 | Lyrical and other poems |  |
134
TO A FRIEND,
Who said “What reason have I to desert the home of my childhood?”
Oh! you may dearly love your home,
Its calm and moonlit, fleecy skies
Delight your heart and charm your eyes,
And make you careless thus to roam,
A Pilgrim at some foreign shrine,
Which old Tradition stamps divine:
Nor sculptured column tempts your feet,
The splendors of the far, to greet;
Rut, I, whose home has ever been
A dark, and wide contested scene;
Where strife and care the hours beset,
I leave such home without regret....
There be some eyes that may be wet,
In kindness thus I deem, though, I,
Could never yet their tears descry!
And not with vain desire to roam,
Do I desert my native home!
Not that a foreign clime bestows
A brighter sun, a richer sky,
But there my heart may better lose
The memory of its misery.
Its calm and moonlit, fleecy skies
Delight your heart and charm your eyes,
And make you careless thus to roam,
A Pilgrim at some foreign shrine,
Which old Tradition stamps divine:
Nor sculptured column tempts your feet,
The splendors of the far, to greet;
Rut, I, whose home has ever been
A dark, and wide contested scene;
Where strife and care the hours beset,
I leave such home without regret....
There be some eyes that may be wet,
In kindness thus I deem, though, I,
Could never yet their tears descry!
And not with vain desire to roam,
Do I desert my native home!
Not that a foreign clime bestows
A brighter sun, a richer sky,
But there my heart may better lose
The memory of its misery.
Seek thou the sun, or court the shade,
A like for thee, their joys are made;
And home, the word that now ye deem,
A joy itself, and not a dream,
Can still bestow its kindly ray,
And bid contented hearts be gay.
But I, a bantling from my birth,
Unportioned child of mother earth,
The wild-wood bud, that careless thrown,
By step-dame hands, must bloom alone;
Receive the dew and bear the show'r,
When skies are dark and tempest's low'r;
Thus reft of all, I claim no sky,
Beneath whose warm and soothing ray,
My heart could rest from misery,
And smile its every care away:
A native home, a kindred bow'r,
Is but for fortune's favorite flow'r;
The rock, her cast-off-children own,
To leave, or perish there alone!
A like for thee, their joys are made;
And home, the word that now ye deem,
A joy itself, and not a dream,
135
And bid contented hearts be gay.
But I, a bantling from my birth,
Unportioned child of mother earth,
The wild-wood bud, that careless thrown,
By step-dame hands, must bloom alone;
Receive the dew and bear the show'r,
When skies are dark and tempest's low'r;
Thus reft of all, I claim no sky,
Beneath whose warm and soothing ray,
My heart could rest from misery,
And smile its every care away:
A native home, a kindred bow'r,
Is but for fortune's favorite flow'r;
The rock, her cast-off-children own,
To leave, or perish there alone!
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