An oak and an elm tree stand beside,

And behind does an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above

Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne ;

Pleasant it was to his eye, For from cock-crow he had been travelling,

And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear,

For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank,

Under the willow-tree.

“I have left a good woman who never was here,”

The stranger he made reply ; “ But that my draught should be better for that,

I pray you answer me why." “St.Keyne,"quoth the countryman,“many a time

Drank of this crystal well,
And before the angel summoned her

She laid on the water a spell.
“If the husband of this gifted well

Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.
“But if the wife should drink of it first,

Heaven help the husband then !"
The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne,

And drank of the waters again. “You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ?”

He to the countryman said. But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake,

And sheepishly shook his head. “I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done,

And left my wife in the porch.
But i' faith, she had been wiser than me,

For she took a bottle to church.”

There came a man from the nighboring town

At the well to fill his pail, On the well-side he rested it,

And bade the stranger hail. "Now art thou a bachelor, stranger ?" quoth he,

“For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day

That ever thou didst in thy life.
"Or has your good woman, if one you have,

In Cornwall ever been ?
For an if she have, I'll venture my life

She has drank of the well of St. Keyne.”


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

Telling of trust and content the sweet story,
Lifting 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.




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 minutes 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 ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece :
So minutes, 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 kings that fear their subjects' treachery?


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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 flicker 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 tor
'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

Thou 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.

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


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.

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 mine!"


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 shu ld'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. Snch is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, Anii 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 of 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.



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