MORNA.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MY NATIVE HOME.
BY GEO. WATTERSTON.
| When storms howl around me and dark tempests roll, And Nature seems mov'd and convulsed to each pole— When billows o'er billows tempestuously foam, How dear is the thought of my lov'd native home. The Laplander's breast, cold and dreary as night, Beats wildly with transport, and throbs with delight, When mem'ry, sad mem'ry, once chances to roam, And recalls the past joys of his lov'd native home. The soldier who combats at tyranny's call, In far distant climes, where grim terrors appal, At the last beat of life, when he ceases to roam, While dying, remembers his dear native home. Grim slav'ry's poor victim, long destin'd to mourn O'er the ruins of peace that will never return, Views with heart-bursting grief, old Ocean's white foam, And dies as he thinks of his lov'd native home. Misfortune's sad child, while he wanders afar, Still guided by Destiny's mysterious star, Heaves a sigh, while visions of intellect roam, And paint on his mem'ry the sweets of his home. When sorrows the cheek of remembrance bedew, And disease, death, and misery glare dreadful to view, How grateful, when far from our country we roam, Are the long cherish'd thoughts of our lov'd native home. Who wanders o'er far distant realms to enjoy Life's baubles of pleasure and wealth's glitt'ring toy, In his old age returns, no longer to roam, From the long absent shades of his dear native home. Would fortune permit me once more to return To the cot of my youth, that in sadness I mourn, Oh! nothing again shall induce me to roam From the scenes, the lov'd scenes of my sweet native home. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.