THE STRANGER’S HEART.
The stranger’s heart! Oh, wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;
In the green shadow of thy tree,
The stranger finds no rest with thee.
Thou think’st the vine’s low rustling leaves
Glad music round thy household eaves;
To him that sound hath sorrow’s tone—
The stranger’s heart is with his own.
Thou think’st thy children’s laughing play
A lovely sight at fall of day;
Then are the stranger’s thoughts oppress’d—
His mother’s voice comes o’er his breast.
Thou think’st it sweet when friend with friend
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend;
Then doth the stranger’s eye grow dim—
Far, far are those who pray’d with him.
Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage-land,
The voices of thy kindred band—
Oh! midst them all when bless’d thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger’s heart!