CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 167 



MY LONG LAST HOME. 



In that sweet hour when morning bright 

 Pours o'er the world a flood of light, 



And wood and mountain, tower and stream.. 

 Are glittering in the golden beam. 



Or when the gentle moonbeams rest 



Upon the broad lake's peaceful breast, 

 When the light breeze is full of balm, 

 And all around is still and calm, 



I love in solitude to roam, 



And muse on thee, my distant home. 



My mother's gentle voice I hear, 



Her tender smile I see ; 

 That voice, that smile, that seem more dear, 



Than ever now to me. 

 With her through shady walks I rove. 



Or tend her favourite flowers, 

 Or by the stream we used to love 



Spend the bright summer hours. 

 Why did I cross the blue sea's foam, 

 Why leave my dear, my pleasant home ! 



If care or sorrow rend my heart, 



Or agitate my breast, 

 Who now will seek, with tender art, 



To sooth my griefs to rest ? 

 Who when on pain's hard couch I lie 



Will share my chamber's gloom. 

 And who will watch me when I die, 



And lay me in my tomb ? 

 It is enough no more I'll roam, 

 I haste to thee, my long last home ! 



E. S. L. 



