Our home--when will these eyes, now dimm'd with frequent weeping, see
The infant's pure and rosy ark, the stripling's sanctuary?
When will these throbbing hearts grow calm around its lighted hearth?--
Quench'd is the fire within its walls, and hush'd the voice of mirth!
The haunts--they are forsaken now--where our companions play'd;
We see their silken ringlets glow amid the moonlight glade;
We hear their voices floating up like paean songs divine;
Their path is o'er the violet-beds beneath the springing vine!
Restore, sweet spirit of our home! our native hearth restore--
Why are our bosoms desolate, our summer rambles o'er?
Let thy mild light on us be pour'd--our raptures kindle up,
And with a portion of thy bliss illume the household cup.
Yet mourn not, wanderers--onto you a thrilling hope is given,
A tabernacle unconfin'd, an endless home in heaven!
And though ye are divided now, ye shall be made as one
In Eden, beauteous as the skies that o'er your childhood shone!
_Deal._
REGINALD AUGUSTINE.
* * * * *
A CHAPTER ON KISSING.
BY A PROFESSOR OF THE ART.
_(For the Mirror.)_
"Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove;
Give me the mild gleam of the soul breathing glance,
And the rapture which dwells in the first _kiss_ of love."
BYRON.
There is no national custom so universally and so justly honoured with
esteem and respect, "winning golden opinions from all sorts of people,"
as kissing.
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