The Kentucky Gazette

When I long for sainted memories,
Like angel troops they come,
If I fold my hands to ponder
On the old, old home.
The heart has many passages
Through which the feelings roam,
But its middle aisle is sacred
To the thoughts of old home.
Where infancy was sheltered
Like rose-buds from the blast,
Where girlhood's brief elysium
In joyousness was passed;
To that sweet spot forever,
As to some hallowed dome,
Life's pilgrim bends her vision—
'Tis her old, old home.
A father sat, how proudly
By that old hearth stone's rays,
And told his children stories
Of his early manhood's days:
And one soft eye was beaming
From child to child 'twould roam;
Thus a mother counts her treasures
In the old, old home.
The birthday gifts and festivals
The blended vesper hymn,
(Some dear one who was swelling it
Is with the seraphim)
The fond 'good nights' at bed-time.
How quiet sleep would come,
And fold us all together
In the old, old home.
Like a wreath of scented flowers
Close intertwined each heart:
But time and change—in concert
Have blown the wreath apart.
But dear and sainted memories
Like angels ever come,
If I fold my arms and ponder
On the old, old home.