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Home Sweet Home!
Mid plasures and palaces shough may
so hamble, there's no place like home!
to hallow as there
sweet, seweet home! place like home! there's no place the home!
Fair Nature's book together read,
The hills we climbed, the river seen
Where'er I look, where'er I stray,
O'er lapse of time and change of scene,
COME then, my friend! my genius! come along;
Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor
With these good gifts of God is cast
If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The sighing of a shaken reed,
A GENEROUS friendship no cold medium knows,
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,
Beyond the flight of time,
Beyond this vale of death, There surely is some blesséd clime
Where life is not a breath, Nor life's affections transient fire, Whose sparks fly upward to expire.
There is a world above,
Where parting is unknown ; A whole eternity of love,
Formed for the good alone ; And faith beholds the dying here Translated to that happier sphere.
The half-seen memories of childish days,
Thus star by star declines,
Till all are passed away,
To pure and perfect day;
AUBREY DE VERE.
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.
(Died in New York, September, 1820.)
GREEN be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days ! None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.
Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.
HAM. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man
Hor. O my dear lord —
Nay, do not think I flatter:
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
hear? 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
those Whose blood and judgment are so wellco-mingled, That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger To sound what stop she please : Give me that
When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth ;
And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine,
It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.
We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat ; And from the turf a fountain broke
And gurgled at our feet.
“Now, Matthew !” said I, “let us match
This water's pleasant tune
That suits a summer's noon.
"Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade
Which you last April made !”
In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree ; And thus the dear old man replied,
The gray-haired man of glee:
“No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,
How merrily it goes ! 'T will murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.
“And here, on this delightful day,
I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain's brink.
"My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
Which in those days I heard.
"Thus fares it still in our decay :
And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what Age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.
“The blackbird amid leafy trees,
The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please,
Are qniet when they will.
“But we are pressed by heavy laws ;
And often, glad no more,
We have been glad of yore.
“If there be one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
It is the man of mirth.
“My days, my friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,
Am I enough beloved."
“Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains !
Upon these happy plains :
“And, Matthew, for thy children dead
I'll be a son to thee!”
“Alas ! that cannot be.”
We rose up from the fountain-side ;
And doy the smooth descent
And through the wood we went ;
And ere we came to Leonard's Rock
those witty rhymes
And the bewildered chimes.
(Aufidius the Volscian to Caius Marcius Coriolanus. ]
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, “'Tis 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:
Thou noble thing! more dances my rapt heart Few are the hearts that have proved the truth
Be dear in their absence now.
Soft be the sleep of their pleasant hours, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat,
And calm be the seas they roam ! And waked half dead with nothing. Worthy May the way they travel be strewed with flowers Marcius,
Till it bring them in safety home! Had we no other quarrel else to Rome, but that And when we whose hearts are o'erflowing thus Thou art thence banished, we would muster all
Ourselves may be doomed to stray, From twelve to seventy ; and, pouring war
May some kind orison rise for us,
When we shall be far away !
THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.
“ We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few A thousand welcomes ! words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few
short moments; and then days, months, ycars intervene, and we And more a friend than e'er an enemy;
see and know nothing of each other." – WASHINGTOX IRVING. Yet, Marcius, that was much.
Two baiks met on the deep mid-sea,
When calms had stilled the tide ;
A few bright days of summer glee WHEN TO THE SESSIONS OF SWEET There found them side by side. SILENT THOUGHT.
And voices of the fair and brave
Rose mingling thence in mirth ; When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
And sweetly floated o'er the wave
The melodies of earth.
Moonlight on that lone Indian main
Cloudless and lovely slept ; Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
While dancing step and festive strain For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
Each deck in triumph swept. And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe, And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. And hands were linked, and answering eyes Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
With kindly meaning shone ; And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
O, brief and passing sympathies,
Like leaves together blown !
Over the deep's repose,
Like trumpet music rose.
FRIENDS FAR AWAY.
And proudly, freely on their way
The parting vessels bore ;
To meet - 0, nevermore !
Count not the hours while their silent wings
Thus waft them in fairy flight;
Shall hallow the scene to-night.
And the colors of life are gay,
The Friends who are far away.
Never to blend in victory's cheer,
To aid in hours of woe ;
Such ties are formed below.