HOME-SICK

‘ Tis sweet to him who all the week

Through city-crowds must push his way,

To stroll alone through fields and woods,

And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate and gay,

One's own dear children feasting round,

To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all to his delight,

Who having long been doomed to roam,

Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;

This feel I hourly more and more:

There's healing only in thy wings,

Thou breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!