POETRY.

APRIL, 1878.

HOME from the tideless sea,

Home with the swallows from that sunniest shore, From Cannes and Nice, Menton and Genova,— In the sweet April we Are at our own dear home once more, once more. Such an old-fashioned April ! Rain and breeze, A sky of sunshine and of cloud and blue, Even as the Mediterranean wave was blue. The Spring's most delicate green is on the trees. Hark to the nightingale, the blithe cuckoo, And his most voluble mate !* On every side All join in welcoming the Easter-tide.

Easter ! Our schoolboys shout As mad as anything !

Thro' field and garden how they scud about !

Only just look at them,—their hands, their feet t

See them sniff in the perfumes of the Spring,—

No Riviera orange-groves so sweet !

To swell their music, other melodies Come through the open window, where the cat Watches the outdoor fun and outdoor bird.

Music most choice is heard,

Beethoven in E flat,—

And 'tis our Annie sitting at the keys.

So there I sit, in a most happy dream,

With to-day's Times unfolded on my knees._

My eye falls on it,—I awake, I seem To lose one-half the charm of the young year, To see our children with a soberer glance,

Forget some sunshine of our time in France,— For in the Times I read a needless war is near. M..