 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
There is no word to those who roam,
So sweet, so musical, as “Home;”
The sound of its endearing name,
Thrills with delight the wand'rer's frame.
Whether 'mid Zembla's rocks of ice,
Or Syria's flowery paradise;
Whether beneath a brighter sky,
Or darker than his own, his sigh
Is for that spot which love endears,
With mutual smiles and mutual tears!
What, then, must be the thoughts of those
To whom the world gives no repose?
For whom, wherever they may roam,
Time hath no hopes, and earth no home!
They may be bless'd, for God prepares
A home, which nought but goodness shares;
And those who scorn not his command,
May journey to that happy land!
So sweet, so musical, as “Home;”
The sound of its endearing name,
Thrills with delight the wand'rer's frame.
Whether 'mid Zembla's rocks of ice,
Or Syria's flowery paradise;
Whether beneath a brighter sky,
Or darker than his own, his sigh
Is for that spot which love endears,
With mutual smiles and mutual tears!
What, then, must be the thoughts of those
To whom the world gives no repose?
For whom, wherever they may roam,
Time hath no hopes, and earth no home!
They may be bless'd, for God prepares
A home, which nought but goodness shares;
And those who scorn not his command,
May journey to that happy land!
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |