The Wanderer at Home. A RECITATION Delivered in the Loyal Earl of Sefton Lodge of the I. 0. of Odd Fellows, Manchester,- -on being appointed V. G. of the Lodge.-Nov. 1842. "O'er many a moor and mountain, A wanderer from his native land For other flowers in pride had grown Boyhood had been one busy round Of mirth, and glee, and youthful joy; He had to seek his bread from home, In other climes was doomed to roam. There, as he pictured each fond scene On which remembrance loved to dwell, The thought of what he once had been Wearied, the traveller ceased at length By one soft link of charity, Whom clime and creed had severed long; Yet scarce believed that such could be. * * * One evening, on a quiet stroll, He sauntered listlessly along, When sudden music waked his soul To further quest; he longed to be But soon a nobler purpose warmed Those who now took him by the hand He turned around from side to side, The friends-are those I see around. * The Motto of the Order of Odd Fellows. The South Sea Boat Song. Hark to the sad winds how gruffly they sigh, Bend to the helm, lean strong on the oar, We heed not, we reck not the loud ocean's roar. White is the foam on each mountainous wave, Or round our glad fireside on Otaheite hill And chaunt our peace song with them, The home that we love is before us, my brothers! Our altars, our fathers, our wives, and our mothers; We're now on the billow, aud we may like others Be food for the shark-fish; Bend hard your sinews, and tug with your might, Where mountains roll o'er us, our bones shall be white. Sonnet on Love, They say that the rose but blooms to die, And the Zephyr that plays round its ruby breast, When the Summer evenings have flitted by, Forgets its dear, the Spring's last bequest. They tell me that Love is a gay young God, Blushing with smiles like a morn in May; They hint that he waits on the Graces' nod, And laughs, as he comes, when he flits away. Can I thus prove, like the zephyr, untrue To the passion that burns, while it makes me blest? Or forgetting my Emma's soft eyes of blue, Can her love cease to be my life's sole zest? Oh, no; while the pulse of this heart beats warm, None other can ever its feelings charm. |