HOME.

Where burns the lov'd hearth brightest, Cheering the social breast? Where beats the fond heart lightest, Its humble hopes possess'd? Where is the smile of sadness, Of meek-eyed patience born, Worth more than those of gladness, Which mirth's bright cheek adorn? Pleasure is marked by fleetness, To those who ever roam; While grief itself has sweetness At home! dear home! There blend the ties that strengthen Our hearts in hours of grief; The silver links that lengthen Joy's visits when most brief; There eyes, in all their splendor, Are vocal to the heart, And glances, gay or tender, Fresh eloquence impart; Then, dost thou sigh for pleasure? O! do not widely roam, But seek that hidden treasure At home! dear home!

Does pure religion charm thee Far more than aught below? Would'st thou that she should arm thee Against the hour of woe? Think not she dwelleth only In temples built for prayer; For home itself is lonely, Unless her smiles be there; The devotee may falter, The bigot blindly roam, If worshipless her altar At home! dear home! Love over it presideth, With meek and watchful awe, Its daily service guideth, And shows its perfect law? If there thy faith shall fail thee, If there no shrine be found, What can thy prayers avail thee With kneeling crowds around? Go! leave thy gift unoffered Beneath religion's dome, And be thy first fruits proffered At home! dear home!