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we may van
Home Sweet Home! Mid pleasures and palaces though . Be it ever
so humble: there's no place like home! a charm from the sky
is hallow as there which, seek through the world, is neler met with elsewhere?
sweet, screet home!
It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, Imparting, in its glad embrace, Beauty to beauty, grace to grace !
Fair Nature's book together read,
The hills we climbed, the river seen
The half-seen memories of childish days, When pains and pleasures lightly came and went; The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent In fearful wanderings 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 firin 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
Where'er I look, where'er I stray,
AUBREY DE VERE.
O'er lapse of time and change of scene, The weary waste which lies between Thyself and me, my heart I lean.
You 've won the great world's envied prize,
FRIENDSHIP. A RUDDY drop of manly blood The surging sea outweighs ; The world uncertain comes and goes, The lover rooted stays. I fancied he was fled, And, after many a year, Glowed unexhausted kindliness, Like daily sunrise there. My careful heart was free again ; O friend, my bosom said, Through thee alone the sky is arched, Through thee the rose is red; All things through thee take nobler form, And look beyond the earth ; The mill-round of our fate appears A sun-path in thy worth. Me too thy nobleness has taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair.
You've worn the judge's ermined robe ;
The chaffing young folks stare and say,
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
THE MEMORY OF THE HEART.
How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
IF stores of dry and learned lore we gain,
edge call, —
Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?
The weary idol takes his stand,