Iftojeftmarj. 121 
E’er in my boyhood’s sunny prime, 
When brightly from the- urn of Time 
Life’s golden moments fell, 
Thou wert a peri to my eyes, 
Sent from Love’s own sweet paradise, 
In my young heart to dwell. 
New York Mirror. 
Eemember me, I pray; but not 
In Flora’s gay and blooming hour, 
When every brake hath found its note, 
And sunshine smiles in every flower; 
But when the falling leaf is sere, 
And withers sadly from the tree, 
And o’er the ruins of the year 
Cold autumn weeps,—remember me. 
Edward Everett. 
The north wind howls ; but, sheltered safe, and warm, 
Howl as it may, we feel secure from danger: 
The fire burns blue, “betokening a storm”—■ 
A brand falls down, “precursor of a stranger.” 
My thoughtful mind runs o’er the track of years, 
When, tongs in hand, at our old hearth I sat, 
And poked the embers, till my mother’s fears 
Broke in upon the usual social chat, 
“You’ll fire the chimney, son !” The sparks would fly, 
Like little lumps of lightning up the flue, 
And snap and crackle as they soared on high, 
As if they felt some pleasure in it too! 
That fire is out—that hearth is cold—and they 
Who felt its pleasant warmth have mostly passed away. 
MacKellar. 
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