By the soft green light in the woody glade, On the banks of moss where thy childhood play’d; By the waving tree thro’ which thine eye First look’d in love to the summer sky; By the dewy gleam, by the very breath Of the primrose-tufts in the grass beneath, Upon thy heart there is laid a spell-- Holy and precious--oh! guard it well! By the sleepy ripple of the stream, Which hath lull’d thee into many a dream; By the shiver of the ivy-leaves, To the wind of morn at thy casement-eaves; By the bees’ deep murmur in the limes, By the music of the Sabbath-chimes; By every sound of thy native shade, Stronger and dearer the spell is made. By the gathering round the winter hearth, When twilight call’d unto household mirth, By the fairy tale or the legend old In that ring of happy faces told; By the quiet hours when hearts unite In the parting prayer, and the kind “good-night;” By the smiling eye and the loving tone, Over thy life has the spell been thrown. And bless that gift!--it hath gentle might, A guardian power and a guiding light! It hath led the freeman forth to stand In the mountain-battles of his land; It hath brought the wanderer o’er the seas, To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze; And back to the gates of his father’s hall, It hath won the weeping prodigal. Yes! when thy heart in its pride would stray, From the loves of its guileless youth away; When the sullying breath of the world would come, O’er the flowers it brought from its childhood’s home; Think thou again of the woody glade, And the sound by the rustling ivy made; Think of the tree at thy parent’s door, And the kindly spell shall have power once more! F. H. Monthly Magazine. * * * * * BOOKS. ’Twere well with most, if books, that could engage Their childhood, pleased them at a riper age; The man approving what had charmed the boy, Would die at last in comfort, peace, and joy; And not with curses on his art, who stole The gem of truth from his unguarded soul. COWPER. If there be one word in our language, beyond all others teeming with delightful associations, _Books_ is that word. At that magic name what vivid retrospections of by-gone times, what summer days of unalloyed happiness “when life was new,” rush on the memory! even now the spell retains its power to charm: the beloved of my youth is the solace of my declining years: such is the enduring nature of an early attachment to literature.