The acme magazine . deform, Their fury cannot reach me all is cheerful, calm, and fair, Wrath, Malice, Envy, Strife, or Pride,Have never made their hatred lair, Bv thee—mv own fire-side. Thy precincts are a charmed ring, Where no harsh feeling dares intrude;Where lifes vexations lose their sting Where even grief is half subdued;And Peace, the halcyon, loves to brood. Then let the pampered fool deride;Ill pay my debt of gratitude To thee—my own fire-side. Shrine of my household deities; Fair scene of homes unsullied joys!To thee my burthened spirit flies, When fortune frowns or care
The acme magazine . deform, Their fury cannot reach me all is cheerful, calm, and fair, Wrath, Malice, Envy, Strife, or Pride,Have never made their hatred lair, Bv thee—mv own fire-side. Thy precincts are a charmed ring, Where no harsh feeling dares intrude;Where lifes vexations lose their sting Where even grief is half subdued;And Peace, the halcyon, loves to brood. Then let the pampered fool deride;Ill pay my debt of gratitude To thee—my own fire-side. Shrine of my household deities; Fair scene of homes unsullied joys!To thee my burthened spirit flies, When fortune frowns or care annoys;Thine is the bliss that never cloys The smile whose truth hath oft been tried;What then, are this worlds tinsel joys To thee—my own fire-side. Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet, That bid my thoughts be all of thee,Thus ever guide my wandering feet To thy heart-soothing sanctuary!Whateer my future years may be; Let joy or grief my fate betide;Be still an Eden bright to me My own—my own m §M§i DISCOVERY By ALFRED NELSON Ten thousand years have faded To find the world still young;Ten thousand names are written In song no tongue hath sung;From strand of lost Atlantis, To horn of Seventh sea,Rides ancient ship with rusty crew To port Discovery. Thou dark Phoenician helmsman,With far-famd traders brain, Say, did yon red-beard VikingBut plough your track again? And thou of martial bearing, And haughty Roman face,Say, which of those old-world comrades Saild ere we knew your race? There, by the swart Etruscan Red Eric stands so bold!—Astern the singing spindrift His long sea-snake of old!—A Genoese at lookout, An Englishman a-lee,That ship drives on with rusty crew To port Discovery!
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