I KNEW BY THE SMOKE THAT SO GRACE

FULLY CURLED.

KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully curled

Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world,

A heart that is humble might hope for it here!"

It was noon, and on flowers that languished around
In silence reposed the voluptuous bee;

Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound

But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.

And "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed, "With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed,

How blest could I live, and how calm could I die! "By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, Which had never been sighed on by any but mine!" THOMAS MOore.

ADAM TO EVE.

FAIREST of creation, last and best
Of all God's works, creature in whom

celled

A WISH.

INE be a cot beside the hill;

A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns the mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shalt twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew,
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
When first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to heaven.
SAMUEL ROGERS.

THE OLD LOG CABIN.

Whatever can to sight or thought be formed,
Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet!
How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost,
Defaced, deflowered, and now to death devote!
Rather, how hast thou yielded to transgress
The strict forbiddance, how to violate
The sacred fruit forbidden! Some cursèd fraud
Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown,
And me with thee hath ruined, for with thee
Certain my resolution is to die.

How can I live without thee, how forego
Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined,
To live again in these wild woods forlorn?
Should God create another Eve, and I
Another rib afford, yet loss of thee
Would never from my heart; no, no, I feel
The link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh,
Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state
Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.
However, I with thee have fixed my lot,
Certain to undergo like doom; if death
Consort with thee, death is to me as life;
So forcible within my heart I feel

The bond of nature draw me to my own,
My own in thee, for what thou art is mine;
Our state cannot be severed, we are one,
One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.
JOHN MILTON.

A man who is not ashamed of himself need not be ashamed of his early condition. It did not happen to me to be born in a log cabin; but my elder brothers and sisters were born in a log cabin, raised among the snow-drifts of New Hampshire, at a period so early, that when the smoke first rose from its rude chimney and curled over the frozen hills, there was no similar evidence of a white man's habitation between it and the settlements on the rivers of Canada.

Its remains still exist. I make to it an annual visit. I carry my children to it, to teach them the hardships endured by the generations which have gone before them. I love to dwell on the tender recollections, the kindred ties, the early affections, and the touching narratives and incidents which mingle with all I know of this primitive family abode. I weep to think that none of those who inhabited it are now among the living; and if ever I am ashamed of it, or if ever I fail in affectionate veneration for him who reared it, and defended it against savage violence and destruction, cherished all the domestic virtues beneath its roof, and, through the fire and blood of a seven years' revolutionary war, shrunk from no danger, no toil, no sacrifice, to serve his country, and to raise his children to a condition better than his own, may my name, and the name of my posterity, be blotted forever from the memory of mankind!

DANIEL WEBSTER.

F

THE HAPPY MAN.

'E'S not the Happy Man to whom is given
A plenteous fortune by indulgent Heaven;
Whose gilded roofs on shining columns rise,
And painted walls enchant the gazer's eyes;
Whose table flows with hospitable cheer,
And all the various bounty of the year;
Whose valleys smile, whose gardens breathe the spring,
Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests sing;
For whom the cooling shade in Summer twines,
While his full cellars give their generous wines;
From whose wide fields unbounded Autumn pour
A golden tide into his swelling stores;

Whose winter laughs; for whom the liberal gales
Stretch the big sheet, and toiling commerce sails;
When yielding crowds attend, and pleasure serves;
While youth, and health, and vigor string his nerves.
Ev'n not all these, in one rich lot combined,
Can make the Happy Man, without the mind;
When Judgment sits clear-sighted, and surveys
The chain of Reason with unerring gaze;
Where Fancy lives, and to the brightening eyes,
His fairer scenes and bolder figures rise;
Where social Love exerts her soft command,
And plays the passions with a tender hand,
Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife,
And all the moral harmony of life.

JAMES THOMPSON.

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

Y mother, when I learned that thou wast dead,

Say, was thou conscious of the tears I
shed?

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son—
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day;
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nursery-window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown;
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more.
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived-
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more;
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,

EAP on more wood!-the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,

We'll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:
And well our Christian sires of old

Loved when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honor to the holy night:

On Christmas eve the bells were rung ;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung;
That only night, in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then opened wide the baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of "post and pair."
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table's oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man;

Then the grim boar's head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell
How, when and where the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round, in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high-tide, her savory goose.
Then came the merry maskers in,

And carols roared with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,

It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White skirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made:
But, O, what maskers richly dight
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.

'T was Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
'T was Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.
SIR WALTER Scott.

THE OLD HEARTHSTONE.

Y son, thou wilt dream the world is fair,
And thy spirit will sigh to roam,

And thou must go; but never, when there,
Forget the light of home!

Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright,
It dazzles to lead astray;

Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night
When treading thy lonely way:-

But the hearth of home has a constant flame,
And pure as vestal fire-

'Twill burn, 'twill burn forever the same,
For nature feeds the pyre.

The sea of ambition is tempest-toss'd,

And thy hopes may vanish like foam-
When sails are shiver'd and compass lost,
Then look to the light of home!

And there, like a star through midnight cloud,
Thou'lt see the beacon bright;
For never, till shining on thy shroud,
Can be quench'd its holy light.

The sun of fame may guild the name,
But the heart ne'er felt its ray;

And fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim,
Are beams of a wintry day:

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home.

All round de little farm I wandered,
When I was young;

Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs I sung.

When I was playing wid my brudder,
Happy was I;

Oh! take me to my kind old mudder!
Dare let me live and die!

One little hut among de bushes-
One dat I love-

Still sadly to my memory rushes,

No matter where I rove.

When will I see de bees a-humming,
All round de comb?

When will I hear de banjo tumming
Down in my good old home?

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.

HOMEWARD BOUND.

RIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast,
Fling out your field of azure blue;
Let star and stripe be westward cast,
And point as Freedom's eagle flew !
Strain home! O lithe and quivering spars!
Point home my country's flag of stars!
My mother, in thy prayer to-night

There come new words and warmer tears; On long, long darkness breaks the light, Comes home the loved, the lost for years. Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner !

Fear not to-night, or storm or sea : The ear of Heaven bends low to her! He comes to shore who sails with me. The wind-tossed spider needs no token How stands the tree when lightnings blaze; And, by a thread from heaven unbroken, I know my mother lives and prays.

NATHANIEL P. WILLIS.

From a broad window my neighbor,

Looks down on our little cot,

And watches the "poor man's blessing"

I cannot envy his lot.

He has pictures, books, and music,
Bright fountains, and noble trees,
Rare store of blossoming roses,

Birds from beyond the seas.

But never does childish laughter
His homeward footsteps greet;
His stately halls ne'er echo

To the tread of innocent feet.

This child is our "sparkling picture.
A birdling that chatters and sings,
Sometimes a sleeping cherub,

(Our other one has wings.)

When the glory of sunset opens

The highway by angles trod, And seems to unbar the city Whose builder and maker is God

Close to the crystal portal,

I see by the gates of pearl,
The eyes of our other angel-
A twin-born little girl.

And I ask to be taught and directed
To guide his footsteps aright;
So to live that I may be ready
To walk in sandals of light-

And hear, amid songs of welcome,
From messengers trusty and fleet,
On the starry floor of heaven,
The patter of little feet.

THE FIRESIDE.

F solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;
And they are fools who roam :
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And that dear place-our home.
Our portion is not large, indeed;
But then how little do we need!
For nature's calls are few:
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our power;
For, if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lose the present hour.

F

To be resigned when ills betide,
Patient when favors are denied,

And pleased with favors given;
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part;
This is that incense of the heart,

Whose fragrance smells to heaven.

Thus, hand in hand, through life we'll go; Its chequered paths of joy and wo

With cautious steps we'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead:

While conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,

And smooth the bed of death.
NATHANIEL COTTON.

THE HAPPY MARRIAGE.

'OW blest has my time been! what joys have I known,

Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own!

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 ensnare,
And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous fair;
In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam!
To hold it for life, you must find it at home.

His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold;
Thy father is passing away.

Be kind to thy mother, for, lo! on her brow
May traces of sorrow be seen:

Oh, well may'st you cherish and comfort her now,
For loving and kind hath she been.
Remember thy mother, for thee will she pray
As long as God giveth her breath;
With accents of kindness then cheer her lone way,
E'en to the dark valley of death.

Be kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth,
If the smile of thy love be withdrawn ;

The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth,
If the dew of affection be gone.

Be kind to thy brother, wherever you are,
The love of a brother shall be

An ornament, purer and richer by far,
Than pearls from the depths of the sea
Be kind to thy sister, not many may know
The depth of true sisterly love;

The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below
The surface that sparkles above.

Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet hours,
And blessings thy pathway to crown,
Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers,
More precious than wealth or renown.

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood;
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces-

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

CHARLES LAMB.