Her home--'tis far away from her,
Its quiet porch is lone,
And the sunny wind no more shall stir
Its streamlet's silver tone.
The zephyrs there, their incense wreathe,
But, o'er her hair they shall not breathe.
Her sire reposeth in the wave,
Beneath an Indian sky;
The violets fringe her mother's grave,
And there, her sisters lie!
And we will waft to heaven our prayers,
When her pure dust is mix'd with theirs.
_Deal_. REGINALD AUGUSTINE.
* * * * *
WINE.
_(For the Mirror.)_
Sir,--I am induced to send you the following, in consequence of reading
an article upon _wine_ in No. 352, page 45 of your interesting work.
The article appears to have been written with a view of inducing a more
frequent use of that wholesome and invigorating beverage by adducing a
host of respectable names of antiquity. But I am somewhat inclined to
believe, that notwithstanding the classic lore and learned style in which
the article appears, that many there are, whose adverse temper, and whom
the present "march of intellect" has so far rendered callous to
_authoritative_ conviction, that they still remain sceptics of the
extraordinary good qualities and virtues, which the ancients believed
this beverage to contain; only because they have thought fit to adhere to
the common adage, that no opinion ought to be received upon men's
authority, without a sufficient reason assigned for its correctness.
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