Thus, when oppress’d with rude, tumultuous cares,
To thee, sweet Home! the fainting mind repairs;
Still to thy breast, a wearied pilgrim, flies,
Her ark of refuge from uncertain skies!
Bower of repose! when, torn from all we love,
Through toil we struggle, or through distance rove;
To thee we turn, still faithful, from afar—
Thee, our bright vista! thee, our magnet-star!
And from the martial field, the troubled sea,
Unfetter’d thought still roves to bliss and thee!