Full many a change the hearth hath known; The Druid fire, the curfew's tone, The log that bright at yule-tide shone, The merry sports of Hallow-e'en; Yet still where'er a home is found, Gather the warm affections round, And there the notes of mirth resound, The voice of wisdom heard between: And welcomed there with words of grace, The stranger finds a resting place. Oh! wheresoe'er our feet may roam, Still sacred is the hearth of home; Whether beneath the princely dome, Or peasant's lowly roof it be, For home the wanderer ever yearns; Backward to where its hearth-fire burns, Like to the wife of old, he turns Ever the eyes of memory. Back where his heart he offered first-- Back where his fond young hopes he nursed. My humble hearth though all disdain, Here may I cast aside the chain The world hath coldly on me lain; Here to my LARES offer up The warm prayer of a grateful heart; THOU that my household guardian art, That dost to me thine aid impart, And with thy mercy fill'st my cup; Strengthen the hope within my soul, Till I in faith may reach the goal. PROFESSOR SHAW. A SKETCH. PLUTARCH SHAW, the naturalist, was lately in the stocks, which has been a matter of much talk among the virtuosi, and a good deal of malicious laughter on all hands. He cut a devil of a figure, rest assured, propped up in a straight jacket, his eye fiery with vengeance; the innocent victim of 'circumstances,' and that very common error of putting the saddle on the wrong horse. A very little explanation will serve to place this matter in the right light, and show by what a fantastic adventure an honest man, who was alway given to roam over much territory, was suddenly placed upon the limits, and one of the most profound explorers of the curious became himself for the time being a curiosity.