THE DELIGHTS OF DREAMING. 



BY IIELEN HETHERINGTON. 



I dream of Home, and the happy days 



When Fortune smiled on my father's hall ; 

 And the cheering sun's resplendent rays 



Danced merrily over the waterfall; 

 When the lark — oh, mcthinks I hear it still ! — 



Poured out its praise to the God of day, 

 As the music fell on the distant hill 



Where zephyrs were waiting to bear it away! 



I have cherish'd these thoughts, till a fairy spell 



Has wafted me back to my native shore ; 

 But the charm dissolved as the warm tears fell, 



For kindred and friends I shall never see more. 

 And as I awoke from my reverie, 



I felt a sensation of pleasure and pain; 

 Though dear is the name of my home to me, 



I feel I shall never behold it again ! 



I dream of Home, and my steps retrace, 



With ev'ning's dark shadows, the path through 

 the vale ; 

 And when to the moon's gentle light they give 

 place, 

 My spirit is cheer'd by the sweet nightingale. 

 All nature seems hush'd, lest a sweet note be lost; 

 Light zephyrs approach, and depart with a 

 sigh, 

 Unfelt by the light sprays with dewdrops em- 

 boss'd, 

 Unheard save by fairies who pass gaily by. 



Oh, dear are the dreams that so faithfully bring 

 The scenes I best love in my bright English 

 home ; 

 I hear the sweet birds blithely welcome the spring, 

 And gaily my merry^bark rides through the 

 foam. 

 Yes ; dear was that season of pleasure to me, 

 And fondly I've welcomed the soul-stirring 

 strain ; 

 I am pleased that the scenes come^in'dreams to 

 me, 

 For, alas ! I shall never behold them again ! 



I dream of Home, and again rejoice 



With Nature's fair children that sport on the 

 lea: 

 And my welcome is cheer'd by a kind gentle voice 



That calls me her child, — oh ! still, still I see 

 The sweet smile she gave. Though the dream 

 has since changed, 

 Fond memory clings to the scenes we love best; 

 When the light step of infancy merrily ranged, 

 And^the heart's fondest wishes reposed in her 

 breast. 



The Heralds of Spring are approaching with 

 pleasure, 

 Bright flowers will bloom, — but, alas ! not for 

 me ! 

 And sweet smiling summer will yield her rich 

 treasure, 

 While birds sing a welcome from bower and tree. 

 Though far, far away from these blessings I roam, 

 And the land of my birth I may never more see ; 

 I will not repine while my dreams are of Home, 

 And my thoughts picture scenes best and 

 dearest to me. 



THOUGHTS ON THE IVY. 



We live to learn. I was not suffi- 

 ciently aware of the value of ivy for the pro- 

 tection of the feathered race, until I had 

 seen the pheasant-preserve of the Grand 

 Duke of Tuscany, in the year 1817. It is 

 called the Cascini, and it is a kind of Hyde 

 Park for the inhabitants of Florence in their 

 evening recreations. 



At the grove of the Cascini, you see 

 the ivy growing in all its lofty pride and 

 beauty. As I gazed on its astonishing luxu- 

 riance, I could not help entertaining a high 

 opinion of the person, be he alive or dead, 

 through whose care and foresight such an 

 effectual protection had been afforded to the 

 wild birds of Heaven, in the very midst of the 

 " busy haunts of men." The trees in this or- 

 namented grove are loaded with a profusion 

 of ivy, from their lowest to their topmost 

 branches; and although crowds of fashionable 

 carriages were rolling along the road which 

 surrounds this preserve, I saw our common 

 pheasant roving through its walks, with a 

 confidence little inferior to that of our own 

 domestic poultry. As the evening closed in 

 upon us, I observed, multitudes of the smaller 

 birds resorting to the " ivy-mantled" trees, 

 in order to enjoy the proffered convenience 

 of nocturnal rest and safety. 



I have profited by what I saw in Tuscany, 

 for, on my return to my native place, 1 began 

 the cultivation of ivy with an unsparing hand. 

 There are two sorts of this ever-verdant plant. 

 The one is denominated English, the other 

 Irish ivy. Both are exceedingly graceful in 

 their foliage ; but the first is by far the better 

 bearer of fruit. They will grow on any soil, 

 save that of swamp. Whilst the plant is on 

 the ground, you have only to cover its long 

 runners with a little earth, at intervals of 

 four or five inches, and you will soon have 

 an abundant supply of ivy for ornament ; and 

 for use, as far as the birds are concerned. 

 This is a surer way of obtaining plants, than 

 by cutting them at once from the climbing 

 ivy. 



Ivy can only attain its greatest perfection 

 through the intervention of foreign bodies. 

 It travels onward in a lowly state upon 

 the ground until it reaches some inclined or 

 perpendicular object, up which it ascends. 

 In due time it then puts out lateral branches, 

 and obtains a bole, as though it were a forest 

 tree itself. Ivy derives no nutriment from 

 the timber tree to which it adheres. It 

 merely makes use of a tree or wall, as we 

 ourselves do of a walking-stick, when old age 

 or infirmities tell us that we cannot do with- 

 out it. Should an ancient wall and ivy come 

 in contact, they are of great assistance to 

 each other. Dyer observed this on Grongar 

 Hill :— 



