I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright where my step has been. I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky, From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks. From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain: They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves. Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come! Where the violets lie may now be your home. Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly, With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, Come forth to the sunshine,--I may not stay. Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in wood and glen; Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth, Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, And Youth is abroad in my green domains. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND THE stately homes of England, How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. The merry homes of England-- Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told; Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed homes of England, How softly on their bowers, Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chime Floats through their woods at morn, All other sounds in that still time Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage homes of England By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free fair homes of England, Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall. And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God. THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF 'OH, call my brother back to me! I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee-- Where is my brother gone? 'The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track; I care not now to chase its flight Oh, call my brother back!