I thank Thee, Lord, that here our souls,
Though amply blest,
Can never find, although they seek,
A perfect rest—­
Nor ever shall, until they lean
On Jesus’ breast!

VERSE:  HOME-SICKNESS

Where I am, the halls are gilded,
Stored with pictures bright and rare;
Strains of deep melodious music
Float upon the perfumed air:-
Nothing stirs the dreary silence
Save the melancholy sea,
Near the poor and humble cottage,
Where I fain would be!

Where I am, the sun is shining,
And the purple windows glow,
Till their rich armorial shadows
Stain the marble floor below:-
Faded Autumn leaves are trembling,
On the withered jasmine tree,
Creeping round the little casement,
Where I fain would be!

Where I am, the days are passing
O’er a pathway strewn with flowers;
Song and joy and starry pleasures
Crown the happy smiling hours:-
Slowly, heavily, and sadly,
Time with weary wings must flee,
Marked by pain, and toil, and sorrow,
Where I fain would be!

Where I am, the great and noble
Tell me of renown and fame,
And the red wine sparkles highest,
To do honour to my name:-
Far away a place is vacant,
By a humble hearth, for me,
Dying embers dimly show it,
Where I fain would be!

Where I am, are glorious dreaminess,
Science, genius, art divine;
And the great minds whom all honour
Interchange their thoughts with mine:-
A few simple hearts are waiting,
Longing, wearying, for me,
Far away where tears are falling,
Where I fain would be!

Where I am, all think me happy,
For so well I play my part,
None can guess, who smile around me,
How far distant is my heart—­
Far away, in a poor cottage,
Listening to the dreary sea,
Where the treasures of my life are,
Where I fain would be!

VERSE:  WISHES

All the fluttering wishes
Caged within thy heart
Beat their wings against it,
Longing to depart,
Till they shake their prison
With their wounded cry;
Open wide thy heart to-day,
And let the captives fly.

Let them first fly upward
Through the starry air,
Till you almost lose them,
For their home is there;
Then, with outspread pinions,
Circling round and round,
Wing their way, wherever
Want and woe are found.

Where the weary stitcher
Toils for daily bread;
Where the lonely watcher
Watches by her dead;
Where with thin weak fingers,
Toiling at the loom,
Stand the little children,
Blighted ere they bloom.

Where, by darkness blinded,
Groping for the light,
With distorted conscience
Men do wrong for right;
Where, in the cold shadow,
By smooth pleasure thrown,
Human hearts by hundreds
Harden into stone.