At home alone, O Nomades,
Although Mæcenas’ marble frieze
Stand not between you and the sky,
Nor Persian luxury supply
Its rosy surfeit, find ye ease.
Tempt not the far Ægean breeze;
With home-made wine and books that please,
To duns and bores the door deny,
At home, alone.
Strange joys may lure. Your deities
Smile here alone. Oh, give me these:
Low eaves, where birds familiar fly,
And peace of mind, and, fluttering by,
My Lydia’s graceful draperies,
At home, alone.
V
(_As it might have been constructed in 1744, Oliver
Goldsmith, at 19, writing the first stanza, and
Alexander Pope, at 52, the second_)
Home! at the word, what blissful visions rise,
Lift us from earth, and draw toward the skies;
’Mid mirag’d towers, or meretricious joys,
Although we roam, one thought the mind employs:
Or lowly hut, good friend, or loftiest dome,
Earth knows no spot so holy as our Home.
There, where affection warms the father’s breast,
There is the spot of heav’n most surely blest.
Howe’er we search, though wandering with the wind
Through frigid Zembla, or the heats of Ind,
Not elsewhere may we seek, nor elsewhere know,
The light of heaven upon our dark below.
When from our dearest hope and haven reft,
Delight nor dazzles, nor is luxury left,
We long, obedient to our nature’s law,
To see again our hovel thatched with straw:
See birds that know our avenaceous store
Stoop to our hand, and thence repleted soar:
But, of all hopes the wanderer’s soul that share,
His pristine peace of mind’s his final prayer.