stalked off together; and Louisa walked silently home. On arriving there, she hastened to her mother's room, and exclaimed as she entered, 'Oh! mother! I have had such a dream!'
'A dream, Louisa?' said her mother, in an incredulous tone. 'I cannot think you have been sleeping in church again!'
'That was a matter of course, I am sorry to say,' replied Louisa; 'but my dream, dear mother; will you hear my dream?'
Silence gave consent, and Louisa recounted her silly vision, as related above; at the conclusion of which, her mother yawned several times; and then remarked, that if dreams were any criterion of the disposition of the dreamer, Louisa must stand accused of great want of charity in her interpretation of her neighbors thoughts.
Land of the mighty past!Land of the sword and harp, the loved and brave,Of gifts too bright to last,Land of Art's trophies, and of Glory's grave!Of thee a boon I seek!Not for wealth's minion, or the heir of power,But for the pure and meek,A wounded bird, a sorrow-stricken flower.From a cold, craggy strand,Freedom's last haunt, she courts thy genial sky;O wake the zephyrs bland,To round her chock, and light her drooping eye!By the devotion trueOf him who hath her vows—his being's joy,By the clear eye of blue,And graceful ringlets of her eldest boy:By the soft, winsome smiles,And cherub archness of her second born,And by the loving wilesOf the young babe, her play-thing night and morn:Restore the fond and fair,Whose brow hath kept undimmed its light divine,Whose locks of auburn hairHave swept no altar-stone but nature's shrine.What though the senseless airLists not to mortal call, but vagrant flies,Regardless of my prayer,To bring chill breezes and tempestuous skies?Hope, lady, to the last!Let votive faith thy constant solace be;Time's bondage soon is past,And heaven doth ever cherish such as thee!
