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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?

Home home,

sweet, screet home!
There's no place like home! there's no place like home,
John Howard Jayne).

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We Shine is led crite auhinia fliffe
One ship che lue o ere will mis;
But Good. will know which anchor Slips
bus sund his aurels and with this

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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 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.

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

last endure.

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

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.

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You 've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With H O N. and L L. D.
In big brave letters, fair to see,
Your fist, old fellow ! off they go !
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe ?

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 ;
You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again :
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say,
“See those old buffers, bent and gray ;
They talk like fellows in their teens!
Mad, poor old boys ! That's what it means,
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe !

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

THE MEMORY OF THE HEART.

How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side ;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

IF stores of dry and learned lore we gain,
We keep them in the memory of the brain ;
Names, things, and facts, - whate'er we knowl.

edge call, —
There is the common ledger for them all;
And images on this cold surface traced
Make slight impression, and are soon effaced.
But we've a page, more glowing and more bright,
On which our friendship and our love to write ;
That these may never from the soul depart,
We trust them to the memory of the heart.
There is no dimming, no effacement there;
Each new pulsation keeps the record clear;
Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill,
Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands still.

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind's fick le gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust :
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe ?

The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go,
How vain it seems, this empty show!
Till all at once his pulses thrill,
'T is poor old Joe's “God bless you, Bill!"

DANIEL WEBSTER.

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