Crown Jewels: Or Gems of Literature, Art and Music ; Being Choice Selections ...

birth and power; the poor man's attachment to the tenement he holds, which strangers have held before, and may to-morrow occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a purer soil. His household gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy of silver,

Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leavesWhat may the fruit be yet? I know not-Cain was gold, or precious stones; he has no property but in Eve's.

But here youth offers to old age the food,
The milk of his own gift; it is her sire

To whom she renders back the debt of blood
Born with her birth. No! he shall not expire
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire
Of health and holy feeling can provide

Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher
Than Egypt's river;-from that gentle side

Drink, drink and live, old man! Heaven's realm holds
no such tide.

The starry fable of the milky-way
Has not thy story's purity; it is
A constellation of a sweeter ray,

And sacred Nature triumphs more in this
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss

Where sparkle distant worlds :-O, holiest nurse!
No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe.

LORD BYRON.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go: And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

ROBERT BURNS.

AFFECTIONS OF HOME.

F ever household affections and loves are graceful things, they are graceful in the poor. The ties that bind the wealthy and the proud to home, may be forged on earth, but those which link the poor man to his humble hearth, are of the true metal, and bear the stamp of heaven. The man of high descent may love the halls and lands of his inheritance as a part of himself, as trophies of his

the affections of his own heart; and when they endear bare floors and walls, despite of toil and scanty meals, that man has his love of home from God, and his rude hut becomes a solemn place.

CHARLES DICKENS.

O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR!

LAY thy hand in mine, dear!

We're growing old;

But Time hath brought no sign, dear,

That hearts grow cold.

'Tis long, long since our new love
Made life divine;

But age enricheth true love,

Like noble wine.

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear,
And take thy rest;

Mine arms around thee twine, dear,
And make thy nest.

A many cares are pressing

On this dear head;

But Sorrow's hands in blessing

Are surely laid.

O, lean thy life on mine, dear!

'T will shelter thee.

Thou wert a winsome vine, dear,

On my young tree:

And so, till boughs are leafless,

And songbirds flown,

We'll twine, then lay us, griefless,
Together down.

GERALD Massey.

THE ABSENT ONES.

SHALL leave the old house in the autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah! how shall I sigh for the dear ones

That meet me each morn at the door!

I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee,
The group on its green, and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.

I shall miss them at morn and at even,
Their song in the school and the street;
I shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tread of their delicate feet.
When the lessons of life are all ended,

And death says, "The school is dismissed!"
May the little ones gather around me,

To bid me good night and be kissed!
CHARLES M. DICKINSON.

A PICTURE.

'HE farmer sat in his easy-chair,

Smoking his pipe of clay,

While his hale old wife, with busy care,
Was clearing the dinner away;

A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes,
On her grandfather's knee was catching flies.

The old man laid his hand on her head,
With a tear on his wrinkled face;
He thought how often her mother, dead,
Had sat in the self-same place.

As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye,

"Don't smoke !" said the child; "how it makes you cry!"

The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor,

Where the shade after noon used to steal;

The busy old wife, by the open door,

Was turning the spinning-wheel;

And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree
Had plodded along to almost three.

Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair,

While close to his heaving breast
The moistened brow and the cheek so fair
Of his sweet grandchild were pressed;
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay:
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day!

HOMESICK.

OME to me, O my Mother! come to ne,
Thine own son slowly dying far away!
Through the moist ways of the wide ocean
blown

By great invisible winds, come stately ships
To this calm bay for quiet anchorage;
They come, they rest awhile, they go away,

But, O my Mother, never comest thou!

The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow,

That cold soft revelation pure as light,

And the pine-spire is mystically fringed.

Why am I from thee, Mother, far from thee?

Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods
Jewelled from bough to bough? O home, my home!
O river in the valley of my home,

With mazy winding motion intricate,
Twisting thy deathless music underneath
The polished ice-work-must I nevermore
Behold thee with familiar eyes, and watch
Thy beauty changing with the changeful day,
Thy beauty constant to the constant change?

DAVID GRAY.

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

HE is a winsome wee thing,

She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer,

And neist my heart I'll wear her,

For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing,

She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack we share o't,
The warstle and the care o't:

Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,

And think my lot divine.

ROBERT BURNS.

THE RECONCILIATION.

S through the land at eve we went,
And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,-
Oh, we fell out, I know not why,
And kiss'd again with tears.

For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,

There above the little grave,

Oh, there above the little grave,

We kiss'd again with tears.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

« Previous Continue »

Books