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Home's home, however homely, Wisdom says,
And certain is the fact, tho' coarse the phrase :
To prove it, if it needed proof at all,
Mark what a train attends the muse's call;
And as she leads the ideal group along,
Let your own feelings realize her song.
Clear, then, the stage; no scen'ry we require,
Save the snug circle round the parlour fire;
And enter, marshall'd in procession fair,
Each happier influence that governs there.
First, love, by friendship mellow'd into bliss,
Lights the warm glow, and sanctifies the kiss !
When, fondly welcom’d to th' accustom'd seat,
In sweet complaisance wife and husband meet :
Look mutual pleasure, 'mutual purpose share,
Repose from labours, but unite in care.
Ambition! Does ambition there reside?
Yes, when the boy in manly mood astride,
Of headstrong prowess innocently vain,
Canters, the jockey of his father's cane.
While emulation, in the daughter's heart,
Bears a more mild, though not less pow'rful part;
With zeal to shine, her flutt'ring bosom warms,
And in the romp the future house-wife forms;

Or both, perchance, to graver sport incline,
And art and genius in their pastime join :
This, the cramp riddle's puzzling knot invents,
That, rears aloft the card-built tenements.
Think how joy animates, intense, tho' meek,
The fading roses on their grandame's cheek ;
When, proud the frolic progeny to survey,
She feels, and owns, an interest in their play:
Adopts each wish, their wayward whims unfold,
And tells at ev'ry call the story ten times told.
Good-humour'd dignity endears, mean while,
The narrative grandsire's venerable style ;
If haply feats achiev'd in prime of youth,
Or pristine anecdote, historic truth,
Or maxims shrewd, or admonition bland,
Affectionate attention's ear command.

To such society, so form’d, so blest, Time, thought, remembrance, all impart a zest; And expectation, day by day, more bright, Round ev'ry prospect throws increasing light; The simplest comforts act with strongest force; Whate'er can give them, can improve of course.

All this is common-place, you tell me; true: What pity 'tis not common fashion too! Roam as we may, plain sense at last will find 'Tis only seeking what we left behind.

If individual good engage our hope,
Domestic virtues give the largest scope:
If plans of public eminence we trace,
Domestic virtues are its surest base.

Literary Magazine.


Wuere my Laura is laid, beneath this old tree,

Asleep to the whispers that die on the gale, Ye wood-nymphs attend, as kind guardians, and see

That no harsh intrusion her slumbers assail.

Swell gently thy murmur, thou soft rolling stream,

And gently, ye zephyrs, skim o'er the sweet maid; By rustling your pinions disturb not her dream,

Nor ruffle the bank where my Laura is laid.

May her dream be of rapture, and thro' her dear breast

May pleasure quick-darting give transport divine, Such transports as lovers oft feel unexpress’d,

Too poignant for language, for uttrance too fine.

O let me for ever, unconscious of change,

Still sleeping or waking protect the sweet maid; Still range the same groves that my Laura shall range, And lie on the bank where my Laura is laid.



If there's a power above,
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Thro' all her works-he must delight in virtue,
And that which he delights in must be happy.


AURORA, daughter of the dawn,
With golden light had streak’d the lawn,

The lark had left her young,
And poiz’d in air with grateful lays,
To heav'n breath’d forth her hymn of praise,

Her rural matin sung;

When old Acasto, virtuous sage,
Whose head was silver'd o'er with age,

Forsook his peaceful cell,
Again each fav’rite scene to view,
Ere yet he took his last adieu, ,

And bade the world farewell.

Awhile he wander'd o'er the plain,
Immers'd in thought, and o'er each scene

With pleasing rapture hung.
At length the solemn silence ceas’d,
When the warm transports of his breast

Thus trembled from his tongue:

“ Sweet is the breath of rosy morn, Bright are the dew-drops on the thorn,

The streamlets gently flow; Sweetly her notes the sky-lark thrills, Cool are the zephyrs from the hills,

And fair the flowers that blow;

« But neither breath of

rosy morn, Nor dew-drops glist’ning on the thorn,

Nor streams that gently flow; Nor sweetest notes the sky-lark thrills, Nor cooling zephyrs from the hills,

Nor sweetest flowers that blow,

Though all united, can suggest One spark of rapture to the breast,

Unless fair Virtue's ray Illume the mind, then all within Is calm, unruffled, and serene,

And all without is gay.

“ Unless a spark of heav'nly. flame, Beam forth within the earthly frame,

And glow within the heart,
Ah! what avails each rural scene!
The sloping hill, the verdant green,

No pleasure can impart.

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