HOME IN THE WEST.

A SONG.

They may sing of the lands o'er the desert of brine,
Where the earth in its age has grown grey,
Where the bright rivers roll through the valleys of vine,
And the old castles fall to decay.

But give me the land where the sun goes to sleep
On the blue mountain's cloud-mantled crest,

And where rivers of gold through the green valleys sweep

Through the shades of the woods of the West.

There the Spring's reddest flowers are soonest to blush, And the Summer grows crimson with fruit,

And in Fall's purple bowers the sweet-throated thrush Sings the day breeze to sleep with his lute.

There dark are the forests, and bright are the streams, And the stranger is welcome as guest,

Where the love-lighted eye of each young maiden beams,

From her green-bowered home in the West!

Oh! roam where you may from the Line to the Pole, Thou shalt feel this wherever thou art:

'Tis the West where the sunshine falls in on the soul, And illumines the depths of the heart!

And dear is each hand which they nobly extend,

Whose touch thrills at once through the breast, For you feel 'tis the true honest clasp of a friend, And your heart finds its home in the West!

There my friends have my faith, and the maid has my love,

And in spirit there yet do I dwell,

For my soul to its ark, still returns like the dove,

And my lips still deny it farewell!

Oh! when my last sigh shall be breathed on the air,
And silent the throb of this breast,

I ask only this, as my bosom's last prayer,
Let me sleep my last sleep in the West!

MARY LYLE.

A BALLAD.

'Twas when the brooks of Spring were blue, And Western woods were green,

My eyes first saw, my soul first knew

And owned my bosom's queen;

The violet was in her eye,

The sunshine in her smile,

And I was happy roving by
The side of Mary Lyle.

And when the silver sickles rung
Among the golden wheat,

When loud and gay the reapers sung,
Her voice was low and sweet;

Or leaning on their scythes, like Time,
All charmed were they the while—
But mine the heart that blessed the chime,
Of bonnie Mary Lyle.

When blue Autumnal skies were spread,
The sun was veiled in smoke,
And honeysuckles bright and red,
Entwined the purple oak-

'Twas then twin shadows, side by side,
Grew long in sunset's smile,
And in the cottage porch my pride
Was bonnie Mary Lyle.

'Twas Winter, and the winds were chill,

And bitter was the air,

And all the oaks upon the hill

Were leafless, lone and bare;

But by the ruddy fireside,

When snow o'er-topped the stile,
I kissed by night my blushing bride,
My loving Mary Lyle.

But Seasons now are all as one
Though age its frost has shed,

And through thy jet black tresses run
Full many a silver thread;

Yet though thou hast a dimmer eye,

I see thy former smile,

And blessing thee, I'll live and die,

My old wife, Mary Lyle.

BONNIE KITTY.

WHEN the sunlight kissed the mountain,
Bonnie Kitty came to bring

Silver water from the fountain,
Where the water-cresses spring.
Shrinking from my love's caresses,
Loose her raven ringlets drooped,
And the streamlet caught her tresses,
As she blushed, but smiling stooped-

"Kitty!” cried I, "hear thy lover!"
But the laughing maiden fled
To the cottage, through the clover,
With its nodding blossoms red—
"Wanton Willie, cease to tarry,"

Said she, as her black eye smiled, "Bonnie Kitty may not marry, Mother needs her darling child."