THE PENITENT’S RETURN.

By Mrs. Hemans.

  Can guilt or misery ever enter here? 
  All! no, the spirit of domestic peace,
  Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove,
  And ever murmuring forth a quiet song,
  Guards, powerful as the sword of Cherubim,
  The hallow’d Porch.  She hath a heavenly smile,
  That sinks into the sullen soul of vice,
  And wins him o’er to virtue.

  WILSON.

      My father’s house once more,
  In its own moonlight beauty!  Yet around,
  Something, amidst the dewy calm profound,
      Broods, never mark’d before.

      Is it the brooding night? 
  Is it the shivery creeping on the air,
  That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair,
      O’erwhelming to my sight?

      All solemnized it seems,
  And still’d and darken’d in each time-worn hue,
  Since the rich clustering roses met my view,
      As now, by starry gleams.

      And this high elm, where last
  I stood and linger’d—­where my sisters made
  Our mother’s bower—­I deem’d not that it cast
      So far and dark a shade.

      How spirit-like a tone
  Sighs through yon tree!  My father’s place was was there
  At evening-hours, while soft winds waved his hair: 
      Now those grey locks are gone.

      My soul grows faint with fear,—­
  Even as if angel-steps had mark’d the sod. 
  I tremble where I move—­the voice of God
      Is in the foliage here.

      Is it indeed the night
  That makes my home so awful?  Faithless hearted! 
  ’Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed
      The in-born gladdening light.

      No outward thing is changed;
  Only the joy of purity is fled,
  And, long from Nature’s melodies estranged,
      Thou hear’st their tones with dread.

      Therefore, the calm abode
  By thy dark spirit is o’erhung with shade,
  And, therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God
      Makes thy sick heart afraid.

      The night-flowers round that door
  Still breathe pure fragrance on the untainted air;
  Thou, thou alone, art worthy now no more
      To pass, and rest thee there.

      And must I turn away? 
  Hark, hark!—­it is my mother’s voice I hear,
  Sadder than once it seem’d—­yet soft and clear—­
      Doth she not seem to pray?

      My name!—­I caught the sound! 
  Oh! blessed tone of love—­the deep, the mild—­
  Mother, my mother!  Now receive thy child,
      Take back the Lost and Found!

Blackwood’s Magazine.

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[Illustration:  AUBERGE ON THE GRIMSEL.]

AUBERGE ON THE GRIMSEL.

(For the Mirror.)