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Without disease, the healthful life ;

The household of continuance;

Flashes the lovelight, increasing the glory, Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the

soul, Telling of trust and content the sweet story, Listing the shadows that over us roll.

King, king, crown me the king :

Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king ! Richer than miser with perishing treasure,

Served with a service no conquest could bring; Happy with fortune that words cannot measure, Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing.

King, king, crown me the king :
Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king.

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Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,

In folly's maze advance ; Though singularity and pride Be called our choice, we'll step aside.

Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we'll oft retire To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs ; No noisy neighbor enters here, No intermeddling stranger near,

To spoil our heartfelt joys.

King Henry. O God! methinks, it were a

happy life, To be no better than a homely swain ; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the ininutes how they run; How many make the hour full complete ; How many hours bring about the day ; How many days will finish up the year ; How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the times, So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate ; So many hours must I sport myself ; So many days my cwes have been with young; So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean ; So

many years ere I shall shear the fleece : Sominutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years, Passed over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this ! how sweet ! how lovely ! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroidered canopy To kinys that fear their subjects' treachery?

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We'll therefore relish with content Whate'er kind Providence has sent,

Nor aim beyond our power ; For, if our stock be very small, 'T is prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lose the present hour.


Martial, the things that do attain

The happy life be these, I find, The riches left, not got with pain ;

The fruitful ground, the quiet mind, The equal friend ; no grudge, no strife ;

No charge of rule, nor governance ;

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Meanwhile thou mellowest every word,
A sweetly unobtrusive third :
For thou hast magic beyond wine,
To unlock natures each to each ;
The unspoken thought thou canst divine ;
Thou fillest the pauses of the speech
With whispers that to dream-land reach,
And frozen fancy-springs unchain
In Arctic outskirts of the brain ;
Sun of all inmost confidences !
To thy rays doth the heart unclose
Its formal calyx of pretences,
That close against rude day's offences,
And open its shy midnight rose.



O thou of home the guardian Lar,
And when our earth hath wandered far
Into the cold, and deep snow covers
The walks of our New England lovers,
Their sweet secluded evening-star !
"T was with thy rays the English Muse
Ripened her mild domestic hues :
'T was by thy Micker that she conned
The fireside wisdom that enrings
With light from heaven familiar things;
By thee she found the homely faith
In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th,
When Death, extinguishing his torch,
Gropes for the latch-string in the porch ;
The love that wanders not beyond
His earliest nest, but sits and sings
While children smooth his patient wings :
Therefore with thee I love to read
Our brave old poets : at thy touch how stirs
Life in the withered words ! how swift recede
Time's shadows ! and how glows again
Through its dead mass the incandescent verse,
As when upon the anvils of the brain
It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought
By the fast-throbbing hammers of the poet's

Thon murmurest, too, divinely stirred,
The aspirations unattained,
The rhythms so rathe and delicate,
They bent and strained
And broke, beneath the sombre weight
Of any airiest mortal word.

I'n kind o' like to have a cot
Fixed on some sunny slope; a spot

Five acres more or less,
With maples, cedars, cherry-trees,
And poplars whitening in the breeze.

'T would suit my taste, I guess,
To have the porch with vines o'erhung,

With bells of pendant woodbine swung,

In every bell a bee ;
And round my latticed window spread
A clump of roses, white and red.

To solace mine and me,
I kind o' think I should desire
To hear around the lawn a choir

Of wood-birds singing sweet ;
And in a dell I'd have a brook,
Where I might sit and read my book.

As who would say, “ 'Tis those, I ween, Whom lifelong armor-chafe makes lean

That win the laurel" ; While the gray snow-storm, held aloof, To softest outline rounds the roof, Or the rude North with baffled strain Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane ! Now the kind nymph to Bacchus borne By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems Gifted upon her natal morn By him with fire, by her with dreams, Nicotia, dearer to the Muse Than all the grapes' bewildering juice, We worship, unforbid of thee ; And, as her incense floats and curls In airy spires and wayward whirls, Or poises on its tremulous stalk A flower of frailest revery, So winds and loiters, idly free, The current of unguided talk, Now laughter-rippled, and now caught In smooth dark pools of deeper thought.

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It was noon, and on flowers that languished around

In silence reposed the voluptuous bee; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech


And “Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed, “With a maid who was lovely to soul and to

eye, Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if

I blamed, How blest could I live, and how calm could I

die !

"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry

dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to

recline, And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, Which had never been sighed on by any but


THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. The stately Homes of England, How beautiful they stand ! Amidst their tall 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, Or childish tale is told ; Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old. The blessed Homes of England ! How softly on their bowers 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.




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 coi ries 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.

The cottage Homes of England !
By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And 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 England !
Long, long in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall !
And green forever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God.






Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim

No tears, but tenderness to answer mine :
There is a dungeon in whose dim drear light Go where I will, to me thou art the same,
What do I gaze on ? Nothing : look again !

A loved regret which I would not resign. Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight,

| There yet are two things in my destiny, Two insulated phantoms of the brain :

A world to roam through, and a home with thee. It is not so; I see them full and plain, An old man and a female young and fair,

The first were nothing, — had I still the last,
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein

It were the haven of my happiness ;
The blood is nectar : but what doth she there, But other claims and other ties thou hast,
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and

And mine is not the wish to make them less. bare?

A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past

Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ;
Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore,
Where on the heart and from the heart we took He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife,
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, If my inheritance of storms hath been
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook

In other elements, and on the rocks
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Of perils, overlooked or unforeseen,
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook

I have sustained my share of worldly shocks, She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen What may the fruit be yet ? I know not Cain

My errors with defensive paradox; was Eve's.

I have been cunning in mine overthrow,
But here youth offers to old age the food,

The careful pilot of my proper woe.
The milk of his own gift : it is her sire
To whom she renders back the debt of blood

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward, Born with her birth. No! he shall not expire

My whole life was a contest, since the day While in those warm and lovely veins the fire That gave me being gave me that which marred Of health and holy feeling can provide

The gift, - a fate, or will, that walked astray: Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises And I at times have found the struggle hard, higher

And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay : Than Egypt's river ; -- from that gentle side

But now I fain would for a time survive, Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm If but to see what next can well arrive.

holds no such tide. The starry fable of the milky-way

Kingdoms and empires in my little day

I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; Has not thy story's purity; it is

And when I look on this, the petty spray A constellation of a sweeter ray,

Of my own years of trouble, which have rolled And sacred Nature triumphs more in this

Like a wild bay of breakers, melts

away : Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss

Something - I know not what does still Where sparkle distant worlds :-0, holiest

uphold nurse!

A spirit of slight patience ;--- not in vain,
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.

To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. Perhaps the workings of defiance stir

or perhaps of cold despair,

Brought on when ills habitually recur,

Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air,
(For even to this may change of soul refer,

And with light armor we may learn to bear,) My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name

Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not Dearer and purer were, it should be thine, The chief companion of a calmer lot.


. Within me,


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