If earth's whole orb, by some due distanc'd eye,
Were seen at once, her tow'ring Alps would sink,
And levell'd Atlas leave an even sphere.
DOMESTIC AFFAIRS-HOME,
Home is the resort
Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polish'd friends,
And dear relations mingle into bliss.
Domestic happiness! thou only bliss
Of Paradise, that has surviv'd the fall!
Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and free,
Or, tasting, long enjoy thee; too infirm,
Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets
Unmix'd with drops of bitter.
His warm but simple home, where he enjoys,
With her who shares his pleasure and his heart,
Sweet converse.
Around, in sympathetic mirth,
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups on the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
Man, through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
Deems his own land of every land the pride,
Belov'd by heaven o'er all the world beside:
His home the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.
With secret course which no loud storms annoy,
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
Thou spot of earth, where from my
The first weak tones of nature rose,
Where first I cropp'd the stainless blossom
Of pleasure, yet unmix'd with woes;
Where, with my new-born powers delighted,
I tripp'd beneath a mother's hand-
In thee the quenchless flame was lighted,
That sparkles for my native land.
GOLLSMITH'S Traveller bosom
WALKER-From the Danish. 'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouth'd welcoine as we draw near home; Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come. BYRON'S Don Juan.
He enter'd in his house-his home no more,
For without hearts there is no home-and felt
The solitude of passing his own door
Without a welcome.
The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught, that's kindred, cheer the welcome hearth.
I've wander'd on thro' many a clime where flowers of beauty grew,
Where all was blissful to the heart and lovely to the viewI've seen them in their twilight pride, and in their dress of
morn,
But none appear'd so sweet to me as the spot where I was born.
'Mid pleasures and palaces tho' we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
DOUBT - DRAMA - DREAMS - SLEEP.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection recalls them to view :—
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every lov'd spot which my infancy knew.
SAMUEL WOODWORTH.
A neat little cottage in front of a grove,
Where in youth they first gave their young hearts up to love.
Was the solace of age, and to them doubly dear,
As it call'd up the past with a smile or a tear.
And oh, the atmosphere of home! how bright
It floats around us when we sit together,
Under a bower of vine in summer weather,
Or round the hearth-stone on a winter's night!
Who, that in distant lands has chanc'd to roam,
Ne'er thrill'd with pleasure at the name of home?
DREAMS
SLEEP.
If I may trust the flatt'ring eye of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news to-morrow.
Dreams are but children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream will flatter,
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.
Come sleep, O sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe;
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The impartial judge between the high and low.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes;
When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes;
And many monstrous forms in sleep we see,
Which neither were, nor are, nor e'er can be.
Tir'd nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep!
He, like the world, his ready visit pays,
Where fortune smiles-the wretched he forsakes.
YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.
When tir'd with vain rotations of the day,
Sleep winds us up for the succeeding dawn.
YOUNG'S Night Thoughts.
Kind sleep affords
The only boon the wretched mind can feel;
A momentary respite from despair.
Sleep is no servant of the will;
It has caprices of its own:
When courted most it lingers still,
When most pursued 't is swiftly gone.
Oh! thou best comforter of the sad heart,
When fortune's spite assails-come, gentle sleep, The weary mourner soothe! For well the art Thou know'st in soft forgetfulness to steep The eyes which sorrow taught to watch and weep. MRS. TIGHE'S Psyche.
To each and all, a fair good-night,
And rosy dreams, and slumbers light!
Well may dreams present us fictions,
Since our waking moments teem
With such fanciful convictions,
As make life itself a dream.
Tho' 't is all but a dream at the best,
And still when happiest soonest o'er,
Yet e'en in a dream to be blest,
Is so sweet that I ask for no more.
Again in that accustom'd couch must creep,
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep,
And man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strife,
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life :—
There lie love's feverish hopes, and cunning's guile,
Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile;
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave,
And quench'd existence crouches in a grave.
My slumbers if I slumber are not sleep,
But a continuance of enduring thought,
Which then I can resist not.
I would recall a vision which I dream'd,
Perchance in sleep, for in itself a thought,
A slumb'ring thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and torture, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils;
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity.
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