PN 6110 .H6 R5 Copy 1 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS lllil 1 ill 021 417 929 5 # . # Class Book_ CopyrigMN . CQPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. / MY HOME \ w Copyright, 1912 By BARSE AND HOPKINS \£S £ CI. A 31.4299 SfcStaH Cxrv it vv Y HoriE W INTRODUCTION T ET this be said of Home. Upon its ■""^ hearth blossom the sweetest flowers of memory, with pictures of all that made childhood fair gathered about it. Days of innocence and peace, as long as they were happy, sweet evenings of mirth and play, brief dreamless nights that were too short, as all the days were short for all we found to do, were passed beneath its roof. Here once we knew a mother's love, a father's sheltering care, the fond affection of broth- ers, sisters, friends, and kinsfolk dear. Never was spot more blest. And now, in riper years, once again we rear the temple, Home, and here we strive once more to build anew a shrine for those we love as, long ago, loving hands took from Heaven a holy fire to light our childhood's hearth. May every good of elder days be lovely in its rooms! and may we make for these, our little ones, the dreams of those, our parents, all come true! — Wallace Rice. MY HOME yi TO MY HOME VTOW stained with dews, with cobwebs ^ darkly hung, Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due de- gree, We sweetened every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest; And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound; And turned each blindfold hero round and round. 'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring; And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chained each wondering ear; And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear ; Oft with the Babes we wandered in the wood, Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend : The screen unfolds its many-colored chart; The clock still points its moral to the heart — That faithful monitor 'twas Heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near! And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feathered feet of time? — Samuel Rogers. ^ ^Hrv IONE ' 1V/TI^ pleasures and palaces though we ^ A may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home! home! sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain: m Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again The birds singing gayly that came at my call; — Give me them — and the peace of mind dearer than all! w» How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, And the cares of a mother to soothe and be- guile! Let others delight 'mid new pleasures to roam, But give me, oh, give me the pleasures of home! To thee I'll return, overburdened with care, The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there ; w %n MY HOME No more from that cottage again will I roam ; Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. — John Howard Payne. T~\0 they think of me at home, *"^ Do they ever think of me? I who shared their every grief, I who mingled in their glee? Have their hearts grown cold and strange To the one now doomed to roam, I would give the world to know Do they think of me at home? Do they think of me at eve? Of the songs I used to sing? Is the harp I struck untouched, Does a stranger wake the string? Will no kind forgiving word Come across the raging foam? Shall I never cease to sigh, "Do they think of me at home?" Do they think of how I loved In my happy, early days? Do they think of him who came, But could never win their praise? I am happy by his side, And from mine he'll never roam, But my heart will sadly ask, "Do they think of me at home?" — Charles W. Glover. m. w to m MY HONE Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ! Art thou a man? — a patriot? — look around; Oh, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy Home ! — James Montgomery. TV/TY neighbor hath a lordly pile — ■** A palace reared of polished stone, In which he lives in lavish style, Alone. I look upon his wealth and smile In rare content, while on my knee A wee one rides and crows at me — My own! My neighbor's is a regal place; But oh! it hath no laughing face Of childhood there for sympathy. My neighbor hath a host of cares, For he must guard his costly wares And golden hoard ; While I, crowned with domestic bliss, May gain a fond parental kiss He can't afford. I and my neighbor never meet, An alley separates our lands ; My house is in a modest street, His on the Drive — see, there he stands! Poor man; he's nought but gold and gear; While I have Home — and you, my dear! — Bay Clarke Rose. y» -■■,; MY HOME VTOVEMBER chill blaws loud wi' angry ^ sugh; The short'ning winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating f rae the pleugh ; The black'ning trains o' craws to their re- pose; The toil-worn cottar f rae his labor goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher through, To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. His wee bit ingle, blinking bonnily, His clean hearthstane, his thrifty wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. — Robert Burns, B UT wheresoe'er I'm doomed to roam, I still shall say — that home is home. — William Combe. HON /^\H, to be home again, home again, home ^^ again! Under the apple boughs, down by the mill; Mother is calling me, father is calling me, Calling me, calling me, calling me still. Oh, how I long to be wandering, wandering Through the green meadows and over the hill; Sisters are calling me, brothers are calling me, Calling me, calling me, calling me still. Oh, once more to be home again, home again, Dark grows my sight, and the evening is chill — Do you not hear how the voices are calling me, Calling me, calling me, calling me still! — James Thomas Fields. m rpHERE is a sanctity in a good man's *■ house which cannot be renewed in every tenement that rises on its ruins. ... I say if men lived like men indeed, their houses would be temples — temples which we should hardly dare to injure, and in which it would make us holy to be permitted to live. — John Ruskin. fj k/Sj MY HOME /^UR old brown homestead reared its walls ^-^ From the wayside dust aloof, Where the apple boughs could almost cast Their fruit upon its roof; And the cherry tree so near it grew That when awake I've lain In the lonesome nights, I've heard the limbs As they creaked against the pane : And those orchard trees, oh, those orchard trees ! I've seen my little brothers rocked In their tops by the summer breeze ! The sweet-brier, under the window-sill, Which the early birds made glad, And the damask rose, by the garden fence, Were all the flowers we had. I've looked at many a flower since then, Exotics rich and rare, That to other eyes were lovelier, But not to me so fair ; For those roses bright, oh, those roses bright ! I have twined them in my sister's locks, That are hid in the dust from sight. We had a well, a deep old well, Where the spring was never dry, And the cool drops down from the mossy stones Were falling constantly, And there never was water half so sweet As the draught that filled my cup. ■ Drawn up to the curb by the rude old sweep That my father's hand set up. And that deep old well, oh, that deep old well! I remember now the plashing sound Of the bucket as it fell. Our homestead had an ample hearth, Where at night we loved to meet ; There my mother's voice was always kind, And her smile was always sweet; And there I've sat at my father's knee, And watched his thoughtful brow, With my childish hand in his raven hair — That hair is silver now! But that broad hearth's light, oh, that broad hearth's light! And my father's look, and my mother's smile, They are in my heart to-night ! — Phoebe Cary. A LL the Cricket tribe are potent Spirits, ***' even though the people who hold con- verse with them do not know it (which is fre- quently the case) ; and there are not in the unseen world, voices more gentle and more true, that may be so implicitly relied on, or that are so certain to give none but tender- est counsel, as the Voices in which the Spirits of the Fireside and the Hearth address them- selves to human kind. — Charles Dickens. m cu MY HONE s SPHERE is a land, of every land the pride, **• Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside : Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend ; Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life! In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. \ I I fx i «R %!Y 1 lAlvfT TJOME'S not merely four square walls, -*■ -■■ Though with pictures hung and gilded ; Home is where affection calls — Filled with shrines the heart hath builded. Home ! — Go, watch the faithful dove, Sailing 'neath the heaven above us ; Home is where there's one to love, Home is where there's one to love us. Home's not merely room and room, Needs it something to endear it ; Home is where the heart can bloom, Where there's some kind lip to cheer it. What is home with none to meet? None to welcome, none to greet us? Home is sweet — and only sweet Where there's one we love, to meet us. — Charles Swain. rpHE common things of life are all so A dear ! The waking in the warm half-gloom To find again the old familiar room, The scents and sights and sounds that never tire, The crackle of the open fire, The homely work, the lilt of baby's bliss, The waiting, then the footsteps coming near, The opening door, the handclasp and the kiss — Is Heaven not, after all, the Now and Here, The common things of life are all so dear? EvH r^^^fv uk-M r^^ ; T WILL arise and go now, and go to In- A nis free. And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made ; M Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade, And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of morning to where the cricket sings ; There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always, night and day, I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core. — William Butler Yeats. A N ear that waits to catch ^*" A hand upon the latch ; A step that hastens its sweet rest to win, A world of care without, A world of strife shut out, A world of love shut in. — Dora Greenwell. gHI 3LA HONE A DIM veranda cool and deep, ^*" Virginia creeper climbing o'er, Tall maples whence the blue- jays sweep — And I am a lad at home once more ; A sweet bird singing by the door, A dappled sward of sun and shade Which many a fragrant blossom bore: This is a picture Memory made. — Oliver Marble. T^ROM the gay world we'll oft retire ■*• To our own family and fire, Where love our hours employs; No noisy neighbor enters here, No intermeddling stranger near, To spoil our heartfelt joys. If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies; And they are fools who roam; The world hath nothing to bestow, From our own selves our bliss must flow, And that dear hut — our home ! — Nathaniel Cotton. npO make a happy fireside clime A To weans and wife — That's the true pathos, and sublime Of human life. — Robert Burns. !? I T^O have home where the heart is, it is A needful to have the heart where the home is. — E. L. Valentine. CO w "V/TAY blessings be upon your house, ■*-" Your roof and hearth and walls! May there be lights to welcome you When evening's shadow falls! The love that like a guiding star Still signals while you roam ; A book, a friend — these be the things That make a house a Home ! — Myrtle Reed. "V/TY home has passed and gone from me "*" And strangers walk its holy halls, While I am left with Memory That gently, softly, sweetly calls Me to the love that tenanted One spot secure 'gainst storm and frost, The love that never can be dead, The love of home — the home I've lost ! — Francis Holden. TX7HERE we love is home, * * Home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts Though o'er us shines the jasper-lighted dome : — The chain may lengthen, but it never parts ! — Oliver Wendell Holmes. &€$ OIT with me by the homestead hearth, And stretch the hands of memory forth To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze! — John Greenleaf Whittier. hi&z •■<*#» ,,■«•» f fMY HOM npHE motive of this little story, A Told in the land of the rising sun, Is a tribute from me, and a feeling Of thanks for a sentiment won Back from the scenes of my childhood, A reflection of earliest days, A rush over time and distance Through the cranks of life's rough ways. A vision of home and my mother Flashes out like a light in the dark, As I hear on this sweet May morning, In Japan, the voice of the lark! The breeze brings song of the boatmen, Which ebbs with the rustle of reeds ; The water is laughing and flashing To the mill with its bamboo leads, r While the hills across the water Are changing from gold to dun w As the fitful shadows wander O'er the land of the rising sun. But beyond the bright blue water, And beyond the changing hills, To my English home and birthplace I am borne by those wild trills. And the road and the wide green rice-fields And the gray-roofed cottages there, Melt into an English meadow And an English homestead fair : I lie again 'mid the daisies, Which bend in the soft-toned breeze JVb CO SW HONE That wafts the scent of the rich ripe flowers Through the branches of blooming trees. That's my dream while the lark was singing, But his song was, alas ! soon done : Yet the dream was fair and pleasant In the land of the rising sun. —Sir Alfred East. B Y the fireside there are old men seated, Seeing ruined cities in the ashes, Asking sadly Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them. By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Building castles fair with stately stairways, Asking blindly Of the Future what it cannot give them. By the fireside tragedies are acted In whose scenes appear two actors only, Wife and husband, And above them God the sole spectator. By the fireside there are peace and comfort, Wives and children, with fair thoughtful faces, Waiting, watching, For a well-known footstep in the passage. JO CEEK home for rest, ^ For home is best. — Thomas Tusser. MYMOriE ;-• " ■ -' /^\H, to have a little house, ^^ To own the hearth and stool and all- The heaped-up sods upon the fire, The pile of turf against the wall! To have a clock with weights and chains, And pendulum swinging up and down! A dresser filled with shining delph, Speckled and white and blue and brown! I could be busy all the day Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor, And fixing on their shelf again My white and blue and speckled store. I could be quiet there at night Beside the fire and myself, Sure of a bed, and loath to leave The ticking clock and shining delph. Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark, And roads where there 's never a house or bush, And tired I am of bog and road, And the crying wind and the lonesome hush! And I am praying to God on high, And I am praying Him night and day, For a little house — a house of my own — Out of the wind's and the rain's way. — Padraic Colum. \B ... MYMOME ''I^T'AY down upon the Swanee Ribber, " * Far, far away, Dare's wha my heart is turning ebber, Dare's wha de old folks stay. All up and down de whole creation Sadly I roam; Still longing for de old plantation And for de old folks at home. m All de world am sad and dreary Eb'ry where I roam; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home. All round de little farm I wandered When I was young, Den many happy days I squandered, Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder Happy was I ; Oh, take me to my kind old mudder ! Dere let me live and die. One little hut among de bushes, One dat I love, Still sadly to my memory rushes, No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a-humming All round de comb? When will I hear de banjo tumming, Down in my good old home ? — Stephen Collins Foster. 3$ w fHONE /^OOD-BY, ^^ home: proud world! I'm going Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine. Long through thy weary crowds I roam, A river-ark on the ocean's brine ; Long I've been tossed like the driven foam ; But now, proud world ! I'm going home. Good-by to Flattery's fawning face; To Grandeur, with his wise grimace ; To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; To supple Office, low and high; To crowded halls, to court and street; To frozen hearts and hasting feet ; To those who go, and those who come ; Good-by, proud world! I'm going home. I am going to my own hearthstone, Bosomed in yon green hills alone — A secret nook in a pleasant land, Whose groves the frolic fairies planned; Where arches green, the livelong day, Echo the blackbird's roundelay, And vulgar feet have never trod A spot that is sacred to thought and God. — Ralph Waldo Emerson, 'VTOT bricks nor stones, though the bricks ^ be of silver and the stones of rubies, make a home; but sunny smiles, helping hands, a warm hearth, and a cheery welcome ; of these alone enduring homes are built. — Spencer H. Allen. m. C$£: Tmyhome TAEAR common flower, that grow'st be- *~* side the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck and, full of pride uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'er joyed that they An El Dorado in the grass have found Which may not in the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth — thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. My childhood's thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from Heaven, which he did bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. — James Russell Lowell. m ZONE'S home is his safest shelter. ^ — Sir Edward Coke. .-A. CO ^& HOME? T>LESSED is the hearth where daugh- ters gird the fire, And sons that shall be happier than their sire, Who sees them crowd around his evening chair, While love and hope inspire his wordless prayer. Oh, from their home paternal may they go, With little to unlearn, though much to know! Them, may no poisoned tongue, no evil eye, Curse for the virtues that refuse to die ; The generous heart, the independent mind, Till truth, like falsehood, leaves a sting be- hind! May temperance crown their feast, and friendship share! May Pity come, Love's sister-spirit, there! May they shun baseness as they shun the grave ! May they be frugal, pious, humble, brave ! Sweet peace be theirs — the moonlight of the breast — And occupation, and alternate rest; And dear to care and thought the usual walk; Theirs be no flower that withers on the stalk, But roses cropped, that shall not bloom in vain ; And hope's blest sun, that sets to rise again. \ii K WW MY HOME Be chaste their nuptial bed, their home be sweet, Their floor resound the tread of little feet; Blest beyond fear and fate, if blest by thee, And heirs, O Love ! of thine Eternity. — Ebenezer Elliott. pALL him not rich who, 'neath some ^"^ splendid dome, Lives, knowing not the sweet delights of home; But his the wealth, whate'er his coffers hold, Whose hearthstone's comfort never leaves him cold: Not by chill gold earth's happiness is won, Lacking a fireside, daughter, wife, and son; Naught save affection satisfies man's heart, And where, except at home, a place apart From buying, selling, piling wealth on wealth, Are love and gladness and the soul's true health? — Christopher Bannister. ' I T WANT to go home!" sobbed the tired A little boy. "What will you do when you get there?" asked his father. "Why, why," he said triumphantly, after a mo- ment's hesitation, "I'll be there!" Not otherwise do we weary grown people look on Heaven. arm HOME /^H, I hae seen great anes, and sat in ^-^ great ha's, 'Mang lords and 'mang ladies a' covered wi' braws; At feasts made for princes, wi' princes I've been, Where the grand shine o' splendor has dazzled my e'en; But a sight sae delightfu' I trow I ne'er spied, As the bonnie, blithe blink o' my ain fire- side. My ain fireside, my ain fireside! Oh, cheery's the blink o' my ain fireside ! * YX %P I Ance mair, Guid be praised! round my ain heartsome ingle, Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle; Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad — I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad; Nae falsehood to dread, and nae malice to fear, But truth to delight me, and friendship to cheer. O' a' roads to happiness ever were tried, There's nane half so sure as ane's ain fire- side! When I draw in my stool on my cosy hearth- stane, one S . ^r l t> tm CO TO; MYHOIiEK My heart loups sae light I scarce ken't for my ain; Care's down on the wind, it is clean out of sight, Past troubles they seem but as dreams o' the night. There but kind voices, kind faces I see, And mark saf t affection glent fond f rae ilk e'e; Nae fleechings o' flattery, nae boastings o' pride — 'Tis heart speaks to heart at ane's ain fire- side. My ain fireside, my ain fireside! Oh, there's naught to compare wi' ane's ain fireside! — Elizabeth Hamilton. f~* LOSER, closer, let us knit ^ Hearts and hands together, Where our fireside-comforts sit In the wildest weather ; — Oh, they wander wide who roam For the joys of life from home! — James Montgomery. rilHE vale where my home lies, oh, none is A so blest! The mountains look down on its pure, quiet rest; The blue sky above and the valley below, While peace throws o'er all her heavenly glow. fW^ 3gQ & CO vfC liYHONET TJOME again, home again A A From a foreign shore, And oh, it fills my soul with joy- To meet my friends once more. Here I dropped the parting tear To cross the ocean's foam, But now I'm once again with those Who kindly greet me home. Happy hearts, happy hearts With mine have laughed in glee, But oh, the friends I loved in youth Seem happier to me ! And if my guide should be the fate Which bids me longer roam, Yet death alone can break the tie That binds my heart to home. m Music sweet, music soft, Lingers round the place, And oh, I feel the childhood charms That time cannot efface! Then give me but my homestead roof — I'll ask no palace dome, For I can live a happy life With those I love at home. — Marshall Pike. HPO give society its highest tastes, A Well ordered home man's best delight to make. -James Thomson. £x MY HOMI HPHE grand road from the mountain goes A shining to the sea, And there is traffic on it and many a horse and cart, But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me, And the little roads of Cloonagh go ram- bling through my heart. A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill, And there is glory in it and terror on the wind, But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still, And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind. The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way, Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal, But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray, And the little waves of Breffny go stum- bling through my soul. —Eva Gore-Booth. /^UR God is a household God, as well as ^^ a heavenly one; He has an altar in every man's dwelling; let men look to it when they rend it lightly and pour out its ashes. — John Buskin. ¥.9 MYHOMI TJERE sparrows build upon the trees, A A And stockdove hides her nest ; The leaves are winnowed by the breeze Into a calmer rest: The blackcap's song was very sweet, That used the rose to kiss; It made the Paradise complete : My early home was this. The redbreast from the sweetbrier bush Dropped down to pick the worm ; On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush, O'er the house where I was born; The moonlight, like a shower of pearls, Fell o'er this bower of bliss, And on the bench sat boys and girls: My early home was this. The old house stooped just like a cave, Thatched o'er with mosses green ; Winter around the walls would rave, But all was calm within ; The trees are here all green again, Here bees the flowers still kiss, But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then: My early home was this. — John Clare, f~\ FOR an hour in that dear place! ^^ O for the peace of that dear time ! O for that childish trust sublime! O for a glimpse of mother's face! — Eugene Field. i7my irnMr CO many, many roads lie traced ^ Where wanderers may stray — Roads twining, weaving, interlaced, Roads sorrowful and gay. Running through countryside and town They climb the mountain steep, Through storied realms of far renown Unceasingly they creep. When silver moonlight floods the nights — O hark! across the sea, These roads, the wanderer's delights, Are calling you and me, Singing their challenge sweet and clear For wanderers to roam; But, all at once, I only hear The road that leads me home! — Alice Cory. rilHERE is rain upon the window, A There is wind upon the tree ; The rain is slowly sobbing, The wind is blowing free: It bears my weary heart To my own country. — Duncan Campbell Scott, , \717'HEN men do not love their hearths, nor reverence their thresholds, it is a sign that they have dishonored both. — John Rffitkin. Mrs. MYMOME BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there be, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite these titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from which he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. — Sir Walter Scott. AH, no ! though I wander, all sad and - ** forlorn, In a far distant land, yet shall memory trace, When far o'er the ocean's white surges I'm borne, The scene of past pleasures — my own native place. — John Greenleaf Whittier. 1 IJU r ITHOUT hearts there is no home. * * — Lord Byron. & Jfc# CO mr home THOSE evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth, and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime! Those joyous hours are passed away; And many a heart that then was gay, Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And so 'twill be when I am gone, — That tuneful peal will still ring on; While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. — Thomas Moore. TN the tree is a nest "*■ Where a mother-bird hovers, With a song in her breast. In the tree is a nest ; And is this not the best For birds or for lovers ? In the tree is a nest Where a mother-bird hovers. — Ray Clarke Rose. \^7E stretch our hands, we lift a joyful ** cry, Words of all words the sweetest — "Wel- come Home!" — Anne Rothwell Christie. %/U yym hot w 'HEN evening comes and the stars are fair, Though the wind blow chill and the wind blow high; When far and near the city's flare And glamour the twinkling dome outvie; Above, the moon winks a merry eye; Below, the lights show fine and free; Then to my home my glad thoughts fly — This is the best of life for me. The corner turned, through the wintry air The windows of my home I spy ; And all the city's glint and glare Fades, and its glories dim and die Before this modest glow anigh. What are they all to the love I see With clearer flame their flame defy? — This is the best of life for me. Here is my home, and its altars bear All the blossoms that Heaven ally To this our earth; for everywhere Is love and peace to vivify My heart and hope. With a happy cry My darling comes in her gentle glee, With a kiss and caress and contented sigh — This is the best of life for me. Kind Heaven, which doth firmly tie My heaven at home to thoughts of thee, ftfftf c& NOT Mf ^i r ^MY HOMEI This is a Paradise under the sky, This is the best of life for me. — John Jarvis Holden. BETWEEN the hills, between the hills, ^ Across wide fields just turning brown, With here and there a purling stream And here and there a quiet town, We rush along and rush along And never pause to wait and sleep, With one strong hand to guide us on, And one calm eye a watch to keep. And here a field of golden corn, And there a meadow rich with grass, And next a grove of trees that stand Like sentinels to watch us pass ; A little rippling brook to cross, A towering field of stubble sod, And passing like a gleam of light A flaming field of goldenrod. We whirl along and whirl along And leave the streams and vales behind, Till daylight dies beyond the hills And night comes swiftly on the wind. Then out from many a farm and town The home-lights twinkle, flash, and glow, They smile a benediction sweet And gleam upon me as I go. Speed on, you iron horse of might ! You cannot reach the goal too soon, vv MY HOME ^ Speed on, through darkness of the night, And pause not till the earth is run. Until among the faces strange A dear familiar one I see, And all the journeying safely o'er, My own home-light shall shine for me. TV /TAN'S heart is like the moon, and shin- A eth not its brightest, and sometimes shineth not at all, except the light and warmth of home be on it. — Cecil de Groot. YXT HERE I am, all think me happy, * * For so well I play my part, None can guess, who smile around me, How far distant is my heart — Far away, in a poor cottage, Listening to the dreary sea, Where the treasures of my life are, Where I fain would be. — Adelaide Anne Procter, TNVITE the eye to see and heart to feel The beauty and the joy within their reach — Home, and home loves, and the beatitudes Of nature free to all. — John Greenleaf Whittier. lV/TAY you be happy, you and your life and your own home. — Cato, £) MY HOME TjlTHY should we seek at all to gain * * By vigils, and in pain, By lonely life and empty heart, To set a soul apart Within a cloistered cell, For whom the precious, homely hearth would serve as well? There, with the early breaking morn, Ere quite the day is born, The lustral waters flow serene, And each again grows clean; From sleep, as from a tomb, Born to another dawn of joy, and hope, and doom. There through the sweet and toilsome day, To labor is to pray; There love with kindly beaming eyes Prepares the sacrifice; And voice and innocent smile Of childhood do our cheerful liturgies be- guile. There, at his chaste and frugal feast, Love sitteth as a Priest; And with mild eyes and mien sedate, His deacons stand and wait ; And round the holy table Paten and chalice range in order serviceable. And when ere night, the vespers said, Low lies each weary head, on MY U0METS What giveth He who gives them sleep, But a brief death less deep ? Or what the fair dreams given But ours who, daily dying, dream a happier heaven. Then not within a cloistered wall Will we expend our days; But dawns that break and eves that fall Shall bring their dues of praise. This best befits a Ruler always near, This duteous worship mild, and reasonable fear. — Sir Lewis Morris. V. HP HE dark gray o' gloamin', The lone leafy shaw, The eoo o' the cushat, The scent o' the haw; The brae o' the burnie A' bloomin' in flower, An' twa faithfu' lovers, Make ae happy hour. A kind winsome wifie, A clean cantie hame, An' smilin' sweet babies, To lisp the dear name ; Wi' plenty o' labor, An' health to endure, Make time to round out ay The ae happy hour. — Alexander Laing. 8S 1@H (3 MYHOME • 'VT'ES, when thy heart in its pride would A stray From the pure first loves of its youth away ; When the sullying breath of the world would come O'er the flowers it brought from the child- hood's home; Think thou again of the woody glade, And the sound by the rustling ivy made, Think of the tree at thy father's door, And the kindly spell shall have power once more. — Felicia Dorothea Hemans. VTOTHING more than this -^ I ask of life: Quiet, the lasting peace Afar from strife; Love, a holy fire On my own hearth; Home, where never tire The sweets of earth — These alone are true: Home, peace, my dear, and you! — John Jarvis Holden. YX7 HERE is now the merry party I re- " member long ago, Laughing round the Christmas fireside, brightened by its ruddy glow Or in summer's balmy evenings, in the field upon the hay? They have all dispersed and wandered far away, far away. — M. Lindsay. 1 1 .... ■ .. . MY HOME f\ MEMORY, be sweet to me— ^^ Take, take all else at will, So thou but leave me safe and sound, Without a token my heart to wound, The little house on the hill! Take all of best from east to west, So thou but leave me still The chamber, where in the starry light, I used to lie awake at night And list to the whip-poor-will. Take violet-bed, and rose tree red, And the purple flags by the mill, The meadow gay, and the garden-ground, But leave, oh, leave me safe and sound The little house on the hill! The daisy lane, and the dove's low plain, And the cuckoo's tender bill, Take one and all, but leave the dreams That turned the rafters to golden beams, In the little house on the hill ! The gables brown, they have tumbled down, And dry is the brook by the mill; The sheets I used with care to keep Have wrapped my dead for the last long sleep, In the valley, low and still. But, Memory, be sweet to me, And build the walls at will, Of the chamber where I used to mark, \ 3 I MY HONE So softly rippling over the dark, The song of the whip-poor-will ! Ah, Memory, be sweet to me ! All other fountains chill; But leave that song so weird and wild, Dear as its life to the heart of the child, In the little house on the hill! — Alice Gary. TN all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs* — and God has given my share — I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose. I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations passed, Here to return — and die at home at last. — Oliver Goldsmith. tm m MY HOME? npHE mother-heart doth yearn at even- 1 tide, And, wheresoe'er the straying ones may roam, When even cometh on they all fare home. 'Neath feathered sheltering the brood doth hide; In eager flights the birds wing to their nest, While happy lambs and children miss the sun, And to the folds do hurtle one by one, As night doth gather slowly in the west. All ye who hurry through life's busy day, Hark to the greeting that the Ages tell, "The sun doth rise and set, hail and fare- well." But comfort ye your heart where'er ye stray, For those who through this little day do roam, When even cometh on shall all fare home. — Lucy Evangeline Tilley. HHHIS fond attachment to the well-known A place Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. — William Cowper. VTONE love their country but who love ^ their home. — Samuel Taylor Coleridge. f m MY HON i* m TTAVE you ever thought, when night A A comes down And quiet falls on the busy town, When the evening lights spring into glow And toward their homes the myriads go, Of that other, better, holier light That gushes forth so clear and bright In a hundred thousand happy rooms, And fair as the first spring-blossom blooms? See! here the new- wed husband comes — With a joy in her heart like the beat of drums, His bride goes forth with a love-lit kiss — And the world's agleam with their wedded bliss! And here a laughing father meets His little ones in the lamp-lit streets ; And from his heart and eyes the smile Lights up the town for many a mile. Here is a maiden, back from work; And a mother's greeting, wherein lurk Fond glints of love, awaits for her; And the town is brighter, lovelier ! The lights of town, the lights of town, Are bright when evening soft comes down ; But brighter the altar-lights of home, Lit with love from Heaven's dome ! — Christopher Bannister. ~W MY HOME 8 8MH frliiiM WrTlff ArTirar i TTIS hame a hame o' happiness A A And kindly love may be ; And mony a nameless dwelling-place Like his we still may see. His happy altar-hearth so bright Is ever blazing there ; And cheerfu' faces round it set Are an unending prayer. The poor man in his humble hame, Like God, who dwells aboon, Makes happy hearts around him there, Sae joyfu' late and soon. His toil is sair, his toil is lang; But weary nights and days, Hame — happiness akin to his — A hundred-fauld repays. — Robert Nicoll. HPHERE'S a strange something which, without a brain, Fools feel, and which e'en wise men can't explain, Planted in man, to bind him to that earth, In dearest ties, from whence he drew his birth. — Charles Churchill. i T befits those who are happy at home to remain there. — Latin Proverb. 'HEN a woman sings, she is at home. — Proverb. ^v MY HONE -:s .,. . .- TV/TINE be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near. The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter near her clay-built nest ; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my iv*ed porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew ; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, In russet gown and apron blue. The village church beneath the trees, Where first our marriage- vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven. — Samuel Rogers. p) Y six-and-thirty a man should have *~^ made himself a home and a good name to live by. — Robert Louis Stevenson. TJOME is home, though it be never so •*- *• homely. — Proverb. \K7HY am I, Mother, far from thee? * * Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods Jeweled from bough to bough? O Home, my Home! — David Gray. 'aim; mi rXVWR, here in England I'm helpin' wi' ^^ the hay, An' I wisht I was in Ireland the livelong day; Weary on the English hay, an' sorra take the wheat! Och ! Corrymeela an' the blue sky over it. 7£tf There's a deep dumb river flowin' by beyant the heavy trees, This livin' air is moithered wi' the hummin' of the bees ; I wisht I'd hear the Claddagh burn go run- nin' through the heat Past Corrymeela wi' the blue sky over it. i Vu-S o The people that's in England is richer than the Jews, There's not the smallest young gossoon but thravels in his shoes ! I'd give the pipe between me teeth to see a barefut child, Och, Corrymeela an' the low south wind. Here's hands so full o' money an' hearts so full o' care, By the luck o' love ! I'd still go light for all I did go bare. "God save ye, colleen dhas," I said: the girl she thought me wild! Far Corrymeela, an' the low south wind. x: Wt D'ye mind me now, the song at night is mor- tial hard to raise, The girls are heavy goin' here, the boys are illtoplase; When oncet I'm out this workin' hive, 'tis -CTJ %m 1 1 VI P> Y the gathering round the winter hearth, When twilight called unto household mirth; By the fairy tale or the legend old In that ring of happy faces told; By the quiet hour when hearts unite In the parting prayer and the kind good- night; By the smiling eye and the loving tone, Over thy life has a spell been thrown. — Felicia Dorothea Hemans. i^LDER hearts may have their sorrows, ^-^ Griefs that quickly die away, But a mother lost in childhood Grieves the heart from day to day; We miss her kind, her willing hand, Her fond and earnest care; And oh ! how dark is life around us, What is home without her there? — Alice Hawthorne. /^\NCE granted to each of us in turn a ^^ good spouse, good children, and a good home, and the need for statesmen and sol- diers, prelates and police, would be gone for- ever. — Thurman Santley. HP HE bud comes back to summer, *■ And the blossom to the bee; But I'll win back, oh, never, To my ain countrie. — Allan Cunningham. m fi&NE Ti/T Y son, thou wilt dream the earth is fair, * *■ And thy spirit will sigh to roam — And thou must go; — but never, when there, Forget the light of home! Though Pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, It dazzles to lead astray; Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night When treading thy lonely way : But the hearth of home has a constant flame, And pure as vestal fire; 'Twill burn, 'twill burn forever the same, For Nature feeds the pyre. The sea of Ambition is tempest-tossed, And thy hopes may vanish like foam : When sails are shivered and compass lost, Then look to the light of home ! The sun of Fame may gild the name, But the heart ne'er felt its ray ; And Fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim, Are beams of a wintry day: I m How cold and dim those beams would be, Should life's poor wanderer come! — My son, when the world is dark to thee, Then turn to the light of home. — Sarah Jane Hale. MY HOME HP HE clock is on the stroke of six, The father's work is done; Sweep up the hearth, and mend the fire, And put the kettle on: The wild night-wind is blowing cold, 'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold. He is crossing o'er the wold apace, He is stronger than the storm ; He does not feel the cold, not he, His heart it is so warm ; For father's heart is stout and true As ever human bosom knew. m He makes all toil, all hardship, light ; Would all men were the same ! So ready to be pleased, so kind, So very slow to blame ! Folks need not be unkind, austere, For love hath readier will than fear. Nay, do not close those shutters, child, For far along the lane The little window looks, and he Can see its shining plain ; I've heard him say he loves to mark The cheerful firelight, through the dark. And we'll do all that father likes ; His wishes are so few; Would they were more ; that every hour Some wish of his I knew! fm ft I J I'm sure it makes a happy day, When I can please him any way. I know he's coming by this sign, That baby's almost wild, See how he laughs and crows and stares — Heaven bless the merry child! His father's self in face and limb, And father's heart is strong in him. Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now, He's through the garden gate; Run, little Bess, and ope the door, And do not let him wait. Shout, baby, shout ! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands. — Mary Howitt. l\/f AN knows but two homes — that of his A childhood, and that of his children. — Oliver Marole. rilHE first sure symptom of a mind in 1 health Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home. — Edward Young, A LL right living and loving has a home "** in view. — Clement V. Zane. TTOME is dear, home is best. — Greek Proverb. n$ MY HOME ■MHBBHHI TJ O W tired one grows of a rainy day, **■ For a rainy day brings back so much ; Old dreams revive that are buried away, And the past comes back to the sight and touch. When the night is short and the day is long, And the rain falls down with ceaseless beat, We tire of our thoughts as we tire of a song That over and over is played in the street. When I woke this morning and heard the splash Of the rain-drop over the tall elm's leaves, I was carried back in a lightning flash To the dean old home with the sloping eaves. And you and I, in the garret high, Were playing again at hide-go-seek; And bright was the light of your laughing eye, And rich the glow of your rounded cheek. Wealth and honor and fame may come, — They cannot replace what is taken away; There is no other home like the childhood's home, There is no other love like the love of May. Though the sun is bright in the midday skies, CO MY HONE There cometh an hour when the sad heart grieves With a lonely wail, like a lost child's cry, For the trundle-bed and the sloping eaves; When, with vague unrest and nameless pain, We hunger and thirst for a voice and touch That we never on earth shall know again — Oh, a rainy day brings back so much ! — Anonymous. TN the downhill of life, when I find I'm A declining, May my fate no less fortunate be, That a snug elbow-chair will afford for re- clining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea! With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail, And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail ! From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely Secured by a neighboring hill ; And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly By the sound of a murmuring rill! — John Collins. I /^H, the auld house, the auld house! ^^ What though the rooms were wee? Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there, And bairnies fu' o' glee! The wild rose and the jessamine Still hang upon the wa' : How many cherished memories Do they sweet flowers reca\ The mavis still doth sweetly sing, The bluebells sweetly blaw ; The bonnie Earn's clear winding still, But the auld house is awa'. The auld house, the auld house! Deserted though ye be, There ne'er can be a new house Will seem sae fair to me. — Lady Caroline Nairne. w HEN brothers leave the old hearth- stone And go, each one, a separate way, We think, as we go on alone Along our pathway, day by day, Of olden scenes and faces dear, Of voices that we miss so much ; And memory brings the absent near, Until we almost feel the touch Of loving hands, and hear once more The dear old voices ringing out, As in that happy time of yore, Ere life had caught a shade of doubt. C?3k ^jTNY if AMI TJEARTS and homes A A pleasure, Music breathing as ye fall; Making each the other's treasure, Once divided, losing all. Homes, ye may be high or lowly, Hearts alone can make you holy ; Be the dwelling e'er so small, Having love, it boasteth all. sweet words of M Hearts and homes, sweet words revealing All most good and fair to see ; Fitting shrines for purest feeling, Temples meet to bend the knee. Infant hands bright garlands wreathing, Happy voices incense breathing, Emblems fair of realms above — For love is Heaven, and Heaven is love ! — J. BlocMey. HHHE parted bosom clings to wonted A home, If aught, that's kindred, cheer the welcome hearth. — Lord Byron. "C^OR, after all, the true pleasures of home A are not without, but within, and the do- mestic man who loves no music so well as his own kitchen clock and the airs which the logs sing to him as they burn on the hearth, has solaces which others never dream of. — Lord Avebury. V¥U sn—jBO-. ■ 22 MY HOME ■f^THERE burns the loved heart brightest, * * Cheering the social breast? Where beats the fond heart lightest, Its humblest hope possessed? Where is the hour of sadness With meek-eyed patience borne, Worth more than that of gladness Which mirth's bright cheek adorn? Pleasure is marked by fleetness To those who ever roam, While grief itself has sweetness At Home! dear home! There blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours of grief, The silver links that lengthen Joy's visits when most brief ; There eyes in all their splendor Are vocal to the heart, And glances gay or tender Fresh eloquence impart; Then, dost thou sigh for pleasure? Oh, do not widely roam, But seek that hidden treasure At Home! dear home! — Bernard Barton. HP HERE are women who can make a ** cabin in a ship, a room in a hotel, even a section in a car, look like home. These, whether they be ladies or toilers, have the true woman's heart. — Clement V. Zane. A /I •■■- ■ - ■• - MY HOME O BROTHERS and sisters, growing old, Do you all remember yet That home, in the shade of the rustling trees, Where once our household met? Do you know how we used to come from school, Through the summer's pleasant heat; With the yellow fennel's golden dust On our tired little feet? V* And how sometimes in an idle mood We loitered by the way ; And stopped in the woods to gather flowers And in the fields to play; Till warned by the deepening shadows fall, That told of the coming night, We climbed to the top of the last, long hill, And saw our home in sight ! And, brothers and sisters, older now Than she whose life is o'er, Do you think of the mother's loving face, That looked from the open door? Alas, for the changing things of time; That home in the dust is low; And that living smile was hid from us, In the darkness, long ago ! ! Z3?«£^22rr MY HOT" And we have come to life's last hill, From which our weary eyes Can almost look on the home that shines Eternal in the skies. So, brothers and sisters, as we go, Still let us move as one, Always together keeping step, Till the march of life is done. For that mother, who waited for us here, Wearing a smile so sweet, Now waits on the hills of Paradise For her children's coming feet ! — Phoebe Cary. w E are all here! Father, mother, Sister, brother, All who hold each other dear; Each chair is filled — we're all at home. To-night let no cold stranger come : It is not often thus around Our old familiar hearth we're found : Bless, then, the meeting and the spot, For once be every care forgot; Let gentle Peace assert her power And kind Affection rule the hour; We're all — all here. — Charles Sprague. A HOUSE is great through its size, a home mighty through its love. — John Jarvis Holden. __ MYHOHEf I SIT and smile at my window on the snow, ** While February shrieks and the chill northers blow; I am home, I am home. And my log fire burns and hearts are beat- ing warm While I smile at the winter and February's storm — I am home! I sit and smile at my window on the bloom Of the pale apple-blossoms whose fragrance fills the room ; I am home, I am home. And the perfume of the flowers leaves my heart as light to-day As it did years agone in some half- forgotten May — I am home ! I sit and smile at my window on the heat That stirs and boils below in the parched and dusty street; I am home, I am home. And the faithful pane withholds the fierce July As it did the gusty winter with December in the sky — I am home ! I sit and smile at my window on the wind That blows the yellow apple-leaves and makes the passer blind ; MY HOME [J I am home, I am home. The autumn gusts and summer heat and fra- grant vernal flowers Gleam in my new-lit fire aglow with naught hut happy hours — I am home! I sit and smile at my window on the world, Its sin and grime are naught, the while with peace impearled, I am home, I am home. The sweetest Paradise that's given to worn and weary men Is mine the happy twelvemonth through — aye, mine forever, when I am home. — E. L. Valentine. THINKING of old times, hopes ne'er to be, Speaking of old friends, far o'er the sea ; Distance can change not dear ones like you ; Fortunes estrange not hearts that are true. Thus in the twilight fond thoughts will stray Back to the old homes, homes far away. — J. B. Thomas. /^\NE daily thankgiving should be said in ^-^ every happy home: That there is a happy home in which to say it. — Sherman S. Wood. :eO MY HOME TTOW dear to this heart are the scenes of A *■■ my childhood When fond recollection presents them to view! — The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cata- ract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. . . How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habi- tation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As Fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 8 ? MY MOMET The moss-covered bucket, that hangs in the well. — Samuel Woodworth. fcPft np HE dearest spot of earth to me A Is home, sweet home ; The fairy land I've longed to see Is home, sweet home ; There how charmed the sense of hearing, There where hearts are so endearing, All the world is not so cheering, As home, sweet home ! I've taught my heart the way to prize My home, sweet home ; I've learned to look with lover's eyes On home, sweet home ; There where vows are truly plighted, There where hearts are so united, All the world beside I've slighted For home, sweet home. — W. T. Wrighton. M ■ ( S^ IFE'S simplest things are love, and ij kindly friends, Nature's sweet charm of earth and sea and sky; Gladness of soul that with right living blends, — Home's dear content, so cheap that all may buy. — Ripley D. Saunders. my uonimi "VTOW stir the fire, and close the shutters -^ fast, Let fall the curtain, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a streamy column, and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest. I crown thee King of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening know. How calm is my recess ! and how the frost Raging abroad, and the rough wind, endear The silence and the warmth enjoyed within! — William Cowper. T ET others dream of pleasant lands •""^ Beyond the stormy ocean, Of golden treasure in the sand, And air in gentle motion ; There is a dearer, happier scene To fancy oft appearing, It is my native valley's green, With beauty mildly cheering. C. Johnson. HPHE fireside wisdom that enrings, A With light from Heaven, familiar things. — James Russell Lowell. 4 £ ORD, thou hast given me a cell, *-** Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry; Where thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate ; Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door, Is worn by th' poor, Who, thither come, and freely get Good words, or meat. Like as my parlor, so my hall And kitchen's small; A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead; Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine. The pulse is thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by thee ; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress, Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth, And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land, And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one ; Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day; Besides, my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine Run cream for wine : All these, and better, thou dost send Me, to this end, — That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, As wholly thine ; — But the acceptance, that must be, My Christ, by Thee. — Robert Herrick. !• #a npHREE treasures hath a man in his life- A time, and these he begs at a woman's hands : A wife, a child, and a home. — Clarence Knox Aldis. syr. IT* ?c T1Y HOME $2 -•'•.-.. - . .. T^VO they miss me at home? do they miss LJ me? 'Twould be an assurance most dear, To know that this moment some loved one Were saying, "I wish he were here;" To feel that the group at the fireside Were thinking of me as I roam; Oh, yes, 'twould be joy beyond measure To feel that they miss me at home! M When twilight approaches, the season That ever is sacred to song, Does some one repeat my name over, And sigh that I tarry so long And is there a chord in the music, That, missed when my voice is away, And a chord in the heart that awaketh Regret at my wearisome stay? Do they set me a chair near the table, When evening's home pleasures are nigh, When the candles are lit in the parlor, And the stars in the calm, azure sky? And when the "good-nights" are repeated, And all lay them down to their sleep, Do they think of the absent, and waft me A whispered "good-night" while they weep ? Do they miss me at home, do they miss me At morning, at noon, or at night? And lingers one gloomy shade round them That only my presence can light? 11 CO rtYMon Are joys less invitingly welcome, And pleasures less hale than before, Because one is missed from the circle, Because I am with them no more? — Caroline Aiherton Mason. THE voices of my home! — I hear them still! They have been with me through the dreamy night — The blessed household voices, wont to fill My heart's clear depthsi with unalloyed delight ! I hear them still, unchanged; though some from earth Are music parted, and the tones of mirth — Wild silvery tones, that rang through days more bright! Have died in others, yet to me they come, Singing of boyhood back — the voices of my home ! — Felicia Dorothea Hemans. "IV/fl" Y sad old heart is haunted ^ A With ghosts of sights and sounds — Old tunes that once were chanted Within my old home's bounds. There creeps the gentle spirit Of her who gave me birth, 'Mid memories to endear it — The sweetest of this earth! — George R. Garrison. H ) MY HOME A ROUND me Life's hell of fierce ardors '**' burns. — When I come home, when I come home Over me Heaven with its starry heart yearns. When I come home, when I come home For a feast of Gods garnished, the palace of night At a thousand star-windows is throbbing with light. The city makes mirth ! but I know God hears The sobs in the dark, and the dropping of tears ; For I feel that He listens down Night's great dome When I come home, when I come home; Home, home, when I come home, Far i' the night when I come home. I walk under Night's triumphal arch When I come home, when I come home ; Exulting with life like a Conqueror's march, When I come home, when I come home. I pass by the rich-chambered mansions that shine, O'erflowing with splendor like goblets with wine: I have fought, I have vanquished the dragon of Toil, And before me my golden Hesperides smile ! And oh, but Love's flowers make rich the gloam, When I come home, when I come home. u O the sweet, merry mouths upturned to be kissed When I come home, when I come home ! How the younglings yearn from the hungry nest When I come home, when I come home ! My weary worn heart into sweetness is stirred, And it dances and sings like a singing Bird, On the branch nighest Heaven, — atop of my life : As I clasp my winsome, wooing Wife ! And her pale cheek with rich, tender pas- sion doth bloom When I come home, when I come home. Clouds furl off the shining face of my life When I come home, when I come home, And leave Heaven bare on her bosom, sweet Wife, When I come home, when I come home: With her brave smiling Energies, — Faith warm and bright, With Love glorified and serenely alight, With her womanly beauty and queenly calm She steals to my heart with a blessing of balm; And oh, but the wine of Love sparkles with foam When I come home, when I come home ! — Gerald Massey. \v i w < - nOME home. ^ Would I could send my spirit o'er the deep, Would I could wing it like a hird to thee, To commune with thy thoughts, to fill thy sleep With these unwearying words of melody, Brother, come home. Come home. Come to the hearts that love thee, to the eyes That beam in brightness but to gladden thine; Come where fond thoughts like holiest in- cense rise, Where cherished Memorv rears her altar's shrine. Brother, come home. Come home. Come to the hearthstone of thy earlier days, Come to the ark, like the o'erwearied dove. Come with the sunlight of thy heart's warm rays, Come to the fireside circle of thy love. Brother, come home. ^j Come home. It is not home without thee; the lone seat Is still unclaimed where thou wert wont to be; In every echo of returning feet w^ TSJg\r i . r /\1V In vain we list for what should herald thee. Brother, come home. — Felicia Dorothea Hemans. M£?h/ TT'S rare to see the morning breeze, A Like a bonfire f rae the sea ; It's fair to see the burnie kiss The lip o' the flowery lea; An' fine it is on green hillside, Where hums the bonny bee; But rarer, fairer, finer far Is the Ingleside for me ! Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare, The birds may fill the tree ; And haughs hae a' the scented ware That simmer growth can gie; But the canty hearth where cronies meet, An' the darling of our e'e, That makes to us a warl complete ; O the Ingleside for me ! — Hew Ainslee. m npo Happiness! A foreign port, we 1 think, Toward which we proudly steer, Our sails all set, our bows afoam. Mere pleasure is the reef ahead, my lads. Helm down, haul taut the gear ! Our port of happiness is Home! — H. C. Chatfield-Taylor. %s\J MY HONE ^ca &£ ET others seek for empty joys, ' LJ 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 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 ! 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 : $ ZQ TtY HOME S5\ to 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 I Pair 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 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 Alexander Watts. MY HON I; /^H, to be in England now that April's ^^ there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England — now! And after April, when May follows And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows ! Hark, while my blossomed pear tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over Lest you should think he never could recap- ture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower — Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! — Robert Browning. TTOWEVER we toil, or wheresoever we A A wander, our fatigued wishes still recur to home for tranquillity. — Goldsmith. 2? C&L The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go; X fYHOME rpHE sun shines bright in our old Ken- A tucky home; 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; The corntop's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day; The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy, all bright; By'm by hard times come a-knockin' at the door, — Then my old Kentucky home, good- night ! Weep no more, my lady; O weep no more to-day ! We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away. They hunt no more for the possum and the coon, On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, On the bench by the old cabin door. The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart, With sorrow, where all was delight; The time has come when the darkeys have to part : — Then my old Kentucky home, good-night ! A few more days, and the trouble all will end, In the field where the sugar-canes grow. A few more days for to tote the weary load, — No matter, 'twill never be light; A few more days till we totter on the road: — Then my old Kentucky home, good-night ! — Stephen Collins Foster. Z^IOOD-BY, old house! Thy tattered ^* cloak Is fringed with moss and gray with smoke; Within thy walls we used to see A gaunt old wolf named Poverty ; Yet from thy rafters' dingy bars A ladder stretched up to the stars — For us and all the children. — Grace Duffie Boylan. rFIHE Altar of your Home; on which you A have nightly sacrificed some petty pas- sion, selfishness, or care, and offered up the homage of a tranquil mind, a trusting na- ture, and an overflowing heart; so that the smoke from this poor chimney has gone up- ward with a better fragrance than the richest incense that is burned before the richest shrines in all the gaudy temples of this world! — Charles Dickens. FlY HOI L ' rpiS sweet to hear the watch-dog's hon- A est bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come. — Lord Byron. CHUT in from all the world without, ^ We sat the clean-winged hearth about, Content to let the north wind roar In baffled rage at pane and door, While the red logs before us beat The frost-line back with tropic heat; And ever, when a louder blast Shook beam and rafter as it passed, The merrier up its roaring draught The great throat of the chimney laughed. . . What matter how the night behaved? What matter how the north wind raved? Blow high, blow low, not all its snow Could quench our hearth- fire's ruddy glow! — John Greenleaf Whittier. A ND say, without our hopes, without our '**' fears, Without the home that plighted love en- dears, Without the smile from partial beauty won, Oh, what were man — a world without a sun! — Thomas Campbell. (?QK M PIEl T BELIEVE in my Home. It isn't a rich home. It wouldn't satisfy some, but it contains all the jewels that cannot be pur- chased in the markets of the world. When I enter its secret chambers and shut out the world with its care, I am a lord. Its motto is service, its reward is love. There is no other spot in all the earth which fills its place, and Heaven can be only a larger Home, with a Father Who is all-wise and patient and tender. — Charles Stelzle. TTOME of our childhood! how affection clings And hovers round thee with her seraph wings! Dearer thy hills, though clad in autumn brown, Than fairest summits which the cedars crown! Sweeter the fragrance of thy summer breeze Than all Arabia breathes along the seas! The stranger's gale wafts home the exile's sigh, For the heart's temple is its own blue sky ! — Oliver Wendell Holmes. A SPOT where there is loud speech and *^^ quarreling may be a menagerie, but it can never be a home. — Alexander Maclean. (3 to . w MY HON! f~\ FOR a ferryman to steer my yearning ^-^ O'er easy waves to where my home is lying! Ever from mountains high it is returning, With frozen wings, faint unto death with flying. And oh, to sail in an easy vessel slowly Along a stream that rolls a silver hillow, That I might enter through a portal lowly, And lay my head down on a quiet pillow. There in a warm room would be mild light falling From evening candles on my hearthstone lonely, And at my breast a baby, laughing calling, And one soul in the whole world mine, mine only! — Jeihro Bichell. From the German of Hedwig Lachmann. HAVE a house in which to live, A Pleasant, and fair, and good, Its hearth is crowned with warmth and light, Its board with daintiest food. And I, when tired with care or doubt, Go in and shut my sorrows out. — Phoebe Cary. TVJ"AN makes the house and woman makes A the home. — Proverb. MY HOME ONG, long ago! oh, heart of youth un- "^ heeding, As speed the years with love and light aglow, And like a dream in memory receding, They swiftly, softly go. Ah! when the intervening clouds are lifted — The misty veil that hides them from my sight ! Then bygone scenes beneath the curtain rifted Gleam fair, as now — to-night. There is the dear old room, the firelight shin- ing On little stockings ranged in careful row; Hung by the anxious owners, hope inclin- ing, On Christmas long ago. In trundle bed and cot each fitful sleeper Is dream-disturbed and tosses to and fro Till lost in slumber, sinking deeper, deeper, With happiness aglow. What gleeful shouts and laughter wake the morning ! The "Merry Christmas" greetings linger sweet In heart and brain, the misty past adorning, The picture to complete. Each stocking yields its precious, trifling treasures, To curly pate and tot with hair of tow; firr hom Ah, happy days ! that saw such simple pleas- ures Such happiness bestow. With merry jest and quip and cheery chat- ter, In converse sweet and songs melodious flow, Till borne in state, embellishing the platter, The turkey enters slow. A glad home-coming time for ones world- weary, To feast beneath the mystic mistletoe, Where Love stood at the door with welcome cheery, On Christmas long ago. Oh, father, mother! names that leave me never, Thy faces follow me through weal and woe, As loving, sweet, and true as smiled they ever, On Christmas long ago. In vain I try the rising sobs to smother, My heart repressed so long asserts her right To tardy tears, to there await another, Another Christmas night. — Anne H. Woodruff. A FRIENDLY home is the best of "^ houses. — Latin Proverb. vanr-*V \A7"HEN skies are growing warm and VV bright, And in the woodland bowers The Springtime in her pale, faint robes Is calling up the flowers, When all with naked little feet The children in the morn Go forth, and in the furrows drop The seeds of yellow corn; What a beautiful embodiment Of ease devoid of pride Is the good old-fashioned homestead, With its doors set open wide ! But when the happiest time is come, That to the year belongs, When all the vales are filled with gold And all the air with songs; When fields of yet unripened grain, And yet ungarnered stores Remind the thrifty husbandman Of ampler threshing-floors, How pleasant, from the din and dust Of the thoroughfare aloof, Stands the old-fashioned homestead With steep and mossy roof! When home the woodsman plods with ax Upon his shoulder swung, And in the knotted apple tree Are scythe and sickle hung; When low about her clay-built nest The mother swallow trills, hi rft. MY [Off And decorously slow, the cows Are wending down the hills ; What a blessed picture of comfort In the evening shadows red, Is the good old-fashioned homestead With its bounteous table spread ! And when the winds moan wildly, When the woods are bare and brown, And when the swallow's clay-built nest From the rafter crumbles down; When all the untrod garden paths Are heaped with frozen leaves, And icicles, like silver spikes, Are set along the eaves ; Then when the book from the shelf is brought, And the firelights shine and play In the good old-fashioned homestead, Is the farmer's holiday! Whether the brook be fringed with flowers, Or whether the dead leaves fall, Or whether the air be full of songs, Or never a song at all, Or whether the vines of the strawberries Or frosts through the grasses run, Or whether it rain or whether it shine, Is all to me as one, For bright as the brightest sunshine The light of memory streams Round the old-fashioned homestead Where I dreamed my dream of dreams ! — Alice Cary. fMYHOME rpHREE words fall sweetly on my ear -"■ As music from an angel lyre, That bid my spirit spurn control And upward to its source aspire ; The sweetest sounds to mortals given Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven. — William Goldsmith Browne. T REMEMBER, I remember A The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, JBut now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! — Thomas Hood. SPHERE is no place like the old place where you and I were born ! Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn, From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore, Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no more! — Oliver Wendell Holmes. E AST, West, Hame's best. — Scotch Proverb. id n 'io 1 1HBWB fH v k f Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Dec. 2007 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park DnVe Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 PN 6110 .H6 R5 Copy 1 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS II 021 417 929 5