THE MUSE.

MY HOME IS IN THE WORLD.
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MY HOME IS IN THE WORLD.

 BY THOMAS HAYNES BAILEY. Speed, speed, my fleet vessel-the shore

 is in sight, The breezes are fair, we shall anchor to-

 night; Tomorrow, at sunrise, once more shall l On the sea-beaten shore of my dear native

 land. An! why does despondency weigh down

 my heart! Such thoughts are for friends who reiuc-

 tantlY part; come from an exile of twenty long

 years, And gaze on my country through fast

 falling tears. Isee the hills purple with bells of the

 heath, And my own happy valley that nestles be-

 meath, And the fragrant white blossoms spread

 oyer the thorn That grows near the cottage in which

 was born. It cannot be changed--no, the ciematis

 climbs Der the gay little porch, as it did in old

 times; And the seat where my father reclined IS

 still there-- But where is my father!-oh, answer me,

 where! Ny mothers own easement, the chamber she loved, Is sthere-overlooking the lawn where royed She thoughtfully sat with her hand Der her brow, As she watched her young darling-ahs where is she now? And there is my poor sisters garden; how Were the innocent sports of that beautiful child! Her voice had spell in it's musical tone, And her cheek was like rose Ieayes-ah. where IS she gonea No father rcclines on the clemantine seat. No mother looks forth from the shaded re- treat! No sister is there. stealing silly away, Till half suppress'd laughter betrayed where she lay. How oft in my exile, while kind friends were near, Pve slighted their friendship, and sighed to be here. How oft have said-ssCould once again That sweet little valley, how bIest should be!'' How blest! oh! it is not valley like this That unaided can realize visions Of bliss; For voices listen-and then look round For light steps that used to trip after the

 soundt But see this green path--I remember it

 we'll sTis the way to the chur ch--hark! the toll of the bell! Oh! oft in my boyhood a truant Eve strayed eoa To yonder dark yew tree, and slept in it's shade. But surely the pathway is narrower nowt No smooth place is left near the dark yew tree bough;

 

 tread, And the home have sought--is the home

 of the dead! And was it to this look d forward so long, And shrunk from the sweetness of Italy's songs And turn'd from the dance of the dark girls of Spain. nd " rt for nt ru n nd n And was 1t for this to my easement crept To gaze on the deep, when they deem'd

 that slepts To think of the fond meetings-the well

 come-the kiss The friendly hands pressure--ohi was it for this. When those who so tong have been absent, To the scenes of their childhood, it is but to mourn; Wounds open afresh that time nearly had And the ills of life at one glance are re- vealcd. Speed, speed, my fleet vessel! the tempest

 may rave There's calm for my heart in ths dash .; [

 the wave. Speed, speed, my fleet vessel, the sails are unfurl'd, Oh! ask me not whither-my home is the world!

 Estray Notice. Teyriforu of .4rkansds