But though afar, full well we know

Fond Memory's lingering chain

Will bind thee to the home thou’st left, 'Mid the far southern main.

Though friends may throng around thy path,

In thy home across the sea,

Thou'lt ne'er forget the hearts that here

Still love and pray for thee.

Hers, too, who by thy side hath moved

In gentle ministry,

Blest sharer in thy work of love,

Our warmest prayers shall be.

Alike from dark-skinned savage race,
And Britain's fair-haired child,

From all the countless isles that gleam

Amid the ocean wild,

Ascends the prayer, "God speed ye well

Across the stormy brine;"

While, with one voice, New Zealand cries, "Farewell to thee and thine !"

MUSIC.

MUSIC, Music, softly stealing
O'er my senses, like a dream
Of some half-forgotten gladness,

Like a wave from Memory's stream,
Swelling o'er my soul, and flooding
Every sense with deep delight,
Making joy seem yet more joyous,
Brightening sorrow's darkest night.

Upborne on thy gladsome pinions,
Through bright Fancy's realms I stray,
Years of sadness all forgotten,
Happy, happy as the day :
Or in dreamy reveries floating,
As on billows of sweet sound,
Of all earthly things unconscious,
Sailing o'er enchanted ground.

Music, Music, I have heard thee
With a bliss that's almost pain,
Thou hast been my life's one blessing,
Let me hear thee once again,

Bringing thoughts of sweet spring breezes,
Rustling leaves, sun-chequered shades,
Murmuring sounds of many waters,

Echoing through deep forest glades.

Yet, at times, thy thrilling sweetness
Brings back the long-vanished Past,
With a strange, wild, passionate longing
For the days that could not last.
Thus each full chord thrills my spirit,
Now with bliss, and now with pain,
Such deep joy, such yearning sadness,
Mingle in thy wild, sweet strain.

May those strains still float around me,
With their softest, sweetest breath,

When I tremble on the borders

Of the shadow land of Death.—

See, within his lonely chamber,

Lies the poet-weary, faint:
Though Death's hand lies heavy on him,
Listen to his murmuring plaint :—

"Oh, give me Music! for I cannot die

Until those loved sounds once again I hear;

Yet I am weary, and my heart is sick

With suffering, keep me not lingering here;

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But let sweet Music come, on angel wing,

With gentle hand to part the golden thread, And my freed soul shall speed to realms of light, With Music evermore encompassèd.

Oh, give me Music! for mine hours of bliss
Were but half joyful if she were not there,
And in my darkest hour, no spell, like hers,
Could lull me to forgetfulness of care.
"Twas her sweet breath inspired my poet soul

With all its loftiest dreams, its visions high
Of all things pure, and true, and beautiful :-

Then give me Music,-Music, ere I die!"

THE FOREST STREAMLET.

RIPPLE, ripple, little streamlet,
Ever onward on thy way;

Ripple, ripple, little streamlet,
While I listen to thy lay.

Singing, singing, little streamlet,
To the flowerets by thy side,
To the gentle, loving blossoms,
Bending o'er thy glancing tide.

Ever murmuring, little streamlet,
To the stately forest trees,
As they bow their heads to listen,
In the gentle evening breeze.

And what say'st thou, little streamlet,
Murmuring ever, soft and low?

Sigh'st thou for the sunny meadows,

Where thy streams were wont to flow?

Or dost ask, thou little streamlet,
Of the distant ocean wide,
Where, ere long, thy sunny wavelets

Must be mingled with the tide ?