Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Home ("The traveller plods his weary way")

Home.

The traveller plods his weary way Through many a distant scene;Through chilly night and burning day, Through pastures fair and green."Home" is his never-ceasing thought, "The end, when will it come?I shall not feel the trials then, When I am safe at home."

"Home!" sighs the anxious sailor, as He paces to and froThe narrow deck, but thoughts have' wings, And far away they go.They reach the mother, wife, and child, And hastening, back they come:"I soon shall be across the sea, And safe with' them at home!"

"Home!" shouts the schoolboy; he throws His cap into the air;"Good-by to school and lessors too, Good-by to thought and cafe.Good-by to Latin, Euclid, Greek, To exercise and sum;Good-by to master, books, and cane, Hurrah! I'm going home!"

"Home!" lisps the tender little child, With toilsome pleasure spent;And wearily lays down its head, And gives fatigue its vent.But still the first soft words it says, When back its senses come,Are—"Oh, I am so very tired, O mother take me home!"

The poor man looks and longs for home, When all his Work is done;It is the place of household joys, The place he calls his own. Among his little ones he sits, And welcomes all who comeWith cheerful smile and hearty word— For is it not his home?

There is another blessed home Where pleasures never cease;Where death and sorrow never come, And all is joy and peace.O may we make that heavenly home Of all our hopes the sum;Remembering, in our love for earth, We are not yet at home!