UNIVERSITY Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, home, sweet, sweet, home! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; Oh! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again! The birds, singing gayly, that came at my call Give me them!-and the peace of mind dearer than all. Home, sweet, sweet, sweet, home! JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. THE stately Homes of England! How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tali, ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound, Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman's voice flows forth in song The blessed Homes of England! Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage Homes of England! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, Ar 1 round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair Homes of England! FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. MY AIN FIRESIDE. IHAE seen great anes, and sat in great ha's, 'Mang lords and fine ladies a' cover'd wi' braws, At feasts made for princes wi' princes I've been, When the grand shine o' splendor has dazzled my een; But a sight sae delightfu' I trow I ne'er spied As the bonny blithe blink o' my ain fireside. Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's Ance mair, Gude be thankit, round my ain heartsome ingle, Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle; Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad, I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad. Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to fear, But truth to delight me, and friendship to cheer; Of a' roads to happiness ever were tried, There's nane half so sure as ane's ain fireside. My ain fireside, my ain fireside, Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside. So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play: How pleasing their sport is! The wanton ones see, And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. To try her s sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen, In revels all day, with the nymphs on the green: Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles, And meets me at night with complacence and smiles. What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, Her wit and good-humor bloom all the year through; Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare And cheat with false vows the too credu lous fair; In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam! To hold it for life, you must find it at home EDWARD MOORE. THE FIRESIDE. DEAR CHLOE, while the busy crowd, From the gay world we'll oft retire Where love our hours employs; The world hath nothing to bestowFrom our own selves our bliss must flow, And that dear hut, our home. Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, Our babes shall richest comforts bring; Whence pleasures ever rise; While they our wisest hours engage, No borrow'd joys, they're all our own, Or by the world forgot; Our portion is not large, indeed; In this the art of living lies- We'll therefore relish with content Nor lose the present hour. To be resign'd when ills betide, And pleased with favors given Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, Whose fragrance smells to heaven. We'll ask no long-protracted treat, Thus hand in hand through life we'll go; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe With cautious steps we'll tread ; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear, And mingle with the dead; While conscience, like a faithful friend, NATHANIEL COTTON. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. "Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor."-GRAY. My lov'd, my honor'd, much-respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise; To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween! November 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 repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,→ |