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The Arab's Farewell to his Horse..
The Heavenly Resto-----------.--.--.-.-.-.----------- 819
BOOK OF POETRY.
MY OWN FIRESIDE. LET others seek for empty joys,
At ball, or concert, rout, or play ; Whilst, far from fashion's idle noise,
Her gilded domes, and trappings gay, I while the wintry, eve away;
"Twixt book and lute, the hours divide; And marvel how I e'er could stray
From thee-my own Fireside!
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise ;
And fill with tears of joy my eyes! What is there my wild heart can prize,
That doth not in thy sphere abide, Haunt of my home-bred sympathies,
My own my own Fireside ! A gentle form is near me now;
A small white hand is clasp'd in mine; I gaze upon her placid brow,
And ask what joys can equal thine! A babe, whose beauty 's half divine,
In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide; Where may love seek a fitter shrine,
Than thoumy own Fireside ?
What care I for the sullen roar
Of winds without, that ravage earth?
The shelter of thy hallow'd hearth;
Then let the churlish tempest chide,
That glads my own Fireside ! My refuge ever from the storm
of this world's passion, strife, and care; Though thunder-clouds the sky deform,
Their fury cannot reach me there. There all is cheerful, calm, and fair,
Wrath, Malice, Envy, Strife, or Pride,
By thee—my own Fireside!
Where no harsh feeling dares intrude;
Where even grief is half subdued: And Peace, the haleyon, loves to brood.
Then, let the pamper'd fool deride, I'll pay my debt of gratitude
To thee my own Fireside! Shrine of my household deities!
Fair scene of home's unsullied joys ! To thee my burthen'd spirit flies,
When fortune frowns, or care annoys: Thine is the bliss that never cloys;
The smıle whose truth hath oft been tried,
To theo--my own Fireside!
That bid my thoughts be all of thee,
To thy heart-soothing sanctuary!
Whate'er my future years may be;
Let joy or grief my fate betide;
A. A. WATTS.
THE INDIAN HUNTER. When the summer harvest was gather'd in, And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin, And the ploughshare was in its furrow left, Where the stubble land had been lateiy cleft, An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow, Look'd down where the valley lay stretch'd below. He was a stranger, and all that day Had been out on the hills a perilous way, But the foot of the deer was far and fleet, And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet, And bitter feelings pass'd o'er him then, As he stood by the populous haunts of men. The winds of Autumn came over the woods As the sun stole out from their solitudes, The moss was white on the maple's trunk, And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk, And ripen'd the mellow fruit hung, and red Were the tree's wither'd leaves round it shed.
The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn,
Then the hunter tum'd away from that scene,
And heard by the distant and measured stroke,
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
Her mighty sails the breezes swell,
And fast she leaves the lessening land,
Is waved by many a snowy hand;
Until its verge she wanders “
Oh! she was never heard of more!
And love of many a weeping fair;
Tho lonely heart's unceasing prayer;
Of ardent youth, that vessel bore;
For she was never heard of more!