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The Pleasures of Home; or, Domestic Scenes and Affections of the Circle round the Hearth. By STUART FARQUHARSON, D.C.L. Grant and Griffith.

CAMPBELL has sung the "Pleasures of Hope," and Mr. Rogers "The Pleasures of Memory;" and now we have Mr. Farquharson singing the "Pleasures of Home." The latter is not to be compared to either of the two former works, and yet it is a work of merit. It is the production of a cultivated mind, and of a kindly heart. The author has evidently enjoyed those domestic pleasures which he describes with so much feeling. As a specimen of his poetry we give the first seven stanzas.

I.

Ah! who the pleasures of his Home can tell?

The hopes, and smiles, and joys, that breathe of heaven?

Or who can paint the sighs the bosom swell,

When from our home the mourning heart is riven?

Be mine the theme !-for in the crimson even,

I've stood upon a distant foreign shore,

While memory o'er the wild waves fondly driven,
Recalls in tears the scenes which then were o'er,
And oft the frequent pang, that they should be no more.

II.

Fair tho' the spot, and lovely is the view,
Where genial nature smiles on all around,
And glowing skies are tinged with radiant hue,
And many a flower bedecks the richer ground,
Yet still no hope, or joy may there be found-
But tears alone, that shadow forth the tale,

As echo softly may these words resound,

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Bright is the scene, and perfumes scent the gale,

"Yet ah! 'tis not our own, our much-loved native vale."

III.

Why turns the lonely traveller on his way,

And backwards casts a melancholy look?

'Tis that his footsteps now must wand'ring stray,

Nor hear the words of love so often spoke,

His hearth, his friends, and Home, all-all forsook ;
Hope from his bosom flutter'd in-farewell

To his dear cottage near the rippling brook-
And fled, alas! what he hath loved so well,

His own sweet cherished Home, his own wild fragrant dell.

IV.

Thro' flowery groves, of many verdant hues,
Where spicy perfumes float upon the gale,
The thoughtless heart, as pleasure it pursues,
Will often sigh, and sad'ning thoughts prevail,
If haply to our view, a distant sail

Is seen careering o'er the pathless main,
With streaming pennant pointing to the vale,
Which every pulse, awakened to regain,

Beats for the Home we love, without which all is vain.

V.

How sad the heart, when we must quit the scene,
Of happy childhood's ever pleasing days,
When from our Home, upon the village green,
We wander forth upon the world's wide ways,
And bid adieu to those, where every praise,
For virtue, health, and love, is fondly due;
Oh! what emotions must that parting raise!
When from our sight, sad, mournful, fades the view,
And we have breathed a long, perhaps a last adieu.

VI.

Oh, bitter is the cup which he must quaff,
Who roams a stranger, desolate and drear,
No joy to glad his thoughts, or merry laugh;
But on the pallid cheek a trickling tear,
Bespeaks the breast which pleasures cannot cheer,
No Home hath he! for ever sadly flown

Its joys and smiles, which to the heart more dear,
Than all the pomp and glitter of a crown,
The pageant of a court, or splendour of a throne!

VII.

Such are the thoughts and feelings I would sing,
And picture scenes of joy, and some of care:
Aimed with no shaft but such as Virtues bring
To the mind's eye, serene, and sweetly fair;
Such be thy theme, such ever be my care,
Nor stain a page with aught that would deface
The Poet's noblest aim; 'tis his to share,
Religion's glow, and Nature's varying grace,

As o'er each page and line the eye with beauties trace.

To the poem is added "The Echo," with which we conclude our brief notice.

THE ECHO.

My task is done-my song hath ceased-my theme
Has died into an echo.

Childe Harold.

"Ah! who the pleasures of his Home can tell?"—
Thus Echo softly will the wild-notes swell,

A fitful musing o'er the closing page,
One fleeting tone the dying strains engage-
"Oh! heart of man, dispel the blighting shade,
By worldly cares and earth-born visions made,
Look to your God, there place the wished-for prize,
Let Heaven shine bright before your longing eyes,
Turn from the sickening weight of sin's despair,
And live to God, for peace alone is there;

Then to your breast the hope in death be given
To leave a Home on Earth, to gain a Home in Heaven."

But now no more the harp resounds on high,
Hushed is the strain, the fading echoes die
In gentle murmurs o'er the word "farewell,"
Ah! who the pleasures of his Home can tell?

The volume is got up in the very best style of typographical taste, and will be found very appropriate on the drawing-room table.

Mr. Moxon's Publications.

WE have so often noticed the cheap and elegant editions of standard works brought out by Mr. Moxon that a detailed reference to his recent issues is not necessary. Those now on our table are Hood's Poems, Miss Martineau's Forest and Game Law Tales, and the Poems of John Keats. The admirers of Hood and Keats will be much gratified at seeing this republication of their poetical productions. Miss Martineau's tales, illustrative of the evils of the game laws, are worthy of her high reputation.

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THE BATTLE OF BENEVENTO.*

AN HISTORICAL NOVEL OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.

ABRIDGED FROM THE ITALIAN OF F. B. GUERAZZI, BY MRS. MACKESEY.

CHAPTER XI.

AFTER a considerable length of way, Rogiero, following the steps of his trusty guide, arrived at his lodging; for, as Homer relates of the ships of Achilles and Ajax, the huts of Drengotto and Ghino were far distant from each other, and situated, in token of the intrepidity of their masters, at the extremity of the habitations of the troop. For these two men despised danger above all their comrades; the first, from indifference to good or evil, the principal characteristic of his disposition; the latter, from a certain tranquil security which accompanies the truly great soul. They entered; Ghino, after he had rekindled the embers of the fire, approached Rogiero to help him to take off his armour: the latter modestly refused; but the courteous host insisting, he gave way. Ghino, as he unlaced the pieces of the armour, attentively considered them, and praised some parts as good, and blamed some defect in others, showing himself to be a skilful judge in such matters, and well experienced in them.

Rogiero, casting his eyes round the hut, saw a lance of exceeding great length, which, being much longer than the walls were high, was placed transversely from corner to corner. Being greatly astonished at its size, and inquisitive about it, Rogiero asked,

"Courteous host, tell me, I pray you, is it the lance of King Arthur that you preserve on that side?"

"There was once a man in Italy who used to manage it in his youth as the shepherd manages his crook. With it he conquered in more than one tournament, and with it he overthrew more than one cavalier in battle. This alone remains to me of the inheritance of my ancestors; this was the lance of my father: even I was once able to brandish it, but now it is becoming too heavy for my weakening limbs."

"Weakening limbs! Heaven help you! You do not appear to be more than forty years old."

"Do years alone weaken the body?"

* Continued from page 260.

Aug., 1846.-VOL. XLVI.—NO. CLXXXIV.

2 c

"True; but tell me, of your courtesy, what means that white pennon covering the point?"

"In order to preserve the colour of the blood which for many years has been congealed there."

At this moment they heard the melancholy sound of a distant bell, which rang for the prayer which Christians were wont in the night time to recite for the souls of their deceased kindred. Ghino, in a state of concentrated thought, listened to the strokes of the bell as the announcement of some disaster just occurred, and then said to Rogiero,

"Fair cavalier, I pray your pardon if I leave you alone for a moment. I must recite my orisons."

"What! is there anything which you need ask from Heaven, or for which you would thank Heaven?"

"I ask nothing for myself. Whatever be my lot, whether grievous or prosperous, I bow my head resigned. But I pray for the peace of my dead."

"And do you believe that the prayer of the living can avail

them ?"

"I do; and even though it might not profit them, yet it avails to remind me of them. A father treacherously slain ought to be remembered at least once a day."

"Right. I will pray with you, although I do not deem prayer necessary to remember the death of my father." 66 Do you mourn him deceased ?"

"Yes, and slain by greater tortures than can be conceived by an infernal mind.”

"De profundis clamari," said Ghino, kneeling before an image, and praying for a long time fervently, hiding his face in his hands. When he rose his eyes appeared full of tears, but the passion which had impelled the drops had passed suddenly away, as if the prayer had been a parenthesis; and resuming the late discourse he said to Rogiero, "Have you revenged him?"

"No."

"I am sorry for it."

66

In the ensuing year, if ever we meet again on earth, I hope to answer you in a different manner."

"So be it, fair cavalier."

Though our heroes were not so hungry as those of Homer,* to require supper to be laid for them three times in one evening, as he has represented, nevertheless it is necessary that ours should sup. When the meal was ready, Ghino presented water to Rogiero, and when he had himself washed his hands, he sat down opposite to his guest. The comestibles were neither various nor * Ulysses and Diomedes are the Homeric heroes who display so much appetite in the 9th and 10th books of the Iliad.

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