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THE BLISS OF HOME.
BY T. H. SHREEVE.
MINE be the joy which gleams around
The hearth where pure affections dwellWhere love enrobed in smiles is found,
And wraps the spirit with its spell. I would not seek excitement's whirl,
Where Pleasure wears her tinsel crown, And Passion's billows upward curl,
'Neath Hatred's darkly gathering frown.
The dearest boon from Heaven above,
Is bliss which brightly hallows home; 'Tis sunlight to the world of love,
And life's pure wine without its foam. There is a sympathy of heart
Which consecrates the social shrineRobs grief of gloom, and doth impart
A joy to gladness all divine.
It glances from the kindling eye
Which o'er Affliction sleepless tends ; It gives deep pathos to the sigh
Which anguish from the bosom rends; It plays around the smiling lip,
When love bestows the greeting kiss, And sparkles in each cup we sip
Round the domestic board of bliss !
Let others seek in wealth or fame,
A splendid path whereon to treadI'd rather wear a lowlier name,
With love's enchantments round it shed. Fame's but a light to gild the grave,
And wealth can never calm the breast; But Love, a halcyon on Life's wave,
Hath power to soothe its strifes to rest.
OH, SAY NOT WE SOON CAN FORGET.
BY T. H. CUSHMAN.
OH, say not we soon can forget
The hearts that were fondly our own, Oh, say not the tear of regret
Is woman's, dear woman's alone? We part, with a smile in our eyes,
Our farewells may lightly be sighed, Yet dreary the tones of the skies,
While forms, though not feelings, divide.
We look then on days that are past,
As spectres, deceiving our gaze;
Oh, yes ! man, while stemming the storm
Though seeming forgetful of love, Still worships the heart and the form
That came to his breast like a dove
TO IANTHE IN HEAVEN.
BY E. A. POE.
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pineA green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine All wreathed around about with flowers
And the flowers, they all were mine.
But the dream, it could not last;
And the star of Hope did rise But to be overcast.
A voice from out the Future cries, “Onward !”—while o'er the Past,
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies, Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas ! alas! with me,
Ambition, all, iś o'er; “No more, no more, no more"
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar.
And all my hours are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
And where thy footstep gleams,
By what eternal streams.
THE BREEZES FAN MY BROW.
BY JAMES F. OTIS.
The breezes fan my brow,
And softly round me play ; They're pathless and unchained
Would I were free as they !
Go murmuring along-
In such untroubled song!
And o'er my aching head
The fleecy cloudlets float; And, as they flit along,
My vanished joys denote; Light, as the breast that felt them
False, as the love she gaveChanging, as heart of woman
And fleeting as the wave!
Far on yon mountain-top
There is a wreath of snow; And on its breast the sun
Pours forth his crimson glow;
With torrid lustre dart-
Upon my frozen heart!
A WEARY TIME IS OURS, MY LOVE.
BY ROBERT M. CHARLTON.
A WEARY time is ours, my love,
A weary time is ours ;
And withered are its flowers :