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THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN.

82
By childhood's love too bright a bloom to die!

O’er her worn spirit shed,

O fairest, holiest Dead !
The Faith, Trust, Light, of Immortality!

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MY OWN FIRESIDE.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

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!
My own Fireside! Those simple words

Can bid the sweetest dreams arise ;
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,

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 thou—my own Fireside ?

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What care I for the sullen roar

Of winds without, that ravage earth ; It doth but bid me prize the more,

The shelter of thy hallow'd hearth ;To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth :

Then let the churlish tempest chide, It cannot check the blameless mirth

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, Hath never made its hated lair,

By thee—my own Fireside!

Thy precincts are a charmed ring,

Where no harsh feeling dares intrude; Where life's vexations lose their sting ;

Where even grief is half subdued : And Peace, the halcyon, 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 my 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 smile whose truth ha oft been tried ; What, then, are this world's tinsel toys

To thee-my own Fireside!

MY OWN FIRESIDE.

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Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet,

That bid my thoughts be all of thee,
Thus ever guide my wandering feet

To thy heart-soothing sanctuary ! Whate'er my future years may be ;

Let joy or grief my fate betide; Be still an Eden bright to me

My own—MY OWN FIRESIDE!

THE FROSTED TREES.

What strange enchantment meets my view,

So wondrous bright and fair?
Has heaven pour’d out its silver dew

On the rejoicing air?
Or am I borne to regions new

To see the glories there?

Last eve when sunset fill'd the sky

With wreaths of golden light,
The trees sent up their arms on high,

All leafless to the sight,
And sleepy mists came down to lie

On the dark breast of night.

But now the scene is changed, and all

Is fancifully new;
The trees, last eve so straight and tall,

Are bending on the view,
And streams of living daylight fall

The silvery arches through.

The boughs are strung with glittering pearls,

As dewdrops bright and bland, And there they gleam in silvery curls,

Like gems of Samarcand, Seeming in wild fantastic whirls

The work of fairy land.

Each branch stoops meekly with the weight,

And in the light breeze swerves,
As if some viewless angel sate

Upon its graceful curves,
And made the fibres spring elate,

Thrilling the secret nerves.
Oh! I could dream the robe of heaven,

Pure as the dazzling snow,
Beaming as when to spirits given,

Had come in its stealthy flow, From the sky at silent even,

For the morning's glorious show.

THE BUGLE.

BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.

But still the dingle's hollow throat
Prolong'd the swelling bugle note,
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answer'd with their scream;
Round and around the sounds were cast,
Till echo seem'd an answering blast.

LADY OF THE LAKE.

Oh! wild enchanting horn! Whose music up the deep and dewy air Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there,

Till a new melody is born,

THE BUGLE.

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Wake, wake again, the night
Is bending from her throne of beauty down,
With still stars burning on her azure crown,

Intense, and eloquently bright.

Night, at its pulseless noon! When the far voice of waters mourns in song, And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long,

Barks at the melancholy moon.

Hark! how it sweeps away, Soaring and dying on the silent sky, As if some sprite of sound went wandering by,

With lone halloo and roundelay!

Swell, swell in glory out!
Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart,
And
my

stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start,
As boyhood's old remember'd shout.

Oh! have ye heard that peal,
From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements,
Or from the guarded field and warrior tents,
Like some near breath around

you

steal?

Or have ye in the roar
Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise,
Shriller than eagle's clamour, to the skies,

Where wings and tempests never soar?

Go, go—no other sound,
No music that of air or earth is born,
Can match the mighty music of that horn,

On midnight's fathomless profound !

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