Who late and early doth God pray With a well-chosen book or friend. This man is freed from servile bands, O READER! hast thou ever stood to see The eye that contemplates it well perceives Ordered by an Intelligence so wise As might confound the atheist's sophistries. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, But as they grow, where nothing is to fear, I love to view these things with curious eyes, And in this wisdom of the holly-tree Can emblems see Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time. Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear To those who on my leisure would intrude, Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, All vain asperities I, day by day, Till the smooth temper of my age should be And as, when all the summer trees are seen The holly leaves a sober hue display But when the bare and wintry woods we see, So serious should my youth appear among So would I seem, amid the young and gay, That in my age, as cheerful I might be CROWNS have their compass, length of days their date, Triumphs their tombs, felicities their fate; Of more than earth can earth make none partaker, But knowledge makes the king most like his Maker. Ascribed to SHAKESPEARE. THE HOMES FELICIA OF ENGLAND. HEMANS. THE stately homes of England, The merry homes of England! What gladsome looks of household love There woman's voice flows forth in song, The blessed homes of England! Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn; All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born. The cottage homes of England! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, Through glowing orchards forth they peep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair homes of England! May hearts of native proof be reared, To guard each hallowed wall! And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung! YE MARINERS THOMAS OF ENGLAND. CAMPBELL. YE Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; While the stormy winds do blow; The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave !— While the stormy winds do blow; Britannia needs no bulwarks, Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, When the stormy winds do blow; |