On hearing the song "Sweet Home," and reflections during the same.
O breathe again, that touching strain
Which comes like winds o'er waters stealing;
Its fall, its swell, like vesper bell,
Its full rich notes in rapture pealing,
Bids the lone heart, rejoice again
In music's all subduing strain.
O Music! rapture's in thy chords!
Now gushing soft like moon-beams streaming
On quiet spot, on rural grot,
On mossy couch, on infant dreaming,--
Or rising into raptures wild,
It fills with wonder nature's child.
The Exile lone, no land to own,
Lists to thy soft and touching numbers,
And _dreams_ he sees the cot, the trees,
The scenes of youth, (how sweet his slumbers!)
Nor dreams when thy bright spell is o'er
His happy "Home" he'll see no more.
The sailor boy, bereft of joy,
Looks on the stars above him glowing;
The big tear steals, his bosom feels
As troubled as the waters flowing,
And while the billows round him foam,
He faintly murmurs, "Home! sweet Home!"
The warrior stern, whose feelings burn
To meet the foe, his rights defending,
When war is o'er, sweet home once more
Its rainbow colors round him blending,
Invites him from the bloody plain
Back to its quiet hearth again.
The christian warm, round whom the storm
Of opposition wildly rages,
Beholds the prize beyond the skies,
Reflected on the glowing pages
Of God's own book, and with a tear
Of joy, he "reads his title clear."
O! onward press, life's wilderness
Will soon be past; where spirits linger
Round flowing streams in rapt'rous dreams
And golden lyres, softly finger,
We all shall meet, no more to roam,
And dwell in an eternal home.