HOME-SICKNESS.

I know not what the reason is: Where’er I dwell or roam, I make a pilgrimage each year, To my old childhood home. Have nothing there to give or get— No legacy, no gold— Yet by some home-attracting power I’m evermore controlled: This is the way the home-sick do, I often have been told. As nearer to the spot I come More sweetly am I drawn; And something in my heart begins To urge me faster on. Ere quite I’ve reached the last hill-top— You’ll smile at me, I ween!— I stretch myself high as I can, To catch the view serene— The dear old stone house through the trees With shutters painted green! See! how the kitchen chimney smokes! That ofttimes gave me joy; When, from the fields, that curling cloud I witnessed as a boy! And see! the purple window panes, They seem as red as blood. I often wondered what did that, But guess it, never could. Ah! many a thing a child knows not. Did it, it were not good! How do I love those poplar trees; What tall and stately things! See! on the top of one just now A starling sits and sings. He’ll fall!—the twig bends with his weight! He likes that danger best. I see the red upon his wings,— Dark shining is the rest. I ween his little wife has built On that same tree her nest. O, I remember very well When those three poplar trees Not thicker than my finger were, And could be bent with ease. My mother was at grandpa’s house, And trees like these had he; She brought three scions home, and said, “Boys, plant them there for me.” Can you believe—they grew so tall And made the trees you see! See! really I am near the house; How short the distance seems! There is no sense of time when one Goes musing in his dreams. There is the shop—the corn-crib, too— The cider-press—just see! The barn—the spring with drinking cup Hung up against the tree. The yard-fence—and the little gate Just where it used to be. All, all is still! They know not yet That there’s a stranger near; I guess old Watch, the dog, is dead, Or barking, he’d appear. What fearful bellowings he made Whene’er he heard the gate; The travellers always feared him sore, He bounced at such a rate; But though the bark was woful loud, The bite was never great! All, all is still! The door is shut. I muse with beating heart; Hark! there’s a little rattling now Back in the kitchen part. I’ll not go in! I cannot yet; I’m overcome, I fear! The same old bench here on the porch, I’ll rest a little here. Behind this grape-vine I can hide The falling of a tear! Two spots on this old friendly porch I love, nor can forget, Till dimly in the night of death My life’s last sun shall set! When first I left my father’s house, One summer morning bright, My mother at that railing wept Till I was out of sight! Now like a holy star that spot Shines in this world’s dull night. Still, still I see her at that spot, With handkerchief in hand; Her cheeks are red—her eyes are wet— There, there I see her stand! ’Twas there I gave her my good-bye, There, did her blessing crave, And oh, with what a mother’s heart She that sought blessing gave. It was the last—ere I returned She rested in her grave! When now I call her form to mind, Wherever I may be, She still is standing at that rail And weeping on for me! She is in no familiar spot, As oft in former years; And never to my fancy she As in her grave appears; I see her only at that rail, Bedewed with holy tears. What draws my eye to yonder spot— That bench against the wall? What holy mem’ries cluster there, My heart still knows them all! How often sat my father there On summer afternoon; Hands meekly crossed upon his lap, He looked so lost and lone, As if he saw an empty world, And hoped to leave it soon. Doth a return of childhood’s joys Across his spirit gleam? Or is his fancy busy now With some loved youthful dream? He raises now his eyes and looks On yon hill’s sacred crest; Perhaps he sees the graveyard there Where mother’s sleep is blest, And longs to slumber by her side, In death’s last peaceful rest. All, all is still! I hesitate— I fain would pass the door, But fear the pain of missing all This home contained of yore. For, ah, it is not what it was Though its inmates are kind; What with our parents once we lose We nevermore shall find; Death goes before and reaps the sheaves; We can but glean behind. Such is the fate of earthly loves Where all things die or change. Yes, even in the homestead here, I feel alone and strange. O were it not for yon bright heaven, With its unchanging rest, How heavy would our burdens be, Our life how sore distressed; But hope illumes our pathway to The regions of the blest. That is a lovely Fatherland: There I shall never roam; No mother there with tearful eyes, Shall see me leave that home. No father there shall seek the grave Where his beloved lies; That is no vale of woes like this, Where all we cherish dies; The beautiful is permanent In those unchanging skies. There we shall find what here we lose, And keep it evermore; There we shall join our sainted dead, Who are but gone before. I’m fain, in lonely hours, to lift The veil that let them through, And wish it were God’s holy will To let me pass it too; Yet patience! till my hour shall come, To bid the world, Adieu!