Home Sweet Home!

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Mid plasures and palaces shough we may
Be it ever



no place like home! a charm from the sky

to hallow as there which, seek through the

world, is ne er met with elsewhere! Some home,

- sweet, seweet home! There's no place like home! there's no place the home!

John Stoward Sayne


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Fair Nature's book together read,
The old wood-paths that knew our tread,
The maple shadows overhead, -

The hills we climbed, the river seen
By gleams along its deep ravine,
All keep thy memory fresh and green.

Where'er I look, where'er I stray,
Thy thought goes with me on my way,
And hence the prayer I breathe, to-day :

O'er lapse of time and change of scene,
The weary waste which lies between
Thyself and me, my heart I lean.

COME then, my friend! my genius! come along;
O master of the poet, and the song !
And while the muse now stoops, or now ascends,
To man's low passions, or their glorious ends,
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise,
To fall with dignity, with temper rise ;
Formed by thy converse happily to steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe ;
Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease,
Intent to reason, or polite to please.
0, while along the stream of time thy name
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame;
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail,
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale ?
When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose,
Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes,
Shall then this verse to future age pretend
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend !
That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art
From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart :
For wit's false mirror held up Nature's light;
Showed erring pride, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT ;
That REASON, PASSION, answer one great aim;
That true SELF-LOVE and social are the same ;
That VIRTUE only makes our bliss below;
And all our knowledge is, OURSELVES TO KNOW.

Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor
The half-unconscious power to draw
All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law.

With these good gifts of God is cast
Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast
To hold the blesséd angels fast.

If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The gracious heavens will heed from me,
What should, dear heart, its burden be?


The sighing of a shaken reed, -
What can I more than meekly plead
The greatness of our common need?

A GENEROUS friendship no cold medium knows,
Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.


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But I've in vain essayed it,

And feel I cannot now.


Friend after friend departs :

Who hath not lost a friend ?
There is no union here of hearts

That finds not here an end ;
Were this frail world our only rest,
Living or dying, none were blest.

While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is tixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.


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Beyond the flight of time,
Beyond this vale of death,

There surely is some blesséd clime
Where life is not a breath,

The half-seen memories of childish days,
Nor life's affections transient fire,

When pains and pleasures lightly came and went ;
Whose sparks fly upward to expire.

The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent

In fearful wand'rings through forbidden ways;
There is a world above,

The vague, but manly wish to tread the maze
Where parting is unknown;

Of life to noble ends, -- whereon intent,
A whole eternity of love,

Asking to know for what man here is sent,
Formed for the good alone;

The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze,
And faith beholds the dying here

The firm resolve to seek the chosen end
Translated to that happier sphere.

Of manhood's judgment, cautious and mature,

Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to friend
Thus star by star declines,

With strength no selfish purpose can secure :
Till all are passed away,

My happy lot is this, that all attend
As morning high and higher shines, | That friendship which first came, and which shall
To pure and perfect day ;

last endure.
Nor sink those stars in empty night ;

They hide themselves in heaven's own light.


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(Died in New York, September, 1820.)

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GREEN be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days !
None knew thee but to love thee,

Nor named thee but to praise.

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Tears fell, when thou wert dying,

From eyes unused to weep,
And long, where thou art lying,

Will tears the cold turf steep.

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Ham. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man
As e'er my conversation coped withal.

HOR. O my dear lord —

Nay, do not think I flatter :
For what advancement may I hope from thee
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits,
To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor

be flattered ?
No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp,
And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,
Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou

Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice,
And could of men distinguish, her election
Hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been
As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing,
A man that Fortune's buffets and rewards
Hast ta'en with equal thanks ; and blessed are

Whose blood and judgment are so well co-mingled,
That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger
To sound what stop she please : Give me that
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In heart's
As I do thee.

When hearts, whose truth was proven,

Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth;


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"My eyes are dim with childish tears,

My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears

Which in those days I heard.

(Aufidius the Volscian to Caius Marcius Coriolanus. ]

“Thus fares it still in our decay :

And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what Age takes away

Than what it leaves behind.

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"The blackbird amid leafy trees,

The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please,

Are quiet when they will.


O Marcius, Marcius ! Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my

heart A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter Should from yond' cloud speak divine things, and

say, 'T is true,"I'd not believe them more than thee, All-noble Marcius. — Let me twine Mine arms about that body, where against My grainéd ash an hundred times hath broke, And scared the moon with splinters ! Here I clip The anvil of my sword ; and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love, As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valor. Know thou first, I loved the maid I married ; never man Sighed truer breath ; but that I see thee here,

"With Nature never do they wage

A foolish strife ; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free:

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