The Traveller
’Tis sweet to think of home.
When from my native clime,
Mid lonely vallies pensive far I roam,
Mid rocks and hills where waters roll sublime,
’Tis sweet to think of home.
My retrospective gaze
Bounds on a dark horizon far behind,
But yet the stars of homely pleasures blaze
And glimmer on my mind.
When pealing thunders roll,
And ruffian winds howl, threat’ning life with gloom,
To Heaven’s kind hand I then commit the whole,
And smile to think of home.
But cease, my pensive soul,
To languish at departure’s gloomy shrine;
Still look in front and hail the joyful goal,
The pleasure teeming line.
When on the deep wide sea
I wander, sailing mid the swelling foam,
Tost from the land by many a long degree,
O, then I think of thee.
I never shall forget
The by-gone pleasures of my native shore,
Until the sun of life forbears to set,
And pain is known no more.
When nature seems to weep,
And life hangs trembling o’er the watery tomb,
Hope lifts her peaceful sail to brave the deep,
And bids me think of home.
My favorite pigeon rest,
Nor on the plane of sorrow drop thy train,
But on the bough of hope erect thy nest,
Till friends shall meet again.
Though in the hermit’s cell,
Where eager friends to cheer me fail to come,
Where Zeph’rus seems a joyless tale to tell,
No thought is sweet but home.
