Which now afar, o'er many a vale and mountain,
With strains sublime,

Bids welcome to thy bright and sunny fountain,
Sons of a distant clime!

Thou, from whose garments, dyed in blood for ages,
Sad pity weeping turns;

Thou, whose dark story traced on history's pages,
With blood-stained visions burns,--

Through the dim light of half-forgotten story,
Their light we trace,

Flinging a shadow on thy wreath of glory,
Its glancing hues to chase.

From the dark days of priestly pomp and power,
When the stern Guise held sway,

And the dark brand which stained the midnight hour,
Dared not the light of day;

From the sad tale of murdered Huguenot,

When the fierce purple flood

Through thy dark streets still flowed, and ceasing not,
Swept a full tide of blood!

Trace we the links which slowly still unwinding,
Rivet a lengthening chain;

In one wide ruin peer and peasant binding,
Beneath dark terror's reign!

But lo! a meteor o'er the wild commotion

With brightness gleams;

As o'er the waves that heave the breast of ocean,
Fall the moon's silver beams.

Thus, Star of Corsica, thy rising bright,
Kindled Hope's ray,

Hope, to be quenched in dark, despairing night,
Ere thou hadst passed away!

Soon, like a wild tornado fiercely blowing,
Swept thy career!

And Europe's noblest blood in torrents flowing,
Linked thy dread name with fear!

Turn me to brighter scenes, where fairer vision
The spirit meets;

And white-robed Peace, no longer deemed Elysian,
Proud War defeats.

Fair Paris, through thy streets the crowds are thronging,
And through thy avenues pour :

Is it for martial note each ear is longing?
List they the cannon's roar?

No; other tidings, nobler, loftier, higher,
Than triumph's proudest note,-

Tidings of peace and joy that throng inspire,
And through its murmurs float.

Sweet are those murmurs through the calm air ringing;
Bright earth, rejoice!

Even from blood-steeped Paris hope is springing.
Hail, cheering voice!

For glad words, once with angel music blending,
Are heard again,

"Peace through all regions of the world extending,

Good will to men!

LYDIA.

A SCOTTISH LEAGUER'S GREETING TO HIS AMERICAN SISTERS.

HAIL, ye mothers, bending o'er the
Cradled treasures of your fears,

Bending in your pride and kissing

Cheeks that glisten with your tears.
Mould the heart in sweet affection,
With a mother's plastic hand,

And a filial love shall halo,

Like a sun-burst, every land.

Ye are strong, for stronger women
Than the warrior, clad in steel-
Though he tramples down his foemen,
It is thine to make man feel

All the sweetest, soft emotion,

Brighten life and light the hearth---
Thou'rt his solace in affliction-

Thou'rt the sun-flower of his birth.

J. B. SYME.

REPLY TO THE SCOTTISH LEAGUER'S GREETING.

LET thy heart be joyful, brother-
The glad songs of peace are sung
By our happy cottage firesides,
By the voices of the young;
Woman's tone is breathing sweetly,-
Manhood's heart is beating high,—
Ever-hopeful youth is pleading
In the good cause earnestly.

Little children band together,

In their very weakness strong,—
Lisping infants learn the lesson,

"War is cruel,-war is wrong;
Tears are shed and prayers are offered
For the crushed and bleeding foe;
Soon may wave the snow-white banner
O'er the plains of Mexico.

AMANDA WESTON.

THE NEW DAY.

A NEW-BORN radiance gilds the upper sky,
The morning twilight of a better day,
Cheering the orb of many a darksome eye,
Chasing the clouds from many a heart away.

I see it trembling on the mountain height,
And stealing softly down the shadowy vale,
Each ray prophetic of perennial light,

And promise sure, that "Truth shall yet prevail."

The face of careworn Labour glows with hope;
Pallid Disease gives way to primal Health;
Besotted Beggary finds it vain to mope,

Through busy streets, its path of shame and stealth :--

Barefooted youth trips gaily to the school,

Nor longer dreads religion's sacred dome;
And e'en the poor, neglected, drivelling fool,
No more neglected, finds a friend and home :-

The wretched drunkard leaves his madd'ning bowl,
While angel-virtues haste to his abode ;

The stricken harlot flies her dread patrol,

And seeks forgiveness from her Father-God: