guard the olive of the lowliest door:
He, the Great human Type, for whom men yearned,
And longed in prophecy, for you, who mour