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; 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!
Thy precincts are a charméd 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 burthened spirit flies,
When Fortune frowns, or Care annoys!
Thine is the bliss that never cloys;
The smile whose truth has 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!
FOUND AFTER THE LAPSE OF YEARS IN A VOLUME OF BURNS."
"Life went a-Maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young."
MEMORIAL frail of youthful years,
Of hopes as wild and bright as they,
Thy faint, sweet perfume calls up tears
I may not, cannot wish away!
Thy withered leaves are as a spell
To bring the sainted past before me;
And long-lost scenes, but loved too well,
In all their truth restore me.
Cold is her hand who placed thee here,
Thou record sad of Love and Spring,
Ere life's May-flowers, like thee, grew sere,
Or Hope had waved her parting wing:
When Boyhood's burning dreams were mine,
And Fancy's magic circlet crowned me;
And Love, when love is half divine,
Spread its enchantments 'round me!
How can I e'er forget the hour
When thou wert glowing on her breast, Fresh from the dewy hawthorn bower That looked upon the golden west!
She snatched thee from thy sacred shrine,-
A brighter fate she scarce could doom thee,-
And bade a Poet's wreath be thine,-
His deathless page entomb thee.
That hour is past, those dreams have fled;
Ties, sweeter, holier, bind me now;
And, if life's first May-flowers are dead,
Its summer garland wreathes my brow.
Sleep on, sleep on! I would but gaze
A moment on thy faded bloom;
Heave one wild sigh to other days,
Then close thy hallowed tomb!
HERE let me rest; a dewy fragrance breathes
In gentlest whispers, from the plains around,
Whilst o'er my head, in green and graceful wreaths,
The o'erarching vine its wandering shoots hath wound :
What rainbow hues yon bright horizon bound!
What golden gleams yon sleeping spires invest!
Here let me pause,-it is enchanted ground;
Hence, let me brood upon yon burning west,
Where sun-touched Florence lies, like Love on Beauty's breast!
But not alone to chain the roving eye,
Doth yon fair scene its magic marvels spread;
It hath a holier spell, a charm more high-
The haunt, the birth-place of the glorious dead!
There Raffaelle oft his heavenly fancy fed
With thoughts and visions all too pure for earth;
There Buonaroti's dreams,-of darkness bred,
And Hell's wild grandeur,-taste-sublimed, had birth;
Two bright but differing stars, of kindred fame and worth.
Unequalled masters of that Art divine
Which makes our visions palpable as bright;
'Neath whose keen eye, and touch creative, shine
Unnumbered shapes of wonder and delight;-
Surpassing rivals in Fame's boundless flight;
Twin heirs of Genius and her broad domain;
One, seeking sunshine in the realms of light,
The other courting Horror's grisly train,
And drawing strength from Hate, sublimity from Pain!
Transcendent Raffaelle, thy accomplished mind,
Irradiate, teemed with beauty, love, and grace!
What pure simplicity, by taste refined,
In all thy forms the studious eye may trace!
What seraph brightness breathes from every face
Thy glowing mind hath on thy canvass poured;
How doth thy mind his humbled heart abase,
Who seeks, a votary true, thy shrine adored,
To win a touch, a charm,-and his despair record!
Nor less his fame, to whose proud hand 'twas given,
The Judgment Day's terrific tale to tell;
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