"Oh, turn again, while yet ye may,
And ere the hearths are cold,
And all the embers ashen-gray,

By which ye sat of old,

And dumb in death the loving lips
That mourned as forth ye went
To join the fleet of missing ships,
In quest of Heart's Content;

"And seek again the harbor-lights,
Which faithful fingers trim,
Ere yet alike the days and nights
Unto your eyes are dim!

For woe, alas! to those that roam

Till time and tide are spent,

And win no more the port of home

The only Heart's Content!"

Unknown

SONG

STAY, stay at home, my heart, and rest;
Home-keeping hearts are happiest,

For those that wander they know not where
Are full of trouble and full of care;

To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed,

They wander east, they wander west,

And are baffled and beaten and blown about
By the winds of the wilderness of doubt;

To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest;

The bird is safest in its nest;

Over all that flutter their wings and fly

A hawk is hovering in the sky;

To stay at home is best.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

MY EARLY HOME

HERE sparrows build upon the trees,
And stockdove hides her nest;

The leaves are winnowed by the breeze
Into a calmer rest:

The black-cap's song was very sweet,
That used the rose to kiss;

It made the Paradise complete:
My early home was this.

The red-breast from the sweetbrier bush
Dropped down to pick the worm;
On the horse-chestnut sang the thrush,
O'er the house where I was born;
The moonlight, like a shower of pearls,
Fell o'er this 'bower of bliss',

And on the bench sat boys and girls:
My early home was this.

The old house stooped just like a cave,
Thatched o'er with mosses green;
Winter around the walls would rave,
But all was calm within;

The trees are here all green again,
Here bees the flowers still kiss,

But flowers and trees seemed sweeter then:
My early home was this.

John Clare [1793-1864]

THE OLD HOME

AN old lane, an old gate, an old house by a tree;
A wild wood, a wild brook-they will not let me be:
In boyhood I knew them, and still they call to me.

Down deep in my heart's core I hear them and my eyes Through tear-mists behold them beneath the oldtime skies, 'Mid bee-boom and rose-bloom and orchard-lands arise.

I hear them; and heartsick with longing is my soul,
To walk there, to dream there, beneath the sky's blue bowl;
Around me, within me, the weary world made whole.

To talk with the wild brook of all the long ago;

To whisper the wood-wind of things we used to know
When we were old companions, before my heart knew woe.

To walk with the morning and watch its rose unfold;
To drowse with the noontide lulled in its heart of gold;
To lie with the night-time and dream the dreams of old.

To tell to the old trees, and to each listening leaf,
The longing, the yearning, as in my boyhood brief,
The old hope, the old love, would ease me of my grief.

The old lane, the old gate, the old house by the tree,
The wild wood, the wild brook-they will not let me be:
In boyhood I knew them, and still they call to me.
Madison Cawein [1865-1914]

THE AULD HOUSE

Oн, the auld house, the auld house,—
What though the rooms were wee?
Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,
And bairnies fu' o' glee;

The wild rose and the jessamine
Still hang upon the wa':
How mony cherished memories
Do they sweet flowers reca'!

Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird,
Sae canty, kind, and crouse,-
How mony did he welcome to

His ain wee dear auld house;

And the leddy too, sae genty,

There sheltered Scotland's heir,

And clipped a lock wi' her ain hand,
Frae his lang yellow hair.

The mavis still doth sweetly sing,
The bluebells sweetly blaw,

The bonny Earn's clear winding still,
But the auld house is awa'.
The auld house, the auld house,-

Deserted though ye be,

There ne'er can be a new house
Will seem sae fair to me.

Still flourishing the auld pear-tree
The bairnies liked to see;
And oh, how often did they speir
When ripe they a' wad be!
The voices sweet, the wee bit feet
Aye rinnin' here and there,

The merry shout-oh! whiles we greet
To think we'll hear nae mair.

For they are a' wide scattered now;

Some to the Indies gane,
And ane, alas! to her lang hame;

Not here we'll meet again.
The kirkyard, the kirkyard!
Wi' flowers o' every hue,
Sheltered by the holly's shade
An' the dark sombre yew.

The setting sun, the setting sun!
How glorious it gaed doon;

The cloudy splendor raised our hearts
To cloudless skies aboon.

The auld dial, the auld dial!

It tauld how time did pass;

The wintry winds hae dung it doon,

Now hid 'mang weeds and grass.

Carolina Nairne [1766-1845]

THE ROWAN TREE

O ROWAN tree, O rowan tree! thou'lt aye be dear to me!
Intwined thou art wi' mony ties o' hame and infancy.
Thy leaves were aye the first o' spring, thy flowers the sim-
mer's pride;

There wasna sic a bonnie tree in a' the country side.

O rowan tree!

How fair wert thou in simmer time, wi' a' thy clusters white, How rich and gay thy autumn dress, wi' berries red and

bright!

On thy fair stem were mony names which now nae mair I see, But they're engraven on my heart-forgot they ne'er can be! O rowan tree!

We sat aneath thy spreading shade, the bairnies round thee ran,

They pu'd thy bonnie berries red, and necklaces they strang.
My mother! O I see her still, she smiled our sports to see,
Wi' little Jeanie on her lap, and Jamie at her knee.
O rowan tree!

O there arose my father's prayer, in holy evening's calm; How sweet was then my mother's voice in the Martyr's

psalm!

Now a' are gane! we meet nae mair aneath the rowan tree! But hallowed thoughts around thee twine o' hame and infancy,

O rowan tree!

Carolina Nairne [1766-1845]

THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD

We sat within the farm-house old,
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,
Gave to the sea-breeze damp and cold
An easy entrance, night and day.