There is not in all Litchfield a damsel so fair As that girl with the dark eyes and bright auburn hair The last lingering pulsation of life shall depart E’re that maidens image shall fade from my heart. But it was not that beauty had moulded her face Where the white rose and red rose had mingled their grace T’ was not the soft glance of a mild beaming eye T’ was something more lovely than youths roseate dye It was that virtue and feeling came mingling with truth That added new graces, and beauty, and youth And showed how the charms of the person increase, When virtue and truth with the heart are at peace. Sweet blossom of Litchfield how calmly my life Would glide down in its channel with thee for a wife Then the storms that once lowered forever should cease. And our hearts like thy virtues be mingled in peace. Composed by MR. J. P. BRACE. HOME What tho’ banish’d from home o’er the world I may roam Still that home I have left is the first in my love; There’s no sorrow so great, as its absence to mourn; No joy that’s so bright as the hope of return. At home are the friends of my earliest years, That form’d my first hopes and soothed my first fears; That taught my young bosom the pleasures of love. And directed its tho’ts to the heaven above. Tho’ much I may love other friends I have seen Tho’ the _hills_ I now tread may be vivid and green Still the hills of my childhood are brightest and best And the friends of my _home_ are the first in my breast. On that mirror full oft other objects may play, And flash on its surface alluringly gay, But the joys of my _home_ form a picture more bright That will glow in the darkness and blaze in the light For that picture is touched by a pencil most true And the colours that deck it are loves brightest hue. Like the vapors that rise from the far spreading main. Ascend high in air, and in clouds charged with rain Descend on the mountains, still in rivers their course They will bend to that ocean, that gave them their source So my love, tho’ towards friends I have met oft will burn To that centre, its _home_ it will always return. The pleasures of _home_, may be scattered at last Like the sear’d leaf of autumn borne off by the blast There’s a home that is better, and brighter than this, Where no gloom will destroy o’ershadow its bliss; Ah! how sweet to reflect when the worlds storms are o’er There’s a haven of joy on eternity’s shore; Where our tempest toss’d barks will be safe on its breast And our hearts free from lifes troubles eternally rest. E. M. CAMP.