' Mid pleasures & palaces though Be it ever so humble, there's which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere! Home, home! sweet, sweet Home! There's no place like Home! An exile from Home, splendour dazzles in vain! – lowly thatch'd cottage again ! The birds singing gaily that Give сате at my call me them! — and the peace of mind dearer than all! John Stoward Layne. HOME, SWEET HOME! 'MID pleasures and palaces though we may ream, There's no place like home! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; TO MARY. THE twentieth year is well-nigh past Ah, would that this might be the last! My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow; I see thee daily weaker grow: 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, For my sake restless heretofore, Now rust disused, and shine no more, My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil My Mary! But well thou playedst the housewife's part; And all thy threads, with magic art, Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary! 54 TO MARY. Thy indistinct expressions seem Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, For, could I view nor them nor thee, Partakers of thy sad decline, My Mary! Thy hands their little force resign; Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, And still to love, though pressed with ill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, My Mary! |