How pleasing it is, in this world of digression, To pause, and to ponder some period fled; The home of my infancy made an impression Which only will perish when mem’ry is dead. That rough, rugged farm, how dear did I love it,— The barn by the orchard, and spring by the rill; No spot upon earth which I so much covet, As that where our Cottage once stood on the hill. The rudely built Cottage, the old-fashioned Cottage, The one-story Cottage, that stood on the hill. Beside its broad hearth-stone, at evening, I’ve listened The tale that my grandfather told of the wars; He’d speak of his battles, while tears his eyes glistened, And prove what he stated, by showing his scars! ’Twas then that my young heart beat high for the glory Of aiding some measure, Fame’s parchment to fill,— By giving in song, or relating in story, My love for that Cottage, which stood on the hill. The rudely built Cottage, the old-fashioned Cottage, The time-honored Cottage, that stood on the hill. That time-honored Cottage—no dream or delusion— For ’neath its old roof dwelt affection and friends; The seat of contentment and quiet seclusion, Where goodness found favor, and evil amends. What would I give could I once more regain it, And have the same feelings my bosom to fill? Alas! it’s in ruins—love cannot retain it— Tears gush for that Cottage which stood on the hill. The rudely built Cottage, the old-fashioned Cottage, The one-story Cottage, that stood on the hill. Though parted by distance, those scenes of my childhood Rise fresh in my mind, when to them I recur— I fancy I visit the vale and the wildwood, Where flowers yield perfume, like India’s myrrh;— And then, in the warmth of the deepest emotion, I stand as in youth on the banks of that rill, And hear in its gurgle a song of devotion. With mine, for the Cottage that stood on the hill. The rudely built Cottage, the old-fashioned Cottage, The one-story Cottage, that stood on the hill. * * * * * THREE PICTURES: SUNRISE—NOONDAY—NIGHT. BY CAROLINE C——. “Like a clear fountain, his desire Exults, and leaps toward the light, In every drop it says ‘Aspire!’ Striving for more ideal height.” — “Looking within myself, I note how thin A plank of station, chance, or prosperous fate, Doth fence me from the clutching waves of sin; _In my own heart I find the worst man’s mate!_” J. R. LOWELL. An artist was passing slowly through the thorough-fare of a great city, where for a few days he was sojourning.