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There's no place like home! there's no place like home !

John Howard Fayne. /

POEMS OF HOME.

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MARRIAGE.

hearts that love hath crowned or crossed

Love fondly knits together;

But not a thought or hue is lost
That made a part of either.

It is an ill-told tale that tells

Of "hearts by love made one": He grows who near another's dwells

More conscious of his own;

In each spring up new thoughts and powers
That, mid love's warm, clear weather,
Together tend like climbing flowers,
And, turning, grow together.

Such fictions blink love's better part,
Yield up its half of bliss ;
The wells are in the neighbor heart,
When there is thirst in this :
There findeth love the passion-flowers
On which it learns to thrive,
Makes honey in another's bowers,
But brings it home to hive.

Love's life is in its own replies,

To each low beat it beats,

Smiles back the smiles, sighs back the sighs,

And every throb repeats.

Then, since one loving heart still throws

Two shadows in love's sun,

How should two loving hearts compose
And mingle into one?

THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY,

And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,
And by that kind heart o' thine,

By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,
That thou shalt aye be mine!

Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands,
And the heart that wad part sic luve !
But there's nae hand can loose my band,

But the finger o' Him abuve.
Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,
And my claithing ne'er sae mean,

I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve,
Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me,
Fu' safter than the down;

And Luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind

wings,

And sweetly I'd sleep, and soun'.
Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve !
Come here and kneel wi' me!

The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,
And I canna pray without thee.

The morn wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers,

The wee birds sing kindlie and hie ;

Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dike,

And a blythe auld bodie is he.

The Beuk maun be ta'en whan the carle comes

hame,

Wi' the holy psalmodie ;

And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,

And I will speak o' thee.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

UNTIL DEATH.

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE.

THOU hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,
By that pretty white hand o' thine,
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,
That thou wad aye be mine!

MAKE me no vows of constancy, dear friend,
To love me, though I die, thy whole life long,
And love no other till thy days shall end, -
Nay, it were rash and wrong.

If thou canst love another, be it so;

I would not reach out of my quiet grave

To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go;
Love should not be a slave.

My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene

In clearer light than gilds those earthly morns,
Above the jealousies and envies keen
Which sow this life with thorns.

Thou wouldst not feel my shadowy caress,
If, after death, my soul should linger here;
Men's hearts crave tangible, close tenderness,
Love's presence, warm and near.

It would not make me sleep more peacefully
That thou wert wasting all thy life in woe
For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me,
Bestow it ere I go !

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead
The praises which remorseful mourners give
To women's graves, - a tardy recompense,
But speak them while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble on my head

To shut away the sunshine and the dew;

Let small blooms grow there, and let grasses

wave,

And rain-drops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay

Than I; but, trust me, thou canst never find

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Need we say that Maurice loved her,
And that no blush reproved her,

When her throbbing bosom moved her

To give the heart she gave?

That by dawn-light and by twilight,

And, O blessed moon, by thy light,
When the twinkling stars on high light

The wanderer o'er the wave,

His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff's waters lave

One who will love and serve thee night and day Each mossy bank and cave.

With a more single mind.

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MINE eyes he closed, but open left the cell
Of fancy, my internal sight, by which

And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the Abstract, as in a trance, methought I saw,

fairies intertwine,

And her heart a golden mine.

She was gentler and shyer

Though sleeping, where I lay, and saw the shape
Still glorious before whom awake I stood;
Who, stooping, opened my left side, and took
From thence a rib, with cordial spirits warm,

Than the light fawn which stood by her, And life-blood streaming fresh; wide was the

And her eyes emit a fire

wound,

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But suddenly with flesh filled up and healed :
The rib he formed and fashioned with his hands;
Under his forming hands a creature grew,
Manlike, but different sex, so lovely fair,
That what seemed fair in all the world seemed

now

Mean, or in her summed up, in her contained
And in her looks, which from that time infused
Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before,
And into all things from her air inspired
The spirit of love and amorous delight.
She disappeared, and left me dark; I waked
To find her, or forever to deplore

Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure :
When out of hope, behold her, not far off,
Such as I saw her in my dream, adorned
With what all earth or Heaven could bestow
To make her amiable. On she came,
Led by her heavenly Maker, though unseen,
And guided by his voice, nor uninformed
Of nuptial sanctity and marriage rites :
Grace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye,
In every gesture dignity and love.

I, overjoyed, could not forbear aloud :

MY COTTAGE.

HERE have I found at last a home of peace
To hide me from the world; far from its noise,
To feed that spirit, which, though sprung from
earth,

And linked to human beings by the bond
Of earthly love, hath yet a loftier aim
Than perishable joy, and through the calm
That sleeps amid the mountain solitude,
Can hear the billows of eternity,
And hear delighted. . .

There are thoughts

That slumber in the soul, like sweetest sounds
Amid the harp's loose strings, till airs from Heaven
On earth, at dewy nightfall, visitant,
Awake the sleeping melody! Such thoughts,
My gentle Mary, I have owed to thee.
And if thy voice e'er melt into my soul
With a dear home-toned whisper, if thy face
E'er brighten in the unsteady gleams of light
From our own cottage-hearth, O Mary! then
My overpowered spirit shall recline
Upon thy inmost heart, till it become,

"This turn hath made amends; thou hast Thou sinless seraph, almost worthy thee !

fulfilled

Thy words, Creator bounteous and benign,
Giver of all things fair, but fairest this
Of all thy gifts, nor enviest. I now see
Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, myself
Before me; Woman is her name, of man
Extracted for this cause he shall forego
Father and mother, and to his wife adhere;
And they shall be one flesh, one heart, one
soul."

She heard me thus, and though divinely brought,

Yet innocence and virgin modesty,

Her virtue and the conscience of her worth,
That would be wooed, and not unsought be won,
Not obvious, not obtrusive, but retired,
The more desirable; or, to say all,
Nature herself, though pure of sinful thought,
Wrought in her so, that, seeing me, she turned:
I followed her; she what was honor knew,
And with obsequious majesty approved
My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower
I led her blushing like the morn: all Heaven,
And happy constellations on that hour
Shed their selectest influence; the earth
Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill;
Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs
Whispered it to the woods, and from their wings
Flung rose, flung odors from the spicy shrub,
Disporting, till the amorous bird of night
Sung spousal, and bid haste the evening star
On his hill-top, to light the bridal lamp.

MILTON.

JOHN WILSON.

TO A LADY BEFORE MARRIAGE.

O, FORMED by Nature, and refined by Art, With charms to win, and sense to fix the heart! By thousands sought, Clotilda, canst thou free Thy crowd of captives and descend to me, Content in shades obscure to waste thy life,

| A hidden beauty and a country wife? O, listen while thy summers are my theme! Ah! soothe thy partner in his waking dream! In some small hamlet on the lonely plain, Where Thames through meadows rolls his mazy train,

Or where high Windsor, thick with greens arrayed,

Waves his old oaks, and spreads his ample shade,
Fancy has figured out our calm retreat ;
Already round the visionary seat

Our limes begin to shoot, our flowers to spring,
The brooks to murmur, and the birds to sing.
Where dost thou lie, thou thinly peopled green,
Thou nameless lawn, and village yet unseen,
Where sons, contented with their native ground,
Ne'er traveled farther than ten furlongs round,
And the tanned peasant and his ruddy bride
Were born together, and together died,
Where early larks best tell the morning light,
And only Philomel disturbs the night?
Midst gardens here my humble pile shall rise,
With sweets surrounded of ten thousand dyes;

All savage where th' embroidered gardens end,
The haunt of echoes, shall my woods ascend;
And O, if Heaven th' ambitious thought ap-

prove,

A rill shall warble 'cross the gloomy grove,

A little rill, o'er pebbly beds conveyed,

My love is now awake out of her dream,
And her fair eyes like stars that dimmed were
With darksome cloud, now show their goodly

beams

More bright than Hesperus his head doth rear.
Come now, ye damsels, daughters of delight,

Gush down the steep, and glitter through the Help quickly her to dight;

glade.

But first come, ye fair Hours, which were begot,

What cheering scents these bordering banks In Jove's sweet paradise, of Day and Night; exhale !

How loud that heifer lows from yonder vale!
That thrush how shrill! his note so clear, so high,
He drowns each feathered minstrel of the sky.
Here let me trace beneath the purpled morn
The deep-mouthed beagle and the sprightly horn,
Or lure the trout with well-dissembled flies,
Or fetch the fluttering partridge from the skies.
Nor shall thy hand disdain to crop the vine,
The downy peach or flavored nectarine;
Or rob the beehive of its golden hoard,
And bear the unbought luxuriance to thy board.
Sometimes my books by day shall kill the hours,
While from thy needle rise the silken flowers,
And thou, by turns, to ease my feeble sight,
Resume the volume, and deceive the night.
O, when I mark thy twinkling eyes opprest,
Soft whispering, let me warn my love to rest;
Then watch thee, charmed, while sleep locks every

sense,

And to sweet Heaven commend thy innocence.
Thus reigned our fathers o'er the rural fold,
Wise, hale, and honest, in the days of old ;
Till courts arose, where substance pays for show,
And specious joys are bought with real woe.

THOMAS TICKELL.

THE EPITHALAMION.

WAKE now, my love, awake; for it is time;
The rosy Morn long since left Tithon's bed,
All ready to her silver coach to climb;
And Phoebus 'gins to show his glorious head.
Hark! now the cheerful birds do chant their lays,
And carol of Love's praise.

The merry lark her matins sings aloft ;
The thrush replies; the mavis descant plays ;
The ouzel shrills; the ruddock warbles soft;
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this day's merriment.

Ah! my dear love, why do you sleep thus long,
When meeter were that you should now awake,
T' await the coming of your joyous make,*
And hearken to the birds' love-learnèd song,
The dewy leaves among!

For they of joy and pleasance to you sing,
That all the woods them answer, and their echo
ring.

* Mate.

Which do the seasons of the year allot,
And all, that ever in this world is fair,
Do make and still repair;

And ye three handmaids of the Cyprian Queen,
The which do still adorn her beauties' pride,
Help to adorn my beautifulest bride :
And, as ye her array, still throw between
Some graces to be seen;

And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shall answer, and your
echo ring.

Now is my love all ready forth to come:
Let all the virgins therefore well await;
And ye, fresh boys, that tend upon her groom,
Prepare yourselves, for he is coming straight.
Set all your things in seemly good array,
Fit for so joyful day,

The joyful'st day that ever sun did see.
Fair Sun! show forth thy favorable ray,
And let thy lifeful heat not fervent be,
For fear of burning her sunshiny face,
Her beauty to disgrace.

O fairest Phoebus! father of the Muse!
If ever I did honor thee aright,

Or sing the thing that might thy mind delight,
Do not thy servant's simple boon refuse,
But let this day, let this one day be mine;
Let all the rest be thine.

Then I thy sovereign praises loud will sing,
That all the woods shall answer, and their echo
ring.

Like Phoebe, from her chamber of the east,
Lo! where she comes along with portly pace,
Arising forth to run her mighty race,

Clad all in white, that seems a virgin best.
So well it her beseems, that ye would ween
Some angel she had been.

Her long loose yellow locks, like golden wire,
Sprinkled with pearl, and pearling flowers atween,
Do like a golden mantle her attire ;
And, being crownèd with a garland green,
Seem like some maiden queen.
Her modest eyes, abashed to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixèd are ;
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,
But blush to hear her praises sung so loud,

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