By the sleepy ripple of the stream,

Which hath lull'd thee into many a dream;

By the shiver of the ivy-leaves

To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves,
By the bees' deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath-chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,
Stronger and dearer the spell is made.

By the gathering round the winter hearth,

When twilight call'd unto household mirth;
By the fairy tale or the legend old

In that ring of happy faces told;

By the quiet hour when hearts unite

In the parting prayer and the kind "Good-night;"

By the smiling eye and the loving tone,

Over thy life has the spell been thrown.

And bless that gift!—it hath gentle might,
A guardian power and a guiding light.

It hath led the freeman forth to stand
In the mountain-battles of his land;
It'hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze;
And back to the gates of his father's hall,
It hath led the weeping prodigal.

Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray
From the pure first loves of its youth away;
When the sullying breath of the world would come
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's home;
Think thou again of the woody glade,

And the sound by the rustling ivy made,

Think of the tree at thy father's door,

And the kindly spell shall have power once more!

ROMAN GIRL'S SONG.

Roma, Roma, Roma!
Non è piu come era prima.

ROME, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

On thy seven hills of yore

Thou satst a queen.

Thou hadst thy triumphs then

Purpling the street,

Leaders and sceptred men

Bow'd at thy feet.

They that thy mantle wore,
As gods were seen-

Rome, Rome! thou art no more

As thou hast been!

Rome! thine imperial brow

Never shall rise :

What hast thou left thee now?

Thou hast thy skies!

Blue, deeply blue, they are,

Gloriously bright!

Veiling thy wastes afar

With colour'd light.

Thou hast the sunset's glow,
Rome, for thy dower,

Flushing tall cypress-bough,

Temple and tower!

And all sweet sounds are thine,

Lovely to hear,

While night, o'er tomb and shrine,

Rests darkly clear.

Many a solemn hymn,

By starlight sung,
Sweeps thro' the arches dim,
Thy wrecks among.

Many a flute's low swell,
On thy soft air

Lingers, and loves to dwell
With summer there.

Thou hast the South's rich gift

Of sudden song,

A charmed fountain, swift,

Joyous, and strong.