HO has not felt the sweetness of the breeze,
On summer's evening murmuring through the trees?
Who has not gazed with rapture on the down,
When sick and weary of the heated town;
And joyed to taste the country's simple fare,
Its perfumed dells, its cool, refreshing air?
Such the effect produced by scenes like this;
A quiet picture of domestic bliss,
With pleasing soft emotions fills the breast,
And lulls the jarring passions into rest.
The trembling kitten, forced against its will
To try its antics, and display its skill,
Drooping its sleepy head upon its breast
Seeks with a longing eye a place of rest.
The mother-cat, meanwhile, in murmurs bland,
With gentle purring seeks a fostering hand:
Frightened, though pleased, the boy with beaming face.
Clings to his mother in a fond embrace;
Yet looks delighted as her tutoring hand
Teaches the infant mouser how to stand.
The boy, when smiling at his feline friend,
Might make the grave philosopher unbend;
For still-though fed from learning's sacred rill,
Domestic feelings through his bosom thrill,
And he, whose mind the universe can scan,
When touched by tenderness, is still a man.
Sweet magic home! thou hast alone the skill
The human breast with ecstasy to fill;
Though art may try emotion to control,
'Tis nature has dominion o'er the soul.
'Tis she, our best affections can retain
With light, invisible, yet iron chain;
That struck responsive thrills through every nerve,
Subdues cold pride, and banishes reserve;
Strips pompous joys of all their borrowed glare,
Sinks to the heart, and finds its dwelling there.
HE old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery window
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
For life hath here no charm so dear
As home and friends around us!
We oft destroy the present joy
For future hopes-and praise them;
Whilst flowers as sweet bloom at our feet,
If we'd but stoop to raise them!
For things afar still sweeter are,
When youth's bright spell hath bound us;
But soon we're taught that earth has nought
Like home and friends around us!
The friends that speed in time of need,
When Hope's last reed is shaken,
To show us still, that, come what will,
We are not quite forsaken!
Though all were night, if but the light
From friendship's altar crowned us,
"Twould prove the bliss of earth was this-
Our home, and friends around us!
PEED, speed, my fleet vessel, the shore is in sight,
The breezes are fair, we shall anchor to-night;
To-morrow, at sunrise, once more I shall stand
On the sea-beaten shore of my dear native land.
Ah! why does despondency weigh down my heart?
Such thoughts are for friends who reluctantly part;
I come from an exile of twenty long years,
Yet I gaze on my country through fast-falling tears.
I see the hills purple with bells of the heath,
And my own happy valley that nestled beneath,
And the fragrant white blossoms spread over the thorn
That grows near the cottage in which I was born.
It cannot be changed-no, the clematis climbs
O'er the gay little porch as it did in old times;
And the seat where my father reclined is still there,
But where is my father?-oh, answer me, where?
My mother's own casement, the chamber she loved,
Is there, overlooking the lawn where I roved;
She thoughtfully sat, with her hand on her brow,
As she watched her young darling :-ah, where is she now?
No father reclines in the clematis seat,
No mother looks out from her shaded retreat,
No sister is there stealing shyly away,
Till her half-suppressed laughter betrayed where she lay.
How oft in my exile, when kind friends were near,
I've slighted their kindness, and sighed to be here.
How oft have I said, "Could I once again see
That blest little valley, how blest I should be."
|