MY HOME. 



BY HENRY WILLIAM 



A home! a home! yes! yes! though still and small, 

 1 have a home! where soft the-stiadows fall 

 From the dim pine-tree, and the river's sigh, 

 Like voices of the dead, wails ever nigh ; 

 Nor hearth is there, nor hall, nor festive place, 

 Nor welcome smile of that bewitching face, 

 Nor the low laughter, nor the sweet fond tone, 

 That made pain pleasant yet it is my own 

 My heart's own home, where'er my foot may tread, 

 Oh, for my narrow house and lowly bed! 



.Let others turn, whea each has ceased to roam, 

 To the calm pleasures of his childish home 

 Let others turn, when day's hot toil is o'er, 

 To that pure kiss which greets them at the door; 

 To that bright eye which kindles at the sound 

 Of their known footstep, shedding glory round ; 

 I have nor childish home, nor earthly hold 

 The kiss that breathed upou my lips is cold ; 

 The eye that beamed for me is dimmed and dead 

 Oh, for my narrow home and lowly bed! 



Earth has no hoyie thttt can with mine compare, 

 For thou, my own lost one, for thou art there, 

 It matters not that they are sealed in death, 

 Those founl^ of light, and still the balmy breath, 

 And wan the radiant lip and lustrous brow- 

 It matters not for it is always thou ! 

 It matters not how cold, if I at last, 

 On that true heart of mine, when all is past, 

 May pillow once again my lonely head 

 Oh, for my narrow house and lowly bed ! 



Oh, weary-waste, and weary is the day, 

 And weary is the night oh ! well away ! 

 For anguish wakens with the rising morn. 

 And sleepless sorrow of the night is born! 

 And years must pass, long years, ere I shall run 

 To that dear spot which fools are fain to shun, 

 The only home which now my soul doth crave, 

 Thy home the long, the last thine early grave, 

 Oh, that for me the bridal sheets were spread 



Now, in my narrow house and lonely bed. 

 Philadelphia, April 10, 1844. 



