Dew to the thirsty flower, a rosy beam
Of sunshine, or the melodies to Spring--
Sounds to the sick man’s ear, a running stream,
A humming-bird, a wild bee on the wing;
Joy--to the earth-scorn’d soul, when all remote
Is happiness and e’en Hope’s lamp is dim;
Light--to the dungeon wretch, when the last note
Comes through his grate of the sweet forest hymn;
Her first-born’s breath that the young mother feels,
When her dimm’d eye falls on her little one--
A maiden’s priceless faith that love reveals,
When heart meets heart in holy unison;--
Than these--than all--O! sweeter far to me,
Mother! are thoughts of home, of my sweet home, and thee.