The first sure symptoms of a mind in health,
Is rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home.
Nor need we power or splendour,—
Wide hall or lordly dome;
The good, the true, the tender,—
These form the wealth of home.
His warm but simple home, where he enjoys With her who shares his pleasure and his heart, Sweet converse.
Home is the sphere of harmony and peace,
The spot where angels find a resting-place,
When, bearing blessings, they descend to earth.
Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty, where,
Supporting and supported, polished friends
And dear relations mingle into bliss.
An angel always dwells beneath the roof
Where, in her virtue, a sweet wife fulfils
Her gentle duties; and unnumbered ills
From that love-guarded precinct keep aloof.
MacKellar.
How use doth breed a habit in a man!
The shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
I better brook than flourishing peopled towns:
There can I sit alone, unseen of any,
And to the nightingale's complaining notes
Tune my distresses, and record my woes.
Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No sphery strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely:
That I should never hear Apollo's song,
Though feathery clouds were floating all along
The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:
That the still murmur of the honey-bee
Would never teach a rural song to me:
That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,
Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold
Some tale of love and arms in time of old.
Invades the temple of their mind;—the mirth
And sighs of men are sounds to them unknown,
Though well they know the spirit's inward groan;
And mortal agonies belong to them
As well as to their fellow men; for death
Hath passed on all who draw the vital breath,
And where sin is, there doth the law condemn.
Ah, hapless men! relentless Silence keeps
Her watchpost at the portals of the ear;
No heavenly word or sound approacheth near
And music's melting influence in lasting stillness sleeps.
There was a poet whose untimely tomb
No human hands with pious reverence reared,
But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds
Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid
Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness;
A lovely youth!—no mourning maiden decked
With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:
Gentle and brave, and generous, no lorn bard
Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh:
He lived, he died, he sang, in solitude.
Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes,
And virgins, as unknown he past, have sighed
And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.
The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn,
And Silence, too, enamoured of that voice,
Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.
How blest the Solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell,
The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gathered fruits,
Beside his crystal well!
Or, haply, to his evening thought,
By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream:
While praising, and raising
His thoughts to heaven on high,
As wand'ring, meand'ring,
He views the solemn sky.
Than I, no lonely hermit placed
Where never human footstep traced,
Less fit to play the part;
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:
But ah! those pleasures, loves, and joys
Which I too keenly taste,
The Solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be blest!
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate!
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollow of the grove, the withered leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the young fair flowers, that lately sprang and stood,
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister
Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of
Are lying in their lonely beds, with the fair and good
The rain is falling where they lie: but the cold November rain
Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones
The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long
And the wild-rose and the orchis died, amid the sum
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