Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/261
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HOME.
243
I heard a sound—I knew it well—
It was the tiger's roar;
I Started tip—the spell was broke—
My dream of home was o'er.
It was the tiger's roar;
I Started tip—the spell was broke—
My dream of home was o'er.
Home.
The traveller plods his weary way
Through many a distant scene;
Through chilly night and burning day,
Through pastures fair and green.
"Home" is his never-ceasing thought,
"The end, when will it come?
I shall not feel the trials then,
When I am safe at home."
Through many a distant scene;
Through chilly night and burning day,
Through pastures fair and green.
"Home" is his never-ceasing thought,
"The end, when will it come?
I shall not feel the trials then,
When I am safe at home."
"Home!" sighs the anxious sailor, as
He paces to and fro
The narrow deck, but thoughts have' wings,
And far away they go.
They reach the mother, wife, and child,
And hastening, back they come:
"I soon shall be across the sea,
And safe with' them at home!"
He paces to and fro
The narrow deck, but thoughts have' wings,
And far away they go.
They reach the mother, wife, and child,
And hastening, back they come:
"I soon shall be across the sea,
And safe with' them at home!"
"Home!" shouts the schoolboy; he throws
His cap into the air;
"Good-by to school and lessors too,
Good-by to thought and cafe.
Good-by to Latin, Euclid, Greek,
To exercise and sum;
Good-by to master, books, and cane,
Hurrah! I'm going home!"
His cap into the air;
"Good-by to school and lessors too,
Good-by to thought and cafe.
Good-by to Latin, Euclid, Greek,
To exercise and sum;
Good-by to master, books, and cane,
Hurrah! I'm going home!"
"Home!" lisps the tender little child,
With toilsome pleasure spent;
And wearily lays down its head,
And gives fatigue its vent.
But still the first soft words it says,
When back its senses come,
Are—"Oh, I am so very tired,
O mother take me home!"
With toilsome pleasure spent;
And wearily lays down its head,
And gives fatigue its vent.
But still the first soft words it says,
When back its senses come,
Are—"Oh, I am so very tired,
O mother take me home!"
The poor man looks and longs for home,
When all his Work is done;
It is the place of household joys,
The place he calls his own.
When all his Work is done;
It is the place of household joys,
The place he calls his own.
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