I've lost the light elastic tread,

My hair is whitening now,
And Care his cruel lines has left
Engraven on my brow;

And where is youthful Innocence ?
And where, sweet Hope, art thou?

The house where first I hailed the day
I now through tears behold,
The grove beside the pleasant hill
Of emerald and gold;

For there the stream of my young life
'Mid scenes of beauty rolled.

How oft along this fragrant bank
I wandered wild and free!
How oft in boyish games engaged
Around that old elm tree!
But where are all the little feet
That ranged the fields with me?

The primrose and the violet,

Which then the hedge perfumed,

The daisy and the buttercup,
Still bloom as erst they bloomed ;

But she for whom I gathered them
Was long ago entombed.

The mound that marked the grave is gone,

The place is seldom shown,

And age has quite obscured the name

Recorded on the stone;

But that sweet face, ye Burnham bells,
Returns with your sweet tone!

Ring on your blessed minstrelsy
Rolls back the wheel of time!
Ring on-my Eden blooms anew
Beneath your holy chime!
Ring on-I never more may list
Your melody sublime!

'And here will I make an end.' Why should I tell of tearful partings? On the fourteeenth of November we embarked in the steam-ship Vanderbilt for New York. Two days, and Boreas comes waltzing over the waters, and Neptune rises to resent the intrusion. The Vanderbilt takes a hand in the affray-tries to knock the stars out of

the sky with her stern or poke a hole in the bottom of the ocean with her bowsprit. Six days the elemental war continues; the passengers retire to their berths in sublime disgust, and the scribe very rationally suspects himself of insanity. The French cook jumps overboard and is lost. A passenger fractures his skull by a fall against the sharp corner of the wheel-house, and the next day we commit him to the deep. The second Sabbath brings calmer weather, and the scribe is preaching to the passengers. Another storm, fiercer and fouler than the former. Alas, for those that go down to the sea in ships! Thursday morning, the twenty-sixth of November, 1857, I stand upon the deck of a steamer all shrouded with ice, and sing more joyously than ever I sang

before

‘Hail, Columbia, happy land!**

* What would the good and talented doctor do or say, were 'Hail, Columbia' to pass from his recollection? But there are so many pleasant pages, from which so many bright lights shine, and it is so refreshing to read the account of familiar places as seen by foreign eyes, that we can forgive the little American complacency which breaks out so often." America is worth being proud of, and we are not unwilling to remember she is the daughter of Old England.—ED.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET.