Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Domestic Hearth

The Domestic Hearth.

The camp may have its fame, the court its glare,The theatre its wit, the board its mirth;But there's a calm, a quiet haven whereBliss flies for shelter—the domestic hearth!If this be comfortless, if this be drear,It needs not hope to find a haunt on earth,—Elsewhere we may be reckless, gay, caressed;But here, and only here, we can be blessed!

Oh! senseless, soulless, worse than both, were he,Who slighting all the heart should hoard with pride,Could waste nie nights in wanton revelry.And leave his bosom's partner to abideThe anguish women feel who love, and seeThemselves deserted, and their hopes destroyed;Some doting one, perhaps who hides her tears,And struggles at a smile when he appears.