We are all here!

Even they, the dead,-though dead, so dear,

Fond Memory, to her duty true,
Brings back their faded forms to view.
How life-like, through the mist of years,
Each well-remember'd face appears!
We see them, as in times long past;
From each to each kind looks are cast;
We hear their words, their smiles be-
hold;

They're round us, as they were of old.
We are all here.

We are all here,

Father, mother,

Sister, brother,

You that I love with love so dear.
This may not long of us be said;
Soon must we join the gather'd dead,
And by the hearth we now sit round
Some other circle will be found.
Oh, then, that wisdom may we know,
Which yields a life of peace below!
So, in the world to follow this,
May each repeat in words of bliss,
We're all-all here!

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. Oн, my love's like the steadfast sun, Or streams that deepen as they run; Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years, Nor moments between sighs and tears— Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain, Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vainNor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows To sober joys and soften woes, Can make my heart or fancy flee One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse I see thee sit

In maiden bloom and matron wit-

Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee

As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time, and care, and birth-time woes
Have dimm'd thine eye and touch'd thy rose;
To thee, and thoughts of thee belong
Whate'er charms me in tale or song;
When words descend like dews unsought
With gleams of deep, enthusiast thought,
And Fancy in her heaven flies free-
They come, my love, they come from thee.

Oh, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold,
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er
How we should deck our humble bower!
'Twas sweet to pull in hope with thee
The golden fruit of Fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for that brow of thine-
A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow and woods grow green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought-
When Fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like a rainbow through the shower-
Oh, then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye;
And proud resolve and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak :
I think this wedded wife of mine
The best of all things not divine.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

OLD FOLKS AT HOME.

'WAY down upon de Swannee Ribber,

Far, far away,—

Dare's wha my heart is turning ebber,—
Dare's wha de old folks stay.

All up and down de whole creation
Sadly I roam;

moon

Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond and words were

few.

And for de old folks at home.

All de world am sad and dreary

Eb'rywhere I roam;

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,

Far from de old folks at home!

All 'round de little farm I wander'd

When I was young; Den many happy days I squander'd,Many de songs I sung.

When I was playing wid my brudder,

Happy was I;

Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!
Dare let me live and die!

All de world am sad and dreary

Eb'rywhere I roam;

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home!

One little hut among de bushes,—
One dat I love,—

Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes,

No matter where I rove.

When will I see de bees a-humming

All round de comb?

When will I hear de banjo tumming
Down in my good old home?

All de world am sad and dreary
Eb'rywhere I roam;

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home!
STEPHEN C. FOSTER.

SONGS OF SEVEN.

SEVEN TIMES ONE.

EXULTATION.

THERE'S no dew left on the daisies and clover,

There's no rain left in heaven:

I've said my "seven times" over and over, Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old, I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done;

The lambs play always, they know no better;

They are only one times one.

I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven,

And shine again in your place.

O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow,
You've powder'd your legs with gold!
O brave marshmary buds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold!

O columbine, open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!
O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest with the young ones in it;

I will not steal them away;

I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet,

I am seven times one to-day.

SEVEN TIMES TWO.

ROMANCE.

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,

How many soever they be,

And let the brown meadow-lark's note as

he ranges

Come over, come over to me.

Yet bird's clearest carol by fall or by swelling

No magical sense conveys,

And bells have forgotten their old art of telling

The fortune of future days.

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily,

While a boy listen'd alone;

Made his heart yearn again, musing so

wearily

All by himself on a stone.

sailing

And shining so round and low;

days are over, And mine, they are yet to be;

light is failing,

You are nothing now but a bow.

discover:

You leave the story to me.

wrong in heaven

That God has hidden your face?

ted heather, Preparing her hoods of snow;

way discover

To him that comes darkling along the rough steep.

Ah, my sailor, make haste,
For the time runs to waste,
And my love lieth deep—

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover,

I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."

By the sycamore pass'd he, and through the white clover,

Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd took flight;

But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.

SEVEN TIMES FOUR.
MATERNITY.

HEIGH-HO! daisies and buttercups,

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! When the wind wakes how they rock in the grasses,

And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and small!

Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's own lasses,

Eager to gather them all.

ingale, wait

Till I listen and hear

If a step draweth near,
For my love he is late!

"The skies in the darkness stoop nearer

and nearer,

A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree,

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge

sparrow,

That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain;

Sing, "Heart, thou art wide, though the house be but narrow,"

Sing once, and sing it again.

A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and thrall!

Send down on their pleasure smiles passing

its measure,

God that is over us all!

SEVEN TIMES FIVE.

WIDOW HOOD.

I SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan Before I am well awake;

"Let me bleed! oh let me alone,

Since I must not break!"

For children wake, though fathers sleep
With a stone at foot and at head;
O sleepless God, for ever keep,
Keep both living and dead!

I lift mine eyes, and what to see
But a world happy and fair?

I have not wish'd it to mourn with me-
Comfort is not there.

Oh, what anear but golden brooms,
And a waste of reedy rills!
Oh, what afar but the fine glooms
On the rare blue hills!

I shall not die, but live forlorn;
How bitter it is to part!

Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more!
Oh, my heart, my heart!

No more to hear, no more to see;

Oh, that an echo might wake,

And waft one note of thy psalm to me
Ere my heart-strings break!

I should know it how faint soe'er,
And with angel-voices blent;
Oh, once to feel thy spirit anear,
I could be content!

Or once between the gates of gold,
While an angel entering trod,
But once-thee sitting to behold
On the hills of God!

SEVEN TIMES SIX.
GIVING IN MARRIAGE.

To bear, to nurse, to rear,
To watch, and then to lose:
To see my bright ones disappear,
Drawn up like morning dews;

To bear, to nurse, to rear,

To watch, and then to lose:

This have I done when God drew near Among his own to choose.

To hear, to heed, to wed,

And with thy Lord depart In tears that he, as soon as shed, Will let no longer smart; To hear, to heed, to wed,

This while thou didst I smiled, For now it was not God who said, "Mother, give ME thy child."

Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind,

To God I gave with tears;

But when a man like grace would find, My soul put by her fears.

Oh, fond, oh, fool, and blind,

God guards in happier spheres;

That man will guard where he did bind Is hope for unknown years.

To hear, to heed, to wed,

Fair lot that maidens choose,

Thy mother's tenderest words are said.
Thy face no more she views;
Thy mother's lot, my dear,

She doth in naught accuse;
'Her lot to bear, to nurse, to rear,
To love, and then to lose.

SEVEN TIMES SEVEN.

LONGING FOR HOME.

A SONG of a boat:

There was once a boat on a billow: Lightly she rock'd to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like

snow,

And her frail mast bow'd when the breeze would blow,

And bent like a wand of willow.

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat Went curtseying over the billow,

I mark'd her course till a dancing mote She faded out on the moonlit foam, And I stay'd behind in the dear loved home; And my thoughts all day were about the

boat

And my dreams upon the pillow.