HOME, precious word! what makes its very sound
Cause a quick thrill of pleasure through my breast?
It is that there the dearest ties are found,
The hearts on whose tried faithfulness we rest.
The world can give us smiles, and words, and looks,
That soon dry up like summer's shallow brooks:
At home we find affections true and strong,
From the soul's inmost depths they flow life's course along.
“Father and mother," home's first lisping sounds,
Taught our young lips in tender infancy;
“Father and mother," how the heart rebounds,
When echoed back by children on our knee!
The past with all its holiest earthly ties,
Its most unselfish, native sympathies,
Makes present home-scenes softer, mellower shine,
Just as if spring's fresh tints with autumn's should combine.
Alas! that weeds should ever choke the soil
Where such fair plants of Paradise should grow;
That discord should invade, and death should spoil,
And bosoms ache and scalding tears should flow;
That tones should e'er be heard, and scowlings seen
Fit for hell's darkness,-words like daggers keen,
Where only love's sweet music should be heard,
Its beaming smiles, and true affection's kindly word!
Home! home! sweet home; what memories it recalls
Of sunny hours, and forms, and faces bright!
Sweet songs, that jocund made its happy walls,
And words and looks that filled me with delight.
Alas! the past the present makes more drear;
The house remains, but gone the inmates dear;
And the dark portals of the silent tomb
Are closed on her, who made the sunshine of my home.
When I commenced this lay, I little thought,
Ere my pen closed my then rejoicing strain,
Death would invade my home, and bring to naught
My dearest joys, and fill my cup with pain;
How with a stroke my Father would remove
The fondest object of my earthly love,
And bid me now a lonelier stranger roam,
Seeking no rest, but in His own celestial home.