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MY OWN FIRESIDE. 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 thoumy 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 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 haleyon, 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 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 smıle whose truth hath oft been tried,
What, then, are this world's tinsel toys

To theo--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!

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Whate'er my future years may be;

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


THE INDIAN HUNTER. When the summer harvest was gather'd in, And the sheaf of the gleaner grew white and thin, And the ploughshare was in its furrow left, Where the stubble land had been lateiy cleft, An Indian hunter, with unstrung bow, Look'd down where the valley lay stretch'd below. He was a stranger, and all that day Had been out on the hills a perilous way, But the foot of the deer was far and fleet, And the wolf kept aloof from the hunter's feet, And bitter feelings pass'd o'er him then, As he stood by the populous haunts of men. The winds of Autumn came over the woods As the sun stole out from their solitudes, The moss was white on the maple's trunk, And dead from its arms the pale vine shrunk, And ripen'd the mellow fruit hung, and red Were the tree's wither'd leaves round it shed.

The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn,
And the sickle cut down the yellow corn-
The mower sung loud by the meadow side,
Where the mists of evening were spreading wide,
And the voice of the herdsman came up the lea,
And the dance went round by the greenwood tree.

Then the hunter tum'd away from that scene,
Where the home of his fathers once had heen,


And heard by the distant and measured stroke,
That the woodman hew'd down the giant oak,
And burning thoughts flash'd o'er his mind,
Of the white man's faith and love unkind.
The moon of the harvest grew high and bright,
As her golden horn pierced the cloud of white-
A footstep was heard in the rustling brake,
Where the beach o'ershadow'd the misty lake,
And a mourning voice and a plunge froin shore ;-
And the hunter was seen on the hills no more.
When years had pass'd on, by that still lake-side
The fisher look'd down through the silver side,
And there, on the smooth yellow sand display'd,
A skeleton wasted and white was laid,
And 't was seen, as the waters moved deep and slow,
That the hand was still grusping a hunter's bow.




Her mighty sails the breezes swell,

And fast she leaves the lessening land,
And from the shore the last farewell

Is waved by many a snowy hand;
And weeping eyes are on the ma'n,

Until its verge she wanders “
But, from that hour of parting pain,

Oh! she was never heard of more!
In her was many a mother's joy,

And love of many a weeping fair;
For her was wafted, in its sigh,

Tho lonely heart's unceasing prayer;
And oh! the thousand hopes untold

Of ardent youth, that vessel bore;
Say, were they quench'd in ocean cold?

For she was never heard of more!

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