We heard their voices in the gushing song
That rose like incense from thy burning heart;
We saw the footsteps of the shining throng
Glancing upon thy pathway high, apart,
When in thy radiance thou didst walk the earth,
Thou child of glorious birth.

But the way lengthened, and the song grew sad,
Breathing such tones as find no echo here;
Aspiring, soaring, but no longer glad,
Its mournful music fell upon the ear;
'Twas the home-sickness of a soul that sighs
For its own native skies.

Then he that to earth's children comes at last,
The angel-messenger, white-robed and pale,
Upon thy soul his sweet oblivion cast,
And bore thee gently through the shadowy vale,--
The fleeting years of thy brief exile o'er,--
Home to the blissful shore.

* * * * *

MR. HEALEY is in Paris, engaged busily on his Webster and Hayne
picture, of which at the time of its projection, so much was said.
The canvas is some twenty feet by fourteen, and all the heads will be
portraits. It will be valuable, and must command a ready sale. Will
Massachusetts buy it for her State House, or South Carolina for her
Capitol? It would be a splendid ornament for Fanueil Hall, and not be