Poems (Procter)/Home-Sickness
For works with similar titles, see Home-Sickness.
HOME-SICKNESS.
HERE I am, the halls are gilded, Stored with pictures bright and rare,Strains of deep melodious music Float upon the perfumed air:Nothing stirs the dreary silence Save the melancholy sea,Near the poor and humble cottage, Where I fain would be!Where I am, the sun is shining, And the purple windows glow,Till their rich armorial shadows Stain the marble floor below:—Faded autumn leaves are trembling On the withered jasmine-tree,Creeping round the little casement, Where I fain would be!
Where I am, the days are passing O'er a pathway strewn with flowers;Song and joy and starry pleasures Crown the happy, smiling hours:—Slowly, heavily, and sadly, Time with weary wings must flee,Marked by pain, and toil, and sorrow, Where I fain would be!
Where I am, the great and noble Tell me of renown and fame,And the red wine sparkles highest, To do honor to my name:—Far away a place is vacant, By a humble hearth, for me,Dying embers dimly show it, Where I fain would be!
Where I am are glorious dreamings, Science, genius, art divine;And the great minds whom all honor Interchange their thoughts with mine:—A few simple hearts are waiting, Longing, wearying, for me,Far away where tears are falling, Where I fain would be!
Where I am, all think me happy, For so well I play my part,None can guess, who smile around me, How far distant is my heart,—Far away, in a poor cottage, Listening to the dreary sea,Where the treasures of my life are, Where I fain would be!