 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
THE HAPPY HOME.
How sad the wanderer's lonely breast,
To home, and friends, and country lost,
When from the waves escaped to rest
Upon some desert island's coast!
But if he see the whitening sail
Bear down upon that lonely isle,
Then hopes will o'er his fears prevail,
And paint his aspect with a smile.
To home, and friends, and country lost,
When from the waves escaped to rest
Upon some desert island's coast!
But if he see the whitening sail
Bear down upon that lonely isle,
Then hopes will o'er his fears prevail,
And paint his aspect with a smile.
And if the bark which now appears,
Stemming the dark green ocean wave,
Prove, as the desert coast she nears,
Freighted with friends who come to save—
How quick he leaves the barren strand,
And dashes through the girdling foam,
To reach again his native land,
And kindred dear, and happy home.
Stemming the dark green ocean wave,
Prove, as the desert coast she nears,
Freighted with friends who come to save—
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And dashes through the girdling foam,
To reach again his native land,
And kindred dear, and happy home.
How earnestly he woos the breeze,
Which seems to loiter on its way,
To urge his bark across the seas
To where affection's sunbeams play!
Oh! how he pants again to see
The walks where he was wont to roam,
His native hill, his native tree,
His native lake, and happy home!
Which seems to loiter on its way,
To urge his bark across the seas
To where affection's sunbeams play!
Oh! how he pants again to see
The walks where he was wont to roam,
His native hill, his native tree,
His native lake, and happy home!
And how he longs again to clasp
The friends who gave each scene a charm—
Who, ere he parted from their grasp,
Bedew'd his hand with tear-drops warm.
And oh! how joyful is the day
Which brings him from the ocean foam,
With them to walk, with them to pray,
With them to share his happy home!
The friends who gave each scene a charm—
Who, ere he parted from their grasp,
Bedew'd his hand with tear-drops warm.
And oh! how joyful is the day
Which brings him from the ocean foam,
With them to walk, with them to pray,
With them to share his happy home!
And what are we but exiles here?
Upon a desert island cast;
If hope or joy our bosoms cheer,
How brief the season which they last!
And when our friends are gone before,
Through happier climes above to roam,
Why linger we upon the shore,
Nor long to reach our happy home?
Upon a desert island cast;
If hope or joy our bosoms cheer,
How brief the season which they last!
And when our friends are gone before,
Through happier climes above to roam,
Why linger we upon the shore,
Nor long to reach our happy home?
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We know our parted friends are there,
Ready to hail us from the storm,
With angel eyes so bright, so fair!
With kindred souls so pure, so warm!
And though the waves, which we must cross,
Be dark, or only white with foam,
Why should we fear?—secure from loss,
They bear us to a happy home.
Ready to hail us from the storm,
With angel eyes so bright, so fair!
With kindred souls so pure, so warm!
And though the waves, which we must cross,
Be dark, or only white with foam,
Why should we fear?—secure from loss,
They bear us to a happy home.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |