An angel-guard of love and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,

And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
"Where shall that land, that spot of earth be
found?"

Art thou a man?-a patriot?-look around;
O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!

Man, through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
Deems his own land of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er the world beside;
His home the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

FATHER AND MOTHER TONGUE. OUR Father Land! and wouldst thou know Why we should call it Father Land?

It is that Adam here below

Was made of earth by Nature's hand;
And he our father, made of earth,
Hath peopled earth on every hand;
And we, in memory of his birth,

Do call our country Father Land.

At first, in Eden's bowers, they say,

No sound of speech had Adam caught,
But whistled like a bird all day,-

And maybe 't was for want of thought:
But Nature, with resistless laws,
Made Adam soon surpass the birds;

She gave him lovely Eve because

If he'd a wife they must have words.

And so the native land, I hold,

By male descent is proudly mine;

The language, as the tale hath told,
Was given in the female line.

And thus we see on either hand

We name our blessings whence they 've

sprung;

We call our country Father Land,

We call our language Mother Tongue.

SAMUEL LOVER.

EAST, WEST, HOME'S BEST.

66

FROM THE TRAVELLER."

As some lone miser visiting his store,

Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er;
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still:
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleased with each good that heaven to man sup-
plies:

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the sum of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find
Some spot to real happiness consigned,

Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,

May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.

But where to find that happiest spot below,

Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own,
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease;
The naked negro, planting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind,
As different good, by art or nature given,

To different nations, makes their blessings even.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

GIFTS.

"O WORLD-GOD, give me Wealth!" the Egyptian cried.

His prayer was granted. High as heaven behold
Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide

Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.
Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet,
World-circling traffic roared through mart and
street,

His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined

Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.

Seek Pharaoh's race to-day, and ye shall find
Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

"O World-God, give me Beauty!" cried the Greek. His prayer was granted. All the earth became Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak, Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,

Peopled the world with imaged grace and light. The lyre was his, and his the breathing might Of the immortal marble, his the play

Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue. Go seek the sunshine race. Ye find to-day

A broken column and a lute unstrung.

"O World-God, give me Power!" the Roman cried.

His prayer was granted. The vast world was chained

A captive to the chariot of his pride,

The blood of myriad provinces was drained

To feed that fierce, insatiable red heart—

Invulnerably bulwarked every part

With serried legions and with close-meshed Code. Within, the burrowing worm had gnawed its home:

A roofless ruin stands where once abode
The imperial race of everlasting Rome.

"O God-head, give me Truth!" the Hebrew cried. His prayer was granted. He became the slave Of the Idea, a pilgrim far and wide,

Cursed, hated, spurned, and scourged with none to save.

The Pharaohs knew him, and when Greece beheld,
His wisdom wore the hoary crown of Eld.
Beauty he hath forsworn, and wealth and power.
Seek him to-day, and find in every land.
No fire consumes him, neither floods devour;
Immortal through the lamp within his hand.

EMMA LAZARUS.

ENGLAND.

FROM THE TIMEPIECE : THE TASK," BK. II.

ENGLAND, with all thy faults, I love thee still,My country! and, while yet a nook is left

Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime

Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed
With dripping rains, or withered by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
And fields without a flower, for warmer France
With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves
Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bowers.
To shake thy senate, and from height sublime
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task:
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart
As any thunderer there. And I can feel
Thy follies too; and with a just disdain
Frown at effeminates whose very looks
Reflect dishonor on the land I love.
How, in the name of soldiership and sense,