Poems (Edwards)/The Wanderer to his Home

by Matilda Caroline Smiley Edwards

THE WANDERER TO HIS HOME.

My own bright home! I have thoughts of thee.
In the deep dark wood, on the mountain free,
'Mid the desert wide, on the ocean deep,
Where the bounding billows in beauty sweep,
And the sea-bird floats o'er the waters dark,
And sings a dirge to the buried bark,
And dips her wing in the boiling foam;
There, there, I have thoughts of thee my home,
And my spirit flies o'er the dark blue sea,
To my friends, my own heart friends, and thee.

I can see the lawn where I used to run,
And the trees, I can number them one by one,
I can see the hill, and the rippling tide,
With the light canoe, where I used to ride,
And the willow branches that over it fell,
And the flowers that gladdened the woodland dell;
And I hear the birds as they wander by,
With their glad notes floating along the sky,
And I see my cottage all bright and fair,
And the blossoms that grew in their beauty there,
But a voice comes booming across the deep,
"They are all departed!" and I wake to weep.

The dream is gone, I can see no more
My beautiful home on the distant shore,
The dark deep sea with its sparkling foam,
Divides me away from my own bright home,
And its garden walks, they are not for me,
Another's eye will their beauty see,
Another's hand will the blossoms twine,
Those beautiful blossoms that once were mine,
And strangers will list to the lute-like songs
From the forest birds, Oh! my bosom throngs
With memories wild of my home afar,
As it looks through the shadows, my life's first star.