birth and power; the poor man's attachment to the tenement he holds, which strangers have held before, and may to-morrow occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a purer soil. His household gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy of silver, Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leavesWhat may the fruit be yet? I know not-Cain was gold, or precious stones; he has no property but in Eve's. But here youth offers to old age the food, To whom she renders back the debt of blood Born with her birth. No! he shall not expire Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven's realm holds The starry fable of the milky-way And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Where sparkle distant worlds :-O, holiest nurse! LORD BYRON. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, We clamb the hill thegither; And sleep thegither at the foot, ROBERT BURNS. AFFECTIONS OF HOME. F ever household affections and loves are graceful things, they are graceful in the poor. The ties that bind the wealthy and the proud to home, may be forged on earth, but those which link the poor man to his humble hearth, are of the true metal, and bear the stamp of heaven. The man of high descent may love the halls and lands of his inheritance as a part of himself, as trophies of his the affections of his own heart; and when they endear SHALL leave the old house in the autumn That meet me each morn at the door! I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, I shall miss them at morn and at even, And death says, “The school is dismissed!” To bid me good night and be kissed! A PICTURE. 'HE farmer sat in his easy-chair, Smoking his pipe of clay, While his hale old wife, with busy care, A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, The old man laid his hand on her head, With a tear on his wrinkled face; As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, "Don't smoke !" said the child; "how it makes you cry!" The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, Was turning the spinning-wheel; And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, HOMESICK. OME to me, O my Mother! come to ine, By great invisible winds, come stately ships The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow, And the pine-spire is mystically fringed. Why am I from thee, Mother, far from thee? Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods DAVID GRAY. MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. HE is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear hei, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing, The warld's wrack we share o't, Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine. ROBERT BURNS. ! KNEW BY THE SMOKE THAT SO GRACE FULLY CURLED KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world, A heart that is humble might hope for it here!" 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-tree. 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 die! "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!" THOMAS Moore. ADAM TO EVE. FAIREST of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom celled A WISH. INE be a cot beside the hill; A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, The village-church among the trees, THE OLD LOG CABIN. T is only shallow-minded pretenders who either make distinguished origin a matter of personal merit, or obscure origin a matter of personal re proach. Taunt and scoffing at the humble conex-dition of early life affect nobody in America but those who are foolish enough to indulge in them; and they Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, are generally sufficiently punished by public rebuke. Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet! The sacred fruit forbidden! Some cursed fraud How can I live without thee, how forego However, I with thee have fixed my lot, A man who is not ashamed of himself need not be ashamed of his early condition. It did not happen to me to be born in a log cabin; but my elder brothers and sisters were born in a log cabin, raised among the snow-drifts of New Hampshire, at a period so early, that when the smoke first rose from its rude chimney and curled over the frozen hills, there was no similar evidence of a white man's habitation between it and the settlements on the rivers of Canada. Its remains still exist. I make to it an annual visit. I carry my children to it, to teach them the hardships endured by the generations which have gone before them. I love to dwell on the tender recollections, the kindred ties, the early affections, and the touching narratives and incidents which mingle with all I know of this primitive family abode. I weep to think that none of those who inhabited it are now among the living; and if ever I am ashamed of it, or if ever I fail in affectionate veneration for him who reared it, and defended it against savage violence and destruction, cherished all the domestic virtues beneath its roof, and, through the fire and blood of a seven years' revolutionary war, shrunk from no danger, no toil, no sacrifice, to serve his country, and to raise his children to a condition better than his own, may my name, and the name of my posterity, be blotted forever from the memory of mankind! DANIEL Webster. |