HERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter scenes dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth.
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole.
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest--
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow path of life.
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie!
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man-a patriot? look around;
And thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land, thy country, and that spot, thy home!
HO has not felt the sweetness of the breeze,
On summer's evening murmuring through the trees?
Who has not gazed with rapture on the down,
When sick and weary of the heated town;
And joyed to taste the country's simple fare,
Its perfumed dells, its cool, refreshing air?
Such the effect produced by scenes like this;
A quiet picture of domestic bliss,
With pleasing soft emotions fills the breast,
And lulls the jarring passions into rest.
The trembling kitten, forced against its will
To try its antics, and display its skill,
Drooping its sleepy head upon its breast
Seeks with a longing eye a place of rest.
The mother-cat, meanwhile, in murmurs bland,
With gentle purring seeks a fostering hand:
Frightened, though pleased, the boy with beaning face
Clings to his mother in a fond embrace;
Yet looks delighted as her tutoring hand
Teaches the infant mouser how to stand.
The boy, when smiling at his feline friend,
Might make the grave philosopher unbend;
For still-though fed from learning's sacred rill,
Domestic feelings through his bosom thrill,
And he, whose mind the universe can scan,
When touched by tenderness, is still a man.
Sweet magic home! thou hast alone the skill
The human breast with ecstasy to fill;
Though art may try emotion to control,
'Tis nature has dominion o'er the soul.
'Tis she, our best affections can retain
With light, invisible, yet iron chain;
That struck responsive thrills through every nerve,
Subdues cold pride, and banishes reserve;
Strips pompous joys of all their borrowed glare,
Sinks to the heart, and finds its dwelling there.
THE DESERTED HOME.
THE old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery window
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
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