The Wayside.
I'm almost home. Dear native home,—in this quiet little village, nestled down closely by this sweet murmuring river,—how many sweet memories cling to thee! how beautiful thou art, surrounded by these proud hills and fine groves, scattered among which are neat cottages, green fields, and flourishing gardens!—the delight of the sober farmer and his prudent, loving wife. Where else does the glorious sun look down so cheerfully? How like a mantle of gold is his light thrown over these distant hills! and with what beauty does he tinge the heads of those stately oaks, silver maples, and proud pines, as they bow a welcome to the morning! Nor has he forgotten to gild the spire of the dear old church, with which are connected sweet and sad recollections. There I received instructions from the sacred Scriptures, and heard holy words from the man of God, never to be forgotten. But where are those who listened with me? I must go read the inscrip-
