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LOVE OF HOME.

HERE is a land, of every land the pride,

Beloved by heaven o'er

all the world beside; Where brighter suns dis

pense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night;

A land of beauty, virtue, valor,

Time-tutor'd age, and love-exalted youth.

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores

The wealthiest isles, the most en-
chanting shores,

Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;

In every clime the magnet of his soul,

Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole!
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest-
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his soften'd looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life!
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie!
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.

Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man?-a patriot?-look around;
Oh thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!
JAMES MONTGOMERY.

SWEET HOME.

ID pleasures and palaces though we may

roam,

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!

A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.

Home, home, sweet home! There's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain!
O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly that came at my call;-
O, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer than all !
Home, home, sweet home!
There's no place like home!

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JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

HEAVEN ON EARTH.

ND has the earth lost its so spacious round,
The sky its blue circumference above,
That in this little chamber there are found
Both earth and heaven, my universe of
love,

All that my God can give me or remove,
Here sleeping save myself in mimic death?
Sweet, that in this small compass I behoove
To live their living, and to breathe their breath!
Almost I wish that, with one common sigh,

We might resign all mundane care and strife;
And seek together that transcendent sky,
Where father, mother, children, husband, wife,
Together pant in everlasting life!

THOMAS HOOD.

IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY LOVE.

F thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail,
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale !

I miss thee, when, by Gunga's stream,
My twilight steps I guide,

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam

I miss thee from my side.

But when at morn and eve the star

Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on, then on, where duty leads!
My course be onward still,
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor mild Malwah detain;

For sweet the bliss us both awaits
By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say,
Across the dark blue sea;

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay
As then shall meet in thee!

REGINALD HEBE

12

ASSOCIATIONS OF HOME.

'HAT is not home, where day by day
I wear the busy hours away;
That is not home, where lonely night
Prepares me for the toils of light;
'Tis hope, and joy, and memory, give
A home in which the heart can live.
It is a presence undefined,

O'ershadowing the conscious mind;
Where love and duty sweetly blend
To consecrate the name of friend:
Where'er thou art, is home to me,
And home without thee cannot be.
WALTER COnder.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

OVEMBER chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;

The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their re-
pose;

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end,
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward
bend.

At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;

Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin stacher thro',
To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily,

His clane hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,

Does all his weary carking cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.
Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet,

An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers:
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears;
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years,
Anticipation forward points the view.
The mother, wi' her needle and her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.

Their master's an' their mistress's command,
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand,
And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play:
"And, oh! be sure to fear the Lord alway,

And mind your duty, duly, morn and night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore his counsel and assisting might:

But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor,

To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak;

Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless rake.

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;

A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The woman, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. O happy love! where love like this is found! O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare! I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And sage experience bids me this declare"If Heav'n a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale,

'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale!!!

But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food :
The soupe their only hawkie does afford,

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood;
The dame brings forth in complimental mood,

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, And aft he's prest, and aft he calls it gude;

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerful supper done, wi' serious face,

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air
They chant their artless notes in simple guise;

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive "Martyrs," worthy of the name;
Or noble "Elgin" beats the heav'nward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays :
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise;

They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!" Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire:
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head: How his first followers and servants sped;

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:

How He, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle. O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,

And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! Heaven's command.

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days:
There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

Compar'd with this, how poor religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art,
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest:
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best,

For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; "An honest man's the noblest work of God:" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road,

The cottage leaves the palace far behind; What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

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ROBERT BURNS.

THE HAPPIEST SPOT.

UT where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease:
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
As different good, by art or nature given,
To different nations makes their blessings even.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

FRIENDLINESS OF A FIRE.

FIRE'S a good companionable friend,

A comfortable friend, who meets your face
With welcome glad, and makes the poorest
shed

As pleasant as a palace. Are you cold?
He warms you-weary? he refreshes you—
Hungry? he doth prepare your food for you—
Are you in darkness? he gives light' to you-
In a strange land? he wears a face that is
Familiar from your childhood. Are you poor?
What matters it to him. He knows no difference
Between an emperor and the poorest beggar !
Where is the friend, that bears the name of man,
Will do as much for you?

MARY HOWITT.

LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR,

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GOOD wife rose from her bed one morn,
And thought with a nervous dread

Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;

Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and more Weary of sowing for others to reap ;—
Than a dozen mouths to be fed.

There's the meals to get for the men in the field,

And the children to fix away

To school, and the milk to be skimmed and churned;
And all to be done this day.

It had rained in the night, and all the wood
Was wet as it could be;

There were puddings and pies to bake, besides
A loaf of cake for tea.

And the day was hot, and her aching head
Throbbed wearily as she said,

"If maidens but knew what good wives know,
They would not be in haste to wed!"

"Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown?"
Called the farmer from the well;

And a flush crept up to his bronzèd brow,
And his eyes half bashfully fell;

"It was this," he said, and coming near

He smiled, and stooping down,

Kissed her cheek-"'twas this, that you were the best
And the dearest wife in town!"

The farmer went back to the field, and the wife
In a smiling, absent way
Sang snatches of tender little songs

She'd not sung for many a day.

And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes
Were white as the foam of the sea;

Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet,
And as golden as it could be.

"Just think," the children all called in a breath,
"Tom Wood has run off to sea!

"He wouldn't, I know, if he'd only had

As happy a home as we."

The night came down, and the good wife smiled
To herself, as she softly said:

""Tis so sweet to labor for those we love,-
It's not strange that maids will wed!"

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your
flight,

Make me a child again just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,—

Rock me to sleep, mother,―rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossom'd and faded, our faces between:
Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep ;--
Rock me to sleep, mother,―rock me to sleep!
Over my heart in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ;—
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,―rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listen'd your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasp'd to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

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NOBODY'S CHILD.

LONE in the dreary, pitiless street,

With my torn old dress and bare cold feet,
All day I've wandered to and fro,

Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go;
The night's coming on in darkness and dread,
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head;
Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild?
Is it because I'm nobody's child?

Just over the way there's a flood of light,
And warmth and beauty, and all things bright;
Beautiful children, in robes so fair,
Are caroling songs in rapture there.
I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,
Would pity a poor little beggar like me,

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