At Home: Sweet Home

[From "Songs in the Night," a beautiful

volume of sacred poetry, recently re-published

   by Mr. Perkins, of Boston.]

When burns the fireside brightest,

  Cheering the social breast?

Where beats the fond heart lightest,

  Its humble hopes possessed?

Where is the hour of sadness

  With meek-eyed patience borne?-

Worth more than those of gladness,

  Which mirth's gay checks adorn?-

Pleasure is marked with fleetness

  To those who ever roam,

While grief itself has sweetness,

  At home-sweet home!

There blend the ties that strengthen

  Our hearts in hours of grief-

The silver links that lengthen

  Joy's visits when most brief;

There, eyes in all their splendour,

  Are vocal to the heart,

And glances, bright and tender,

Fresh eloquence impart;

  Then dost thou sigh for pleasure?

O, do not wildly roam,

  But seek that hidden treasure

  At home-sweet home!

Does pure religion charm thee,

  Far more than aught below?

Would'st thou that she should arm thee

  Against the hour to wo?

Her dwelling is not only

  In temples built for prayer,

For home itself is lonely,

  Unless her smiles be there;

Wherever we may wander,

  Tis all in vain we roam,

If worshipless her altar,

  At home-sweet home!