HOME. I KNEW my father's chimney top, Though nearer to my heart than eye, And watched the blue smoke reeking up Between me and the winter sky. Wayworn I traced the homeward track A man in years · I thought upon its cheerful hearth, THE SISTERS. BY THE REV. G. CRABBE. THE girls were orphans early; yet I saw, That made his daughters neither rich nor poor;— These sister beauties were, in fact, the grace Of yon - it was their native place: Like Saul's famed daughters were the lovely twain, small town As Micah, Lucy, and as Merab, Jane; For this was tall, with free, commanding air, Jane had an arch delusive smile, that charmed And threatened too; alluring, it alarmed; The smile of Lucy her approval told, Cheerful, not changing; neither kind nor cold. When children, Lucy love alone possessed; A lamb, a bird, a garden, and a brook ; Lucy loved all that grew upon the ground, Jane had no liking for such things as these, The sisters read, and Jane with some delight, The satires keen that fear or rage excite, That men in power attack, and ladies high, And give broad hints that we may know them by, She was amused when sent to haunted rooms, Or some dark passage where the spirit comes. Of one once murdered! then she laughing read, And felt at once the folly and the dread: As rustic girls to crafty gipseys fly, In her religion - for her mind, though light, Was not disposed our better views to slight · Her favourite authors were a solemn kind, Who fill with dark mysterious thoughts the mind; And who with such conceits her fancy plied, Became her friend, philosopher, and guide. She made the Progress of the Pilgrim one Led by an early custom, Lucy spied, She read not much of high heroic deeds, Where man the measure of man's power exceeds : But gave to luckless love and fate severe Her tenderest pity and her softest tear. She mixed not faith with fable, but she trod THE MARINER'S DREAM. BY WILLIAM DIMOND. In the slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay, wind; But, watchworn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind! He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, Of the pleasures that waited on life's merry morn, While memory each scene daily covered with flowers, And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. Then fancy its magical pinions spread wide, |