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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 :
REV. WILLIAM RANKIN DURYEA.
A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.
THIRD PART OF HENRY VI.'
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?
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.
THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE.
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 ;
A WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MY
Meanwhile thou mellowest every word,
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
HOMESICK FOR THE COUNTRY.
O thou of home the guardian Lar,
I'n kind o' like to have a cot
Five acres more or less,
'T would suit my taste, I guess,
With bells of pendant woodbine swung,
In every bell a bee ;
To solace mine and me,
Of wood-birds singing sweet ;
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.
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
"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.
FROM "THE TRAVELLER."
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 !
The free, fair Homes England !
FILIAL AND FRATERNAL LOVE.
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine :
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,
It were the haven of my happiness ;
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 ;
In other elements, and on the rocks
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,
The careful pilot of my proper woe.
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
A spirit of slight patience ;--- not in vain,
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source
or perhaps of cold despair,
Brought on when ills habitually recur,
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air,
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,
HIS SISTER, AUGUSTA LEIGH.