TO MY BROTHER, ON HIS LEAVING ENGLAND.

Wherever your fortune may lead you to roam,

Forget not, young exile, the land of your home;

Let it ever be present to memory's eye,

'Tis the place where the bones of your fore-father's lie.

Let the thought of it ever your comforter be,

For no spot on this earth like your home can you see.

The fields where you rove may be more fresh and fair,

More splendid the sun, and more fragrant the air,

More lovely the flowers, more refreshing the breeze,

More tranquil the waters, more fruitful the trees.

But home after all things—that dear little spot,

Tho' it be but a desert can ne'er be forgot.

In the thoughts of the day, and the dreams of the night,

On your eyes like the kiss of your mother 'twill light,

Then the mist will disperse which long absence has spread.

And the paths you have trodden again you shall tread.

Then farewell, young exile, wherever you roam,

Oh! dear as your honour, your life, be your home.

J.H.S.