The playmates of my joyous childhood, With whom I laughed the hours away, And wandered through the tangled wildwood Till close of sultry summer day; My aged, gray, and feeble mother, Whom most I longed to see again, My sisters, and my only brother, Were o'er the wild and faithless main. At length the lagging days were numbered, That bound me to a foreign shore, And glorious hopes that long had slumbered Again their gilded plumage wore; Fond voices in my ear were singing The songs I loved in boyhood's day, As in my hammoc slowly swinging I mused the still night-hours away. And sylvan scenes then came before me, The bright green fields I loved so well, Ere SORROW threw his shadow o'er me, The streamlet, mountain, wood and dell; The lonely grave-yard, sad and dreary, Which in the night I passed with dread, Where, with their sleepless vigils weary, The white stones watch above the dead; Were spread like pictured chart around me, Where Fancy turned my gazing eye, Till slumber with his fetters bound me, And dimmed each star in memory's sky. Then came bright dreams--but all were routed When morning lit the ocean blue, And I, awaking, gayly shouted, "My last, last night in famed PERU!" "Farewell PERU! thy shores are fading, As swift we plough the furrowed main, And clouds with drooping wings are shading The towering Andes, wood and plain. The passing breeze, thus idly singing, A sweeter, dearer voice hath found, And hope within my heart is springing, Our white-winged bark is HOMEWARD BOUND!" * * * * * 'Twas night--at length my feet were nearing The home from which they long had strayed; No star was in the sky appearing, My boyhood's scenes were wrapped in shade. I paused beside the grave-yard dreary, And entered through its creaking gate, To find if yet my mother, weary Of this cold world, had shared the fate Of those who in their graves were sleeping, But could not find her grass-grown bed, Though many a stranger stone was keeping Its patient watch above the dead. But HERS was not among them gleaming, And so I turned with joy away, For many a night had I been dreaming That there she pale and faded lay! POOR PENN--. A REAL REMINISCENCE. BY OLIVER BUCKLEY. "I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest;--most excellent humor."