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POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS.

Home Sweet Home!

we may

seeno

Mid peasures and palacer shough Be it ever so hamble,

there's

no place like home! a charm from the sky

to hallow as there
which, seek through the

the world, is neler met with elsewhere!
Home, home, - sweet, seweet home!
There's no place like home! there's no place the home!

Sohn Stoward Payne

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Fair Nature's book together read,
The old wood-paths that knew our tread,
The maple shadows overhead, --

The hills we climbed, the river seen
By gleams along its deep ravine,
All keep thy memory fresh and green.

Where'er I look, where'er I stray,
Thy thought goes with me on my way,
And hence the prayer I breathe to-day :

O’er lapse of time and change of scene,
The weary waste which lies between
Thyself and me, my heart I lean.

COME then, my friend! my genius! come along;
O master of the poet, and the song !
And while the muse now stoops, or now ascends,
To man's low passions, or their glorious ends,
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise,
To fall with dignity, with temper rise ;
Formed by thy converse happily to steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe ;
Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease,
•Intent to reason, or polite to please.
0, while along the stream of time thy name
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame;
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail,
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale ?
When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose,
Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes,
Shall then this verse to future age pretend
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend !
That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art
From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart :
For wit's false mirror held up Nature's light;
Showed erring pride, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT ;
That REASON, PASSION, answer one great aim;
That true SELF-LOVE and SOCIAL are the same;
That virtue only makes our bliss below;
And all our knowledge is, OURSELVES TO KNOW.

Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor
The half-unconscious power to draw
All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law.

With these good gifts of God is cast
Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast
To hold the blesséd angels fast.

If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The gracious heavens will heed from me,
What should, dear heart, its burden be?

ALEXANDER POPE.

The sighing of a shaken reed,
What can I more than meekly plead
The greatness of our common need ?

A GENEROUS friendship no cold medium knows,
Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.

POPE'S ILIAD.

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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,
When pains and pleasures lightly came and went ;
The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent
In fearful wand'rings through forbidden ways;
The vague, but manly wish to tread the maze
Of life to noble ends, — whereon intent,
Asking to know for what man here is sent,
The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze,
The firm resolve to seek the chosen end
Of manhood's judgment, cautious and mature, —
Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to friend
With strength no selfish purpose can secure :
My happy lot is this, that all attend
That friendship which first came, and which shall

last endure.

Thus star by star declines,

Till all are passed away,
As morning high and higher shines,

To pure and perfect day ;
Nor sink those stars in empty night;
They hide themselves in heaven's own light.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

AUBREY DE VERE.

FRIENDSHIP.

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
As e'er my conversation coped withal.

HOR. O my dear lord -
НАМ.

Nay, do not think I flatter :
For what advancement may I hope from thee
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits,
To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor

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 judgmentare 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,

man

That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.

It should be mine to braid it

Around thy faded brow,

SHAKESPEARE.

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“My eyes are dim with childish tears,

My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears

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 quiet when they will.

(Aufidius the Volscian to Caius Marcius Coriolanus.] AUF.

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, “ 'T is 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:

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