[5] Select Prose Works of Milton, with a Preliminary Discourse and Notes. By J. A. St. John. London: J. Hatchard & Son. 2 vols. * * * * * “BLESS THE HOMESTEAD LAW.” BY L. VIRGINIA SMITH. It was a summer morning. Soft the flame Of the early sunlight up the zenith came, Deep tinging with a golden-crimson hue The clouds that floated o’er the welkin blue, Or veiled the distant mountain. Far, and near, From farm to farm the call of chanticleer Rang like a clarion, shrilly sweet and long, The robin red-breast trilled his matin song, Hid in the high old maple, while around From far, deep-waving grain-fields gayly sound The carols of the bob-o-link. The bee Was out among the blossoms, in his glee To rouse them from their dreamings. Gracefully The west-wind waved the weeping willow-tree That drooped above the rivulet, or crept Amid the branches of the elm that swept A low-browed homestead. Ruby columbine, Sweet honey-suckle, and the Indian vine, Had veiled the rustic portico, and wild Swayed o’er the casement, and the sunlight smiled Through the low entrance. ’Twas a winsome place, And like the sunny calm of some sweet face, You would have thought in gazing on its rest, That earth’s frail children _sometimes_ can be blest. And yet misfortune found it;—see the group Now gathered at the threshold, o’er them droop Long, swaying branches, and the loving leaves Lay their light fingers o’er the heart that grieves, As if to soothe its sorrows. Agony Lights up the darkness of the husband’s eye, He stands apart, his bearing calm and proud, And yet his heart is burning ’neath a cloud Of dread and misery. The young wife leans By the old elm-tree, ’mid the passing scenes Her heart is busy, for beside her stands A lovely child, with snowy, dimpled hands Clasping her mother’s, while within the shade Her baby brother on the greensward played. The little maiden mused, a choking swell Filled her young bosom, and the large tears fell All silently, then her slow-lifting eyes (Their blue depths troubled with a strange surprise) Sought out her mother’s;—tossing back her hair, Her clear voice melted on the morning air;— “We leave the homestead!—Say, dear mother, why? Do not the birds and blossoms love us here? Has any other home a clearer sky, With brighter stars upon it? Mother, dear, Shall we not sigh _there_ for this old elm shade, Where you and I and brother oft have played? “We leave the homestead!—Oh! my father, tell, Why turn we from the fields, and wood-paths dim, Through which we wended as the Sabbath bell Called us to worship, with its solemn hymn? Shall we not sigh to pray where friends have prayed, Or weep our loved ones in the church-yard laid?”