THE HOME OF HIS CHILDHOOD.
I
He knows that the paleness still grows on his cheek.
He feels that the fever still burns on his brow,
And what in his thought, in his dream, does he seek
Far, far o'er the ocean that circles him now?
'Tis the Home of his Childhood! the first and the best
O why have you hurried him over the wave,
That the hand of the stranger may tend on his rest,
That the foot of the stranger may tread on his grave?
II
Here the sun may be brighter, the heaven more blue,
But on! to his eyes they are joyless and dim:
Here the flowers may be richer of perfume and hue,—
They are not so fair nor so fragrant to him:
'Tis the Home of his Childhood! O bear him again
To the play-haunted lawn, to the love-lighted room,
That his mother may watch by his pillow of pain,
That his father may whisper a prayer o'er his tomb!
St. Leonard's-on-Sea,
December 22, 1838.
