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UNIVERSITY

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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!
There's no place like 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!
There's no place like home!

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

THE stately Homes of England!

How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tali, 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
Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed Homes of England!
How softly on their bowers

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, Ar 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!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be rear'd
To guard each hallow'd wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!

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 spied

As the bonny blithe blink o' my ain fireside.
My ain fireside, my ain fireside,
Oh cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside;
My ain fireside, my ain fireside,

Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's
ain fireside.

Ance mair, Gude be thankit, round my ain heartsome ingle,

Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle;

Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad,

I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad.

Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to fear,

But truth to delight me, and friendship to cheer;

Of a' roads to happiness ever were tried, There's nane half so sure as ane's ain fireside.

My ain fireside, my ain fireside,

Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside.

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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 s 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 credu lous fair;

In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam!

To hold it for life, you must find it at home EDWARD MOORE.

THE FIRESIDE.

DEAR CHLOE, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud
In folly's maze advance,
Though singularity and pride
Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs;
No noisy neighbor enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heartfelt joys.
If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,
And they are fools who roam;

The world hath nothing to bestowFrom our own selves our bliss must flow,

And that dear hut, our home.

Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing she left
That safe retreat, the ark ;
Giving her vain excursion o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explored the sacred bark.

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.

Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutor❜d right, they'll prove a spring

Whence pleasures ever rise;
We'll form their minds with studious care
To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs;
They'll grow in virtue every day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.

No borrow'd joys, they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,

Or by the world forgot;
Monarchs! we envy not your state-
We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humble lot.

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.

To be resign'd 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.

We'll ask no long-protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet;
But, when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,
Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes,
The relies of our store.

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe

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 COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.

"Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor."-GRAY. My lov'd, my honor'd, much-respected friend!

No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end: My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and

praise;

To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless

ways;

What Aiken in a cottage would have

been;

Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween!

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The short'ning winter-day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their

repose:

The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,→

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