No. XV.—HOME SCENES.
As young bird from its nest,
At morn, floats upward—onward—and away;
And when the night brings down its shadows grey.
Returns unto its rest,
Ev'n thus the youthful mind
Goes forward to the world; partakes its cares
And fleeting joys,—is tempted by its snares;
But can no refuge find:
The freshness of his home
Goes with him, guidingly, where'er he wends;
A star-like light upon his steps attends—
A ray from Heaven's bright dome!
In all his toil and fret,
The quiet fields and gentle streams he knew,
When youth clothed all around in fairest hue,
His soul can ne'er forget:
For still their memories come,
Like poetry, to his spirit;—as a tone
Of music's echo on the waters thrown,
And heard 'mid evening's gloom.
In brumal age, the dreams
Of home refresh the soul, as purples pied
Peep up from out the snows, and smile beside
Winter's deserted streams;
As violets on a rock
They cheer the solitude,—their promise dawns
Upon the mind, like moonlight o'er the lawns—
Or joy to one grief-broke.
Home of our youth, what spot
On earth is like thee? Scenes of early days,
Oh! where upon your equals can we gaze?
What palace like the cot
Where childhood first its eyes
Oped to the day, and marvelled what could be
The world around it? Is there aught we see
Can be compared to skies
Like those which earliest shone
Upon our path, and like a sunray bright,
Brought with it, freshly, dawnings of the light
That ne'er can be forgone?
Landscapes of other climes,
Though bountiful in beauty, what are ye
To the fair scenes of home, where'er it be?
Sacred as churchward chimes.
High may the mountains tower
Into the heavens, and grandeur fill the scene,
The valleys and the pastures may be green,
The hill-sides still in flower,
Of other lands, where stray
The exile's feet; but none are e'er so fair
Unto his soul, as the blest landscapes where
His visions fly away.
Those sordid cares beside,
That cloud the mind, 'mong earth-born woes and ills.
Come soothing thoughts of home, as 'tween far hills
The gentle streamlets glide!