 | Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) |  |
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“MY HOME.”
A home! a home! Yes, yes! though still and small,
I have a home where soft the shadows 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 fond, sweet tone
That make pain pleasant: yet it is mine own—
My heart's own home, where'er my foot may tread.
Oh for my narrow house and lowly bed!
I have a home where soft the shadows 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 fond, sweet tone
That make pain pleasant: yet it is mine own—
My heart's own home, where'er my foot may tread.
Oh for my narrow house and lowly bed!
Let others turn, when each has ceased to roam,
To the calm pleasures of his childish home;
Let others turn, when the day's hot toil is o'er,
To that pure kiss which greets him at the door;
To that bright eye which kindles at the sound
Of their known footsteps, shedding glory round.
I have no childish home, nor earthly hold;
The kiss that breathed upon my lips is cold;
The eye that beamed for me is dimmed and dead.
Oh for my narrow house and lowly bed!
To the calm pleasures of his childish home;
Let others turn, when the day's hot toil is o'er,
To that pure kiss which greets him at the door;
To that bright eye which kindles at the sound
Of their known footsteps, shedding glory round.
I have no childish home, nor earthly hold;
The kiss that breathed upon my lips is cold;
The eye that beamed for me is dimmed and dead.
Oh for my narrow house and lowly bed!
Earth has no home that can with mine compare,
For thou, my own lost one, for thou art there.
It matters not that they are sealed in death,
Those founts 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 thine, when all is past,
May pillow once again my lonely head,
Oh for my narrow house and lowly bed!
For thou, my own lost one, for thou art there.
It matters not that they are sealed in death,
Those founts of light, and still the balmy breath,
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It matters not; for it is always thou.
It matters not how cold, if I at last,
On that true heart of thine, 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! will away!
For anguish weakens 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, where 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 lowly bed!
And weary is the night. Oh! will away!
For anguish weakens 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, where 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 lowly bed!
| Poems of "Frank Forester" (Henry William Herbert) | |