THE SPELLS OF HOME.

By the soft green light in the woody glade,
On the banks of moss where thy childhood played,
By the household tree through which thine eye
First looked in love to the summer sky,
By the dewy gleam, by the very breath
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious-oh! guard it well!

By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lulled thee into many a dream;
By the shiver of the ivy-leaves

To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves;
By the bee's 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 called 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!

GENEROUS BEQUEST.

WHEN M. Bouvant was given over by the physicians, he sent for his old friend, the Abbé Blanchet, to whom he said, 'From the character I know you to have, you will always be poor; there is every appearance, my friend, that I cannot live long, and when I am dead, what will become of you?' The Abbé wished to reply, but the sick man, taking

advantage of his condition, ordered him to be silent, and dictated his last orders. 'My will is, that you enjoy the interest of ten thousand crowns, which I have earned, for your life. Do n't make any difficulties, the principal will return to my family.'

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M. Bouvant recovered. Sometime afterwards, the Abbé related this trait to the Duchesse d'Aumont, who was so delighted, that she urged him to tell it her again. Why, Madam,' said the Abbé, 'what I have related is nothing to what followed; for when my poor Bouvant was recovered, I found him quite sorry that he was well.'

THE Earl of Clarendon passes the following high encomium on the brave Lord Falkland, who fell in the battle of Newbury. One thing,' says the noble historian, 'Lord Falkland never could bring himself to do, while Secretary of State; and that was, the liberty of opening letters, upon a suspicion that they might contain matter of dangerous consequence; which he thought such a violation of the law of nature, that no qualification of office could justify him in the trespass.'

TO AN APRIL FLOWER.

Ay, thou art welcome! the rough winds are rushing

Over a stormy sea, and darkened earth;

And not a sister flower is kindly blushing

To greet the violet in its humble birth.

Now the black clouds through the wide heavens are sweeping,
And big drops patter on the leafless tree;

In giant wrath the unchained waves are leaping,
And dashing on the broad shores angrily.

Now from his throne, the monarch sun is gleaming,
And the pavilioned clouds with joy are bright;
While the calm sea in quiet splendor beaming,
Spreads its broad mantle of rejoicing light.

Then thou, sweet flower, to life art gladly springing,
By some lone fountain, or untrodden green,
With modest love to thy seclusion clinging,
To live in solitude, and die unseen.

Thus many a heart in this wide world is breathing,
Nursed in life's sunshine and its tempest hours,
Living in peace, to few kind friends bequeathing
A memory pure as thine, most dear of flowers.

THE SCOTTISH MINISTER'S JUBILEE.

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THE SCOTTISH MINISTER'S JUBILEE.

I HOPE YOU will stay over Monday, and help me to thank my kind people for assisting in keeping my fiftieth anniversary among them. I am sure, Willie, I may count upon you, for auld lang-syne !

Ay, that you may, Sir, come what will of palette and pupils, exclaimed the young artist: and my acceptance, if less enthusiastic was not the less cordial. To see in the midst of a grateful and affectionate flock, the faithful pastor of half a century, is a sight not often to be enjoyed, or lightly to be forfeited—and I too would have periled fame or business, had they been mine, on the issue.

A Scottish Sabbath has been often described, but never, methinks, so as fully to convey to a stranger its exquisite stillness, and the palpable elevation of all in nature above the diurnal level of our 'working-day world.' It is not alone the absence of all sounds of labor or revelry, the softened tread of the rude hind, the subdued laughter of unconscious infancy; but the very whisper of the brooks and waving of the woods, seemed attuned to soberer and holier harmonies. The busy highway and toilsome furrow are alike deserted, while a thousand quiet hedge-row paths teem and glitter with long files of holiday suited elders, and whiterobed youth and childhood. If airs of Paradise do indeed ever penetrate our world's dense atmosphere, and breathe sweet influences from on high on privileged mortals, it is