O joyful hour, when to our longing home

The long-expected wheels at length drew nigh! When the first sound went forth, "They come, they come!"

And hope's impatience quicken'd every eye!

"Never had man whom Heaven would heap with bliss

More glad return, more happy hour than this."

Aloft on yonder bench, with arms dispread,

My boy stood, shouting there his father's name, Waving his hat around his happy head;

And there, a younger group, his sisters came :
Smiling they stood with looks of pleased surprise,
While tears of joy were seen in elder eyes.

Soon each and all came crowding round to share
The cordial greeting, the beloved sight;
What welcomings of hand and lip were there!
And when those overflowings of delight
Subsided to a sense of quiet bliss,
Life hath no purer deeper happiness.

The young companion of our weary way
Found here the end desired of all her ills;
She who in sickness pining many a day

Hunger'd and thirsted for her native hills,
Forgetful now of sufferings past and pain,
Rejoiced to see her own dear home again.

Recover'd now, the homesick mountaineer
Sate by the playmate of her infancy,
Her twin-like comrade, . . render'd doubly dear
For that long absence: full of life was she,

With voluble discourse and eager mien
Telling of all the wonders she had seen.
Here silently between her parents stood

My dark-eyed Bertha, timid as a dove;
And gently oft from time to time she woo'd
Pressure of hand, or word, or look of love,
With impulse shy of bashful tenderness,
Soliciting again the wish'd caress.

The younger twain in wonder lost were they,
My gentle Kate, and my sweet Isabel :
Long of our promised coming, day by day

It had been their delight to hear and tell;
And now when that long-promised hour was come,
Surprise and wakening memory held them dumb.

For in the infant mind, as in the old,

When to its second childhood life declines, A dim and troubled power doth Memory hold: But soon the light of young Remembrance shines Renew'd, and influences of dormant love Waken'd within, with quickening influence move. O happy season theirs, when absence brings Small feeling of privation, none of pain, Yet at the present object love re-springs,

As night-closed flowers at morn expand again! Nor deem our second infancy unblest,

When gradually composed we sink to rest.

Soon they grew blithe as they were wont to be;
Her old endearments each began to seek :

And Isabel drew near to climb my knee,

And pat with fondling hand her father's cheek;

With voice and touch and look reviving thus
The feelings which had slept in long disuse.

But there stood one whose heart could entertain
And comprehend the fulness of the joy;
The father, teacher, playmate, was again
Come to his only and his studious boy:
And he beheld again that mother's eye,

Which with such ceaseless care had watch'd his
infancy.

Bring forth the treasures now, . a proud display, . .
For rich as Eastern merchants we return!
Behold the black Beguine, the Sister grey,

The Friars whose heads with sober motion turn,
The Ark well-fill'd with all its numerous hives,

Noah and Shem and Ham and Japhet, and their wives.

The tumbler, loose of limb; the wrestlers twain ;
And many a toy beside of quaint device,
Which, when his fleecy troops no more can gain

Their pasture on the mountains hoar with ice,
The German shepherd carves with curious knife,
Earning in easy toil the food of frugal life.

It was a group which Richter, had he view'd,
Might have deem'd worthy of his perfect skill;
The keen impatience of the younger brood,

Their eager eyes and fingers never still;
The hope, the wonder, and the restless joy
Of those glad girls, and that vociferous boy!

The aged friend serene with quiet smile,

Who in their pleasure finds her own delight; The mother's heart-felt happiness the while; The aunts, rejoicing in the joyful sight;

And he who in his gaiety of heart,

With glib and noisy tongue perform'd the showman's part.

Scoff ye who will! but let me, gracious Heaven,
Preserve this boyish heart till life's last day!
For so that inward light by Nature given

Shall still direct, and cheer me on my way,
And brightening as the shades of age descend,
Shine forth with heavenly radiance at the end.

This was the morning light vouchsafed, which led
My favour'd footsteps to the Muses' hill,
Whose arduous paths I have not ceased to tread,
From good to better persevering still;

And if but self-approved, to praise or blame
Indifferent, while I toil for lasting fame.

And O ye nymphs of Castaly divine!
Whom I have dutifully served so long,
Benignant to your votary now incline,

That I may win your ear with gentle song,
Such as, I ween, is ne'er disown'd by you,.
A low prelusive strain, to nature true.

But when I reach at themes of loftier thought,
And tell of things surpassing earthly sense,
(Which by yourselves, O Muses, I am taught,)
Then aid me with your fuller influence,

And to the height of that great argument,
Support my spirit in her strong ascent!

So may I boldly round my temples bind
The laurel which my master Spenser wore ;
And free in spirit as the mountain wind

That makes my symphony in this lone hour,
No perishable song of triumph raise,

But sing in worthy strains my Country's praise.

FLEMISH LANDSCAPE

FROM "THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE TO WATERLOO "

FOUR horses, aided by the favouring breeze,

Drew our gay vessel, slow and sleek and large ;
Crack goes the whip, the steersman at his ease
Directs the way, and steady went the barge.
Ere evening closed to Bruges thus we came, .
Fair city, worthy of her ancient fame.

The season of her splendour is gone by,

Yet every where its monuments remain ; Temples which rear their stately heads on high, Canals that intersect the fertile plain,

Wide streets and squares, with many a court and hall Spacious and undefaced, but ancient all.

Time hath not wrong'd her, nor hath Ruin sought

Rudely her splendid structures to destroy,

Save in those recent days with evil fraught,
When Mutability, in drunken joy