-Come, friend, examine all within,
There's comfort in my little nest,
Nor wants there proof of genuine,
Although uncostly taste.
We lack no charm which music makes,
That chest-like frame of hidden strings
Beneath my Mary's fingers wakes
Responsive as she sings.
The walls betray my pencil's work;
Yet with it Mary's needle may
Boast rivalry; no tints can lurk
Unsubject to her sway.
See, by our hearth, her flowers endure
The winter through on rug and cushion;
Yea, all the adapted furniture,
Her choice or execution.
And she, this casket's single gem,-
Who brightens 'neath her husband's glance,
And, moon-like, radiates light on them,
Who share his countenance;
She (all unweeting) will prevail,
In making you this truth confess,-
If woes the married state assail,
The single knows not bliss!
Hail, wedded love! thy constant flame,
Like that of lamps of yore entombed,
Nor age's palsying hand can tame,
Nor is it self-consumed!
Look round, I call this room my own,
For see, my books display themselves;
You'll find some old acquaintance, known
Long since on college shelves.
This open window gives to view
The bell-tower of my village church,
Peering above that ancient yew,
Which guards its cross-crowned porch.
Full to the south, the hallowed field
Opens its bosom, while behind,
A knot of elms, with leafy shield,
Repels the northern wind.
There weekly am I circled round,
By an attentive multitude,
To whom, I trust that I am found
A minister of good.
The cots pour out their various groups;
Grandsire and dame on staff's support,
And strong-limbed youth, infants, and troops,
But half-restrained from sport.
The old men stand erect, and look
Intent upon the preacher's face,
Loving to hear explained that book,
Which speaks of faith and grace;
While the young crowd that fill the aisle,
Their prayers put up, their praises paid,
Decorous sit, but wish the while
The final blessing said.
I know their every joy and woe,
How they are swayed by hope and fear;
Summoned or not, 't is mine to go,
The death-bed's gloom to cheer.
Their children's guardian I; a train
On me await, their minds to store
With love to God, and love to man,
And other gospel lore.
Merely to fix the marriage-ties,
Is but prerogative of station;
I joy to think they highly prize,
My private approbation.
The doubtful swain oft comes to me,
With all his hopes and fears at strife,
His theme-not maiden's cruelty,
But of his means of life.
Trust me, this pastoral employ,
Though it hath toilsome, painful hours,
Oft harvests crops of richest joy,
And gathers wreaths of flowers.
-But hark! a voice that shouts amain,
"Father!" with childhood's eagerness;
My boy (a three years' imp) bursts in
To claim the accustomed kiss!
This done-his courage soon is laid—
He turns
-the stranger is descried-
It drives him into ambuscade,
"Come forth, shy child!"-He'll not forsake
My coat-flap's deep intrenching screen,
Yet peeping thence, one dimpled cheek
And one bright eye are seen.
Not far behind, the mother speeds
In quest of this her truant boy;
Her husband seen,-how quick succeeds
The blush-rose hue of joy!
Mary, you will, I know, rejoice,
My old, my long-tried friend to see;"
She welcomes him with hand and voice,
In matron modesty.
Her native grace and wish to please,
Bid ceremony disappear;
And the shy colleger's at ease,
As she his sister were.
I saw conviction in him rise,
That 't is not good to be alone,
Where man's most sacred sympathies
Are waste, or spent on one.
And ere he o'er my threshold crossed,
He came my private ear to tell,
That he would be no longer lost
Within a monkish cell;
He'd rouse him from his lethargy;
That passion should not be represt,
Which indolent timidity
Was smothering in his breast.
For morbid fear had triumphed long,
And hope had sickened in the strife;
The moody man had measured wrong
The requisites of life.
Here now he saw, what bliss intense,
From pure and mutual love was reaped;
Saw too, how small a competence
Our temperate table heaped.
Nor luxury, nor gorgeousness,
Was known within our homestead fence;
But we had all which suited us,-
Plenty and elegance.
Like lot was at his option, yet He fancied it would not suffice, (From too fastidious estimate)
For household decencies.
Wrong had he done the maid, whom he
Loved fondly-but with silent love;
He would not, from her rank, that she
Should even one step remove.
Wrong had he done her,-yea, the excess
Of love his judgment had betrayed;
For him, since larger sacrifice
She would have gladly made.
Yet he the young attachment checked,
Each smile by unresolve was blighted ;—
What could the maiden but suspect
Her passion unrequited.
It was not so-his inmost soul
Denies it—yea, his heart's deep core;
The world's opinion held control
O'er him-it holds no more.
The altered notions, as I might,
I nursed, till Hope rose smiling over;-
He came, a lone desponding wight;
He went, a blithesome lover!
He in gay dreams the future spanned;
The clouds were gone that gloomed his sun;
And long ere this, hand pledged in hand,
The maid and he are one
Blackwood's Magazine.
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