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Sweet Stome!

Mid plasures and palaces shough we may sram
Be it ever so hamble, there's no place like home!
A charm from the sky seems to hallow as there
which, seek through the world, is neer met with elsewhere!

Home, home, a sweet, seweet home!
There's no place like home ! there's no place le ha here!

John Stoward Fayne.

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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.

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 ?

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.



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,
The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.


Beyond the flight of time,
Beyond this vale of death,

There surely is some blesséd clime
Where life is not a breath,

The half-seen memories of childish days,
Nor life's affections transient fire,

When pains and pleasures lightly came and went ; Whose sparks fly upward to expire. The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent

In fearful wand'rings through forbidden ways; There is a world above,

The vague, but manly wish to tread the maze Where parting is unknown;

Of life to noble ends, — whereon intent, A whole eternity of love,

Asking to know for what man here is sent, Formed for the good alone;

The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze, – And faith beholds the dying here

The firm resolve to seek the chosen end Translated to that happier sphere.

Of manhood's judgment, cautious and mature,

Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to friend Thus star by star declines,

With strength no selfish purpose can secure : Till all are passed away,

My happy lot is this, that all attend As morning high and higher shines, That friendship which first came, and which shall To pure and perfect day;

last endure. Nor sink those stars in empty night; They hide themselves in heaven's own light.





[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.

HAM. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man
As e'er my conversation coped withal.

Hor. O my dear lord -

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

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 buflets and rewards
Hast ta'en with equal thanks; and blessed are

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,

From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying,

Will tears the cold turf steep.

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, –

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

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,


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"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,
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.


(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, “'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,

"The blackbird amid leafy trees,

The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please,

Are quiet when they will.

"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
Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Of their early affection's vow;
Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars ! I tell And let those few, the beloved of youth,

Be dear in their absence now.
We have a power on foot; and I had purpose O, vividly in their faithful breast
Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn, Shall the gleam of remembrance play,
Or lose mine arm for 't. Thou hast beat me out Like the lingering light of the crimson west,
Twelve several times, and I have nightly since | When the sunbeain hath passed away!
Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me,
We have been down together in my sleep,

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’ertlowing 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, Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome,

When we shall be far away!
Like a bold flood o'erbear. O, come! go in,
And take our friendly senators by th' hands;
Who now are here, taking their leaves of me,

Who am prepared against your territories,
Though not for Rome itself.

“ 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, inonths, years intervene, and we And more a friend than e'er an enemy;

see and know nothing of each other." - WASHINGTON IRVING. Yet, Marcius, that was much.


Two barks 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.

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 I summon up remembrance of things past,

The melodies of earth. I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

Moonlight on that lone Indian main And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.

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,
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Like leaves together blown !
Which I new pay, as if not paid before ;
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, A little while such joy was cast
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

Over the deep's repose,
SHAKESPEARE, Till the loud singing winds at last

Like trumpet music rose.

And proudly, freely on their way

The parting vessels bore;
In calm or storm, by rock or bay,

To meet -0, nevermore !

Count not the hours while their silent wings

Thus waft them in fairy flight;
For feeling, warm from her dearest springs,

Shall hallow the scene to-night.
And while the music of joy is here,

And the colors of life are gay,
Let us think on those that have loved us dear,

The Friends who are far away.

Never to blend in victory's cheer,

To aid in hours of woe ;
And thus bright spirits mingle here,
Such ties are formed below.


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