BUT where to find that happiest spot below, Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The shudd'ring tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long nights of revelry and ease: The naked negro, panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country, ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share, Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind; As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations makes their blessing even.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

The stately Homes of England,
How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land;

The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry Homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light.

There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childish tale is told;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers
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.

THERE is a dungeon in whose dim drear light What do I gaze on? Nothing: look again! Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight, Two insulated phantoms of the brain : It is not so; I see them full and plain, An old man and a female young and fair, Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar: but what doth she there, With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare?

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, Where on the heart and from the heart we took Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leaves What may the fruit be yet? I know not - Cain was Eve's.

But here youth offers to old age the food, The milk of his own gift: it is her sire To whom she renders back the debt of blood Born with her birth. No! he shall not expire While in those warm and lovely veins the fire Of health and holy feeling can provide Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Than Egypt's river;- from that gentle side Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven's realm

-

Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim

No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: Go where I will, to me thou art the same, A loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny, — A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

The first were nothing, had I still the last,
It were the haven of my happiness;
But other claims and other ties thou hast,

And mine is not the wish to make them less.
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;
Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore, —
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

If my inheritance of storms hath been
In other elements, and on the rocks
Of perils, overlooked or unforeseen,

I have sustained my share of worldly shocks,
The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen
My errors with defensive paradox;
I have been cunning in mine overthrow,
The careful pilot of my proper woe.

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward,

My whole life was a contest, since the day That gave me being gave me that which marred The gift, -a fate, or will, that walked astray: And I at times have found the struggle hard,

And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay: But now I fain would for a time survive, If but to see what next can well arrive.

Kingdoms and empires in my little day

I have outlived, and yet I am not old; And when I look on this, the petty spray

Of my own years of trouble, which have rolled Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: Something I know not what - does still uphold

A spirit of slight patience;—not in vain,
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir

Within me, -or perhaps of cold despair, Brought on when ills habitually recur, Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, (For even to this may change of soul refer, And with light armor we may learn to bear,) Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not The chief companion of a calmer lot.

Yet this was not the end I did pursue;
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.
But all is over; I am one the more
To baffled millions which have gone before.
And for the future, this world's future may
From me demand but little of my care;

I have outlived myself by many a day :
Having survived so many things that were;
My years have been no slumber, but the prey
Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share
Of life which might have filled a century,
Before its fourth in time had passed me by.

And for the remnant which may be to come,
I am content; and for the past I feel
Not thankless, for within the crowded sum
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal,
And for the present, I would not benumb

My feelings farther. - Nor shall I conceal
That with all this I still can look around,
And worship Nature with a thought profound.

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart
I know myself secure, as thou in mine :
We were and are- - I am, even as thou art
Beings who ne'er each other can resign;

Mother, mother, thou art kind,

Thou art standing in the room,

In a molten glory shrined,

That rays off into the gloom!

But thy smile is bright and bleak,
Like cold waves, I cannot speak ;

I sob in it, and grow weak.

Ghostly mother, keep aloof
One hour longer from my soul,
For I still am thinking of

Earth's warm-beating joy and dole!
On my finger is a ring
Which I still see glittering,
When the night hides everything.

Little sister, thou art pale!

Ah, I have a wandering brain;
But I lose that fever-bale,

And my thoughts grow calm again.
Lean down closer, closer still!
I have words thine ear to fill,
And would kiss thee at my will.

Dear, I heard thee in the spring,

Thee and Robert, through the trees, When we all went gathering

Boughs of May-bloom for the bees.
Do not start so! think instead
How the sunshine overhead
Seemed to trickle through the shade.

What a day it was, that day!

Hills and vales did openly Seem to heave and throb away,

Till the pleasure, grown too strong,
Left me muter evermore;
And, the winding road being long,
I walked out of sight, before;
And so, wrapt in musings fond,
Issued (past the wayside pond)
On the meadow-lands beyond.

I sat down beneath the beech
Which leans over to the lane,
And the far sound of your speech
Did not promise any pain;
And I blessed you, full and free,
With a smile stooped tenderly
O'er the May-flowers on my knee.

But the sound grew into word

As the speakers drew more near Sweet, forgive me that I heard What you wished me not to hear. Do not weep so, do not shake— O, I heard thee, Bertha, make Good true answers for my sake.

Yes, and he too ! let him stand

In thy thoughts, untouched by blame. Could he help it, if my hand

He had claimed with hasty claim!
That was wrong perhaps, but then
Such things be—and will, again !
Women cannot judge for men.

Had he seen thee, when he swore

Then I always was too grave,

Liked the saddest ballads sung, With that look, besides, we have In our faces who die young. I had died, dear, all the same, Life's long, joyous, jostling game Is too loud for my meek shame.

We are so unlike each other,

Thou and I, that none could guess We were children of one mother, But for mutual tenderness. Thou art rose-lined from the cold, And meant, verily, to hold Life's pure pleasures manifold.

I am pale as crocus grows

Close beside a rose-tree's root! Whosoe'er would reach the rose, Treads the crocus underfoot;