BUT where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The shudd'ring 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 blessing even. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. The stately Homes of England, The deer across their greensward bound And the swan glides past them with the sound The merry Homes of England! What gladsome looks of household love There woman's voice flows forth in song, The blessed Homes of England! That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime All other sounds, in that still time, FILIAL AND FRATERNAL LOVE. FILIAL LOVE. * FROM CHILDE HAROLD." THERE is a dungeon in whose dim drear light What do I gaze on? Nothing: look again! Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight, Two insulated phantoms of the brain : It is not so; I see them full and plain, An old man and a female young and fair, Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar: but what doth she there, With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare? Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, But here youth offers to old age the food, Than Egypt's river ;- from that gentle side Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven's realm holds no such tide. The starry fable of the milky-way Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: Go where I will, to me thou art the same, A loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny, A world to roam through, and a home with thee. The first were nothing, had I still the last, It were the haven of my happiness; But other claims and other ties thou hast, And mine is not the wish to make them less. A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore, He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. If my inheritance of storms hath been In other elements, and on the rocks Of perils, overlooked or unforeseen, I feel almost at times as I have felt In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks, Which do remember me of where I dwelt, My heart with recognition of their looks; Here are the Alpine landscapes which create But something worthier do such scenes inspire. Here to be lonely is not desolate, For much I view which I could most desire, And, above all, a lake I can behold Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. O that thou wert but with me! - but I grow Has lost its praise in this but one regret; I did remind thee of our own dear Lake, The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore; The world is all before me; I but ask Of Nature that with which she will comply, It is but in her summer's sun to bask, To mingle with the quiet of her sky, I can reduce all feelings but this one; With false Ambition what had I to do? And yet they And made m came unsought, and with me grew, me all which they can make,-a name. BERTHA IN THE LANE. PUT the broidery-frame away, For my sewing is all done! The last thread is used to-day, And I need not join it on. Though the clock stands at the noon, I am weary! I have sewn, Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. Sister, help me to the bed, And stand near me, dearest-sweet! Love I thee with love complete. Lean thy face down! drop it in These two hands, that I may hold "Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, Stroking back the curls of gold. "T is a fair, fair face, in sooth, Larger eyes and redder mouth Than mine were in my first youth! At the sight of the great sky; Through the winding hedge-rows green, With the bowery tops shut in, And the gates that showed the view; Bleatings took them from the croft. I sat down beneath the beech As the speakers drew more near Good true answers for my sake. Yes, and he too! let him stand In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. Could he help it, if my hand He had claimed with hasty claim ! Had he seen thee, when he swore He would love but me alone? Could we blame him with grave words, And that hour- beneath the beach- Till it burst with that last strain. I fell flooded with a dark, In the silence of a swoon; When I rose, still, cold, and stark, There was night, I saw the moon; And the stars, each in its place, And the May-blooms on the grass, Seemed to wonder what I was. And I walked as if apart From myself when I could stand, As if I held it in my hand And I answered coldly too, When you met me at the door; Dripping from me to the floor; Do not weep so If I say he did, me harm, I speak wild, I am not well. Then I always was too grave, Liked the saddest ballads sung, With that look, besides, we have In our faces who die young. I had died, dear, all the same, Life's long, joyous, jostling game Is too loud for my meek shame. We are so unlike each other, Thou and I, that none could guess We were children of one mother, But for mutual tenderness. Thou art rose-lined from the cold, And meant, verily, to hold Life's pure pleasures manifold. I am pale as crocus grows Close beside a rose-tree's root! Whosoe'er would reach the rose, Treads the crocus underfoot; I like May-bloom on thorn-tree, Thou like merry summer-bee ! Fit, that I be plucked for thee. Yet who plucks me? no one mourns; And now die of my own thorns, Are there footsteps at the door? Look out quickly. Yea, or nay? Some one might be waiting for Some last word that I might say. Nay? So best! - So angels would Stand off clear from deathly road, Not to cross the sight of God. Colder grow my hands and feet, When I wear the shroud I made, And, dear Bertha, let me keep Let me wear it out of sight, |