ODE TO TRANQUILLITY.

TRANQUILLITY! thou better name

Than all the family of fame!

Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age

To low intrigue or factious rage.

For, oh, dear child of thoughtful Truth!

To thee I gave my early youth;

And left the bark, and bless'd the stedfast shore,

Ere yet the tempest rose, and scared me with its roar.

Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,

On him but seldom, power divine,

Thy spirit rests! Satiety

And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope
And dire Remembrance interlope

To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind :

The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

But me thy gentle hand will lead

At morning through the accustom'd mead;

And in the sultry summer's heat

Will build me up a mossy seat;

And when the gust of autumn crowds

And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,

Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune,
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon.

The feeling heart, the searching soul,

To thee I dedicate the whole !

And while within myself I trace

The greatness of some future race,

Aloof with hermit-eye I scan

The present works of present man —

A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

COLERIDGE.

ལ་ལད་

THE COTTAGE HOME.

OFT have I roam'd amid the hills
With sense of awe that inly thrills,
And listen'd to each sound

Which gives so deep an emphasis

To silence, and makes loneliness
Seem only more profound.

I've pass'd through crowded street and mart, With yet more solitude of heart

Than ever yet was mine

When, wandering "in untrodden ways,"
Wild Nature to my awe-struck gaze
Reveal'd her inner shrine.

Fitful of mood-by impulse sway'd,
How oft we make the sun and shade
Which lights or dims our way!
View'd through some medium of our own,
Now seems our path with weeds o'ergrown,
And now with roses gay.

But yesterday, at Fancy's call,
I sought the rushing waterfall,
The wild and lonely glen;
To-morrow, it may be my mood
To mingle with the multitude,

And list "the hum of men."

Meanwhile, 'tis mine well-pleased to view 'Twixt both extremes a medium true,

In this low cottage home;

The Cottage Home.

For here I find society,

From noise, and strife, and tumult free,Seclusion without gloom.

Those little curly-pated elves,
Blest in each other and themselves,
Right pleasant 'tis to see,
Glancing like sunbeams in and out
The lowly porch, and round about
The ancient household tree.

And pleasant 'tis to greet the smile
Of her who rules this domicile

With firm but gentle sway;

To hear her busy step and tone,
Which tell of household cares begun,
That end but with the day.

'Tis pleasant, too, to stroll around
The tiny plot. of garden-ground,
Where all in gleaming row
Sweet primroses, the spring's delight,
And double daisies, red and white,
And yellow wallflowers grow.

What if such homely view as this
Awaken not the high-wrought bliss
Which loftier scenes impart ?

To better feelings sure it leads,
If but to kindly thoughts and deeds
It prompt the feeling heart.

The Village Blacksmith.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan :

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village-bell
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice

Singing in the village-choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.