The crowds that past me ceaseless rush
Stay not to glance at me,
As falling waters headlong gush
Into their native sea.
But hearts there are that brightly burn,
And light each kindling eye,
And home to them my thoughts return,
Swift as the sunbeams fly.
* * * * *
To home, to home my spirit hastes;
For why? my treasure's there;
'Tis there her native joys she tastes,
And breathes her native air.
Oh, sweetest of all precious things,
When this wide world we roam,
When meets us on its balmy wings
A messenger from home!
From home, where hearts are warm and true,
And love's lamp brightly burns,
And sparkles Hermon's pearly dew
On childhood's crystal urns.
Oh, sweet to mark the speaking lines
Traced by a sister's hand,
And feel the love that firmly twines
Around our household band!