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THE FAMILY FIRE-SIDE.
Home's home, however homely, Wisdom says,
Or both, perchance, to graver sport incline,
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,
CN A LADY SLEEPING.
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,
AURORA, daughter of the dawn,
The lark had left her young,
Her rural matin sung;
When old Acasto, virtuous sage,
Forsook his peaceful cell,
And bade the world farewell.
Awhile he wander'd o'er the plain,
With pleasing rapture hung.
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,
No pleasure can impart.