TO E.E.W. OF TEXAS.

Come home to New England, the land of thy birth,
All nations still call her the queen of the earth.
Oh! come with thy partner and sweet rosy child,
Where friends in life's morning, around you have smiled.
Come, gather wild flowers, from the brookside and dell,
And fruit from the orchard you once loved so well,
And feast on the sugar, fresh made from the grove,
Where you and your brothers delighted to rove.
Come, sit in the shade of the clustering vine,
Whose tendrils around the old elm tree entwine.
Come, range o'er the intervale, island and plain,
And live o'er the days of thy boyhood again.
Thy Father in heaven seems acting his part,
He keeps those alive, once so dear to thy heart.
Thy brothers and sisters, and nieces a score,
And nephews, are waiting to greet thee once more.
Our Susan, the baby that clung to thy knee,
And prattled around thee in infantine glee,
Has grown up, she's married and two blooming boys
Have stirred in her bosom a fountain of joys.
You start and exclaim, can the story be true!
I fear that you'll stay till she's grandmother, too.
You've staid for our infants to grow up and wed,
Our young men are old, our old ones are dead.
Yes, white hairs are clustering round many a crown,
Which wore, when you left them, rich tresses of brown.
One dear faithful sister has faded-and died,
Don't stay till the others both lie by her side.
At night I behold thee, I laugh and I weep,
Alas! I awake, 'tis the vision of sleep;
Disheartened with pleading, and pleading in vain,
Perhaps I may never entreat you again.