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HOME TREASURES. 



BY WILLIAM J. BOSOMWORTH. 



My home, though 'tis humble, 'tis happy and free. 

 Like a casket it holds many jewels for me ; 

 When old Winter comes in with his mantle of white. 

 And the heir of his dower grim darkness of night, — 

 When mighty winds rustle, and tempests ride high. 

 And the thousand bright stars never light up the sky, — 

 Yet I can rejoice, with mirth and with glee. 

 For the home that 1 love is a treasure to me. 



Dark care may come o'er me, and friends may depart. 

 And leave me to sorrow, and anguish of heart; 

 Their bosoms of friendship, or smile on the face. 

 May die without leaving a vestige or trace ; 

 Thus friends may depart, and coming of years 

 May blight my bright hopes, and cherish my fears ; 

 Yet then I'll repine not, or murmuring be. 

 For my own fire-side seems a solace to me. 



There are some bright stars in my few chosen books. 

 Which light up my soul with their riches and looks ; 

 The breathings of Shakspeare, the sweetness of Moore, 

 And the splendour of Milton doth grace the rich store ; 

 I feast on their beauties, and my longing soul yearns 

 When I read the heart's language in Byron and Bums ; 

 Then my soul is uplifted with sweet poesy. 

 For the Bards of our land are a treasure to me. 



Though care is my boon, and grief is my dower, 

 And held me for years with their prevalent power — 

 Though the tyrant would press me to anguish of soul. 

 And the hand of oppression hold me in contiol — 

 Though my path may be clouded with many dark fears,- 

 Yet I hope for the sunshine in changing of years; 

 And still I am happy, as all men should be, 

 " For the wife of my youth is a treasure to me." 



