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The Wianderer at Dome.
Delivered in the Loyal Earl of Sefton Lodge of the 1. 0. of Odd Fellows, Manchester,- -on being appointed
V. G. of the Lodge.---Nov. 1842.
"O'er many a moor and mountain,
I've travelled in my day.”-Old Song.
A wanderer from his native land
Ilad traveracid many a hundred milo,
As geklan met a monilly smalle,
Almost an orphan from his birth,
Around his father's heart and hearth,
Boyhood had been one busy round
Of mirth, and glee, and youthful joy:
One cannot always be a boy.
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
Would oft his breast with anguish swell. He looked abroad upon the earth,
Companion, fellow he had none; Ilis very smile was void of mirth,
It was so cheerless, chilling, lone.
Wearied, the traveller ceased at length
To look for friend or sympathy, And only found in memory's strength
The kindly flame that will not die. He'd heard of men united strong
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 all he loved in mirth and song. The voice he knew,menquiry led
To further quest; he longed to be Where music and the vine thus shed
Their sweetest fruits in unity.
But soon a nobler purpose warmed
His heart than either cup or song, The theme that first his bosom charm'd
Was not that bosom's tenant long.
Those who now took him by the hand
Renewed the visions of his youth;
He turned around from side to side,
And every glance a brother met;
While honest tears his eyelids wet.
He'd now a home on foreign ground, Brethren,--the wanderer-is here!
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 gruflly they sigh,
We'll have stormy weather.
We pull altogether;
White is the foam on each mountainous wave,
Shall we dance along with them ?
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, See the green mountains already in sight, We reach them in gladness—we reach them tonight
Or sleep with the dark fish; Where mountains roll o'er us, our bones shall be
Sonnet on Lobe,
They say that the rose but blooms to die, And the Zephyr that plays round its ruby breast,
When the Summer evenings have fitted 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.