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 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 pampered 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 burthened 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-мY OWN FIRESIDE!

THE FROSTED TREES.

WHAT strange enchantment meets my view,
So wondrous bright and fair?
Has heaven poured out its silver dew
On the rejoicing air?

Or am I born to regions new

To see the glories there?

Last eve when sun-set filled 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
Prolonged the swelling bugle note,
The owlets started from their dream,
The eagles answered with their scream;
Round and around the sounds were cast,
Till echo seemed 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.

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 stirred spirit hears thee with a start, As boyhood's old remembered 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!

ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON,

ON THE PUBLICATION OF CHILDE HAROLD.

BY GRANVILLE PENN.

COLD is the breast, extinct the vital spark,
That kindles not to flame at Harold's muse;
The mental vision, too, how surely dark,
Which, as the anxious wanderer it pursues,
Sees not a noble heart, that fain would choose
The course to heaven, could that course be found;
And, since on earth it nothing fears to lose,

Would joy to press that blessed ethereal ground, Where peace, and truth, and life, and friends, and love abound.

I❝deem not Harold's breast a breast of steel,"
Steeled is the heart that could the thought receive,
But warm, affectionate, and quick to feel,
Eager in joy, yet not unwont to grieve;
And sorely do I view his vessel leave-
Like erring bark, of card and chart bereft-

The shore to which his soul would love to cleave; Would, Harold, I could make thee know full oft, That bearing thus the helm, the land thou seekest is left.

Is Harold "satiate with worldly joy?"
"Leaves he his home, his land, without a sigh ?"
'Tis half the way to heaven!-oh! then employ

That blessed freedom of thy soul to fly

To Him, who, ever gracious, ever nigh,

Demands the heart that breaks the world's hard

chain;

If early freed, though by satiety,

Vast is the privilege that man may gain;—

Who early foils the foe, may well the prize obtain.

LYRE.

I