"Mid pleasures & palaces though Be it ever so humble, there's we may place like Home! to hallow us there which, seek through the world, is meer met with elsewhere! Home, home! sweet, sweet Home! There's no place like Home! Theri no place like Iloma John Stoward Fague. POETRY OF HOME AND THE FIRESIDE. HOME, SWEET HOME. 'MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, home, sweet, sweet, home! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; Oh! give me my lowly thatch'd cottage again! The birds, singing gayly, that came at my call Give me them!-and the peace of mind dearer than all. Home, sweet, sweet, sweet, home! JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, 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, 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, An 1 round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves. The free, fair Homes of England! FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. MY AIN FIRESIDE. IHAE seen great anes, and sat in great ha's, 'Mang lords and fine ladies a' cover'd wi' braws, At feasts made for princes wi' princes I've been, When the grand shine o' splendor has dazzled my een; But a sight sae delightfu' I trow I ne'er So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain, That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play: How pleasing their sport is! The wanton ones see, And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen, In revels all day, with the nymphs on the green: Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles, And meets me at night with complacence and smiles. What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, Her wit and good-humor bloom all the year through; Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to |