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.

My own fireside! Those simple words
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise;
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,

And fill with tears of joy mine 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 clasped 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?

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 hallowed 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 skies deform,

Their fury cannot reach me there; There all is cheerful, calm, and fair;

Wrath, Envy, Malice, Strife, or Pride,

Hath never made its hated lair

By thee-my own fireside!

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 world's proud fool deride;
I'll pay my debt of gratitude

To thee-my own fireside!

Shrine of my household deities;

Bright scene of home's unsullied joys; To thee my burdened spirit flies,

When Fortune frowns, or Care annoys!

Thine is the bliss that never cloys;

The smile whose truth hath oft been tried ;-
What, then, are this world's tinsel toys,
To thee-my own fireside!

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!

Alaric A. Watts.

THE LITTLE COMFORTERS.

My noble Margaret, as this morn I lay
Alone, within my still and shadowed room,
Counting the dull flow of the weary time
By the slow throbbing of my languid brain,
I felt all hopes, all energies, give o'er-

I had no strength to struggle more with life,
But let its dark waves, like a wintry flood,
Close o'er my drowning heart. I heard no voice
Of any love, in hope or comforting-

I found no joy in all my lonely soul-
I saw no light in all the world of God!
When soft, on tiptoe, to my bedside came
My two fast friends, your blue-eyed youngest boys,
I thought the gloom that darkened so my brow
For the accustomed smile would frown them off-
I thought the tear-drops of my sullen mood,
Drowning the laughing light they loved to meet,
Would flash them back. But no-they came and stood
Beside my pillow quietly, and slid

Their small hands into mine, and gently kissed

My fevered forehead and my quivering lips,

And laid their faces down amid the tears,

Till shone their rose-cheeks with that bitter dew.
They lit the darkness folding all my soul
With the pure brightness of their loving eyes,
The tender reflex of the mother-light.

But simplest words, breathed soft in liquid tones,
Dripped healing balsam on my painèd heart,
And made Love's childish miracle complete :-
"We want you well again-we miss you so-
Indeed we love you!"

Half joy, half hope, seemed flowing through my veins!

Such sweet prophetic gladness as we feel

When first we find, beneath the bare spring hills,

So lately circled by the whirling snows,
The crocus peeping from the withered leaves;
When first we see the lingering day of flowers
Dawning in violets blue; for with those words
Came all the gathered tones of all the hearts
I love and live for!